Page 61 of It's Mother-Pucking Christmas!

The puck dropped. The Frosthawks went berserk. They were the best team in the league. You could barely make out the puck as they slapped it back and forth.

“Oh shit! They’re going to score!” my dad exclaimed as one big, bearded, orange-clad player hauled back to take a shot on goal among cheers from the crowd.

Except Ryder materialized right in the path of the puck and darted away with it.

“Hey, Ryder got the puck!” Gracie said happily as she knitted away next to me.

The Frosthawks defensemen stormed him. He shot the puck wildly to his right.

“But there’s no one—oh shit!” Uncle Nate swore as one of Icebreakers wingers came barreling in and slammed the puck back to Ryder a few paces up. Then he was taking a shot on goal before the defenders could catch him.

“Goal!” My family went wild while the Frosthawks fans groaned.

“Go, Ryder, go!” my mom and her sisters chanted, all wearing T-shirts with his face on them.

My dad nudged me and pointed to three men in suits. “Scouts,” he said. “They’re here for Ryder.”

“How do you know?”

“I called them,” Uncle Nate said from behind his mask. “I work for the NHL. One of the few perks of the job. That and free hockey tickets.”

“You what? Why?”

“Because you cannot marry an Icebreakers player,” Uncle Nate said flatly.

“Why does everyone think we’re getting married?” I shouted.

“If he plays for one of the New York City NHL teams, then we can show our faces at the gameandO’Malley’s,” Uncle Sean told me patiently.

“Ryder likes this team,” I told them. “He loves playing for the Icebreakers.”

“You’re his girlfriend. Convince him otherwise,” my sister hissed from behind her wig and glasses.

“He’s playing like he’s trying to get called up to the NHL.” Uncle Nate nodded to the rink, where Ryder was flying down the ice.

“Another goal scored by Ryder O’Connell, and it’s only three minutes into the game.” The announcer sounded shocked. “Something tells me this is going to be a bloodbath for the Frosthawks.”

22

RYDER

We were up three by the time the first period ended.

After the initial two easy goals, the Frosthawks coach must have put the fear of God in his players because they started actually playing hockey instead of standing around on the ice.

“Don’t get cocky!” Coach screamed at us in the locker room as we gulped Powerade. “The Icebreakers have never won against the Frosthawks. They are not going to let you win this. You’re going to have to fight for every single fucking goal.”

I winced.

The vein on his forehead bulged out.

“I’m getting that man a Costco-size jar of Tums for Christmas,” Mike whispered.

“He needs a fast pass to the stroke ward,” Rick muttered.

“What the fuck did you say, Utah?” Coach screamed at him. “If it’s not an apology for fucking up that pass Ryder served to you on a goddamn silver platter, I don’t want to hear jack shit from you. Now get the fuck out of my sight and play hockey like a goddamn professional instead of this peewee shit I’m seeing out there.”

When we got back on the ice, the packed stadium chanted.

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