“I don’t eat baby food.” Ryan looks incensed, like he’s never been more insulted in his life.
I stifle a laugh.
“You only eat chicken strips or mac and cheese, or occasionally a slutty little PB&J on a Friday night when you’re feeling naughty,” Parker retorts, adjusting their trucker hat.
I can’t help it—I cackle. It earns me an ugly look from Ryan, which only makes me laugh harder.
“Well fucking sorry I don’t like cold, slimy food,” he says.
“You’re so butthurt,” Parker remarks.
“What’s PB&J?” Häkkänen interjects in that deep voice of his. I think I might actually cry.
“Good food.” Ryan sits up in his chair. “Something you European fuckwits wouldn’t know anything about.”
“It’s not good. It’s something you feed to third graders,” Parker replies.
“My wife makes it for the kids,” Andersson adds.
Parker gives Ryan a victorious look.
Just then, Poirier twists around in his seat, the piece of salmon resting on a spoon. He holds it towards Ryan’s mouth, like a parent feeding a toddler. “Open up, sweet cheeks.”
Ryan twists his head away. “Fuck off, Poirier.”
“How much?” Poirier says.
“What?”
“How much do I have to pay you to eat it?”
“I’ll eat it for free,” Häkkänen shrugs.
“Fuck off, Häkkänen, I’m trying to have some fun here,” Poirier says.
Häkkänen raises a brow and opens his mouth. “Give it to me, I’m hungry.”
Not hesitating an instant, Poirier plops the salmon directly into the goaltender’s mouth. Ryan makes a retching sound as Häkkänen swallows it. I gag, too.
“Should have clipped that for my next horror flick,” I say.
“Only if you want an NC-17 rating,” Parker replies.
The rest of the flight home is rowdy and full of laughter. Turns out, hanging around a hockey team isn’t always so bad.
We lose the first two official games of the season. Coach Marshall sulks around the rink over the next week, disappointment written all over his face. Morning skates are tense, not helped by the fact that a few of my father’s suited consultants are poking around the sports center, putting everyone on edge. I’m sure it’s hard for them to put the team’s uncertain future out of mind when strange men are looming in the corners, clipboards and tablets in their hands.
“What are they doing?” Ines pokes her head out of her office, frowning at two of the men skulking in the shadows, like the Gentlemen in the silent episode ofBuffy the Vampire Slayer.
Everybody’s on edge after twenty percent of the franchise staff were laid off with no notice last week. Now that I’m back in LA, the grim knowledge that these layoffs are only the start returns to me. I’d been able to put it out of mind for a while.
“I don’t know,” I say honestly, wishing I had an answer for her. Whatever it is, I know it’s nothing good.
“I don’t like them. They better not fire anyone else,” she says sternly, peering at me over her glasses. Her words are a wrecking ball of shame, hitting me right in the gut. All I can do is nod along.
By the time the third home game rolls around, I notice a visible drop off in crowd attendance. The team isn’t performing well, but I suspect all the fresh hit pieces on my father’s company detailing the layoffs haven’t helped. I can practically feel my pay-out slipping away. If things continue like this, though, soon I might not be able to show my face in public.
What have I gotten myself into?
