Page 80 of It's Mother-Pucking Christmas!

Pete raised his hand. “We were coming back.”

I cringed as Coach let a stream of expletives fly.

“You let three fucking pucks go by, you motherfucker!” Coach screamed at him. “You weren’t fucking coming back. I had to put the fear of god in Ryder to get him to remember how to hold a goddamn hockey stick. You all rely too much on him. He’s going to the NHL, and then you’re all fucked. And I’m talking to everyone, but, Utah, I’m looking at you.”

“I don’t think I’m going anywhere after how I played yesterday,” I said sadly.

“I wouldn’t count it out yet,” Mike drawled, nudging me.

Three men in suits approached us, a little confused.

Coach blew out a breath. “All of you run sprints around the parking lot. Get out of my sight. Not you, Ryder, Jesus Christ. Take a knee.” Coach turned to the scouts. “As you can see, there are some extenuating circumstances we’re currently dealing with. I’m not sure when we’re going back into the stadium. There’s vodka all over the ice, and Mace in the HVAC system. It’s a fucking shit show.”

“Too bad. We wanted to see him play again,” one of the men with a short haircut said, jerking his chin at me.

“There’s an outdoor rink nearby I was going to make them all hike to,” Coach assured him.

The scouts looked at each other then back to Coach. “I guess that’ll have to do.”

“Did I blow it?” I couldn’t help but ask.

Coach’s eye twitched.

The scouts looked at each other and smirked. “Hardly.”

“You’re all over the news, kid.”

“The Direwolves team had a boost in season ticket sales just on the rumors that you’d be joining our team.”

“You can play. You have hockey IQ,” the taller scout said. “And you can actually skate.”

“But the most important thing for our team owners is filling stadium seats, and you do that.”

“That’s capitalism for you.” Coach spat on the parking lot. “No one cares about the game anymore.”

“I hear the next five Icebreakers games are sold out,” the shorter scout said. “Viewership is up.”

“Hockey message boards are on fire.”

“You have viral video after viral video, son.”

“Some of that was my, uh… Dakota,” I stammered.

“What’s a Dakota? Like a player?” The scout squinted.

“His little girlfriend he keeps fucking up with,” Coach said.

“She can come to New York too.” The scout shrugged. “Whatever you need.”

“Well, uh, she dumped me. Like three times, technically, I guess,” I confessed.

“That’s why he played bad,” Coach told them. “But I set him straight.” He patted my head. “He’s good now.”

“Ah. Well, come get a drink with us tonight,” one of the scouts offered. “We want to talk.”

“He’ll be there,” Coach said firmly.

“Thank you, sir. I’m really looking forward to it.”

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