Page 66 of Forbidden Puck
“Pretty well fucked.”
The cab pulled to a stop outside MacAllister's. I paid and we hopped out, joining the rest of our teammates outside the restaurant.
Chapter 23
MacAllister's Redux
Ella
In the back of our cab, I was squished between Lance and Ilya, the Brawlers' great big Russian goaltender.I threw my elbows into the two huge human masses, hoping to clear a little extra breathing room.
“Ow! Hey!” Ilya complained. “Her elbows! Man, she hits hard! Should give this girl a contract and put her on the blue line!”
“Tell me about it. She's the Honey Badger, man. She don't give a fuck.”
“Honey Badger?” Ilya asked. “What is a honey badger?”
“Ignore my idiot brother,” I snapped.
“Your sister isfeisty,” Ilya said.
“Moreso than usual, too,” Lance agreed.
“Whatever,” I huffed. “Is there some other place we can gobesidesMacAllister's?”
“What's everyone's problem with MacAllister's all of a sudden?” Lance asked. “Besides, you're from New York, what would you know about it?”
“It's a sports bar and grill, right? I think we have them in New York, so they must be a chain,” I lied.
Great. One lie begets another. Where does it end? Will I have to lie to Lance for the rest of my life, just because of one mistake I made with Radar? I ought to tell Lance the truth. Just to end all this.
“Huh. No shit? That's weird. The restaurant was opened in the 70's by an old-time Brawlers legend, Vern 'Mack' MacAllister, so I always assumed it was Boston-only. I can't see why they'd open one in New York, since Mack was universally hated in NYC …”
Oh, great. It just figures that in the end, Lance's encyclopedic hockey knowledge will be my undoing.
“I can Google it,” Ilya said, reaching for his cell phone. But his phone was in the pocket closest to me, and I leaned against the Russian, hard, so he couldn't fish the phone out of his pocket without a serious struggle first.
“Who knows, maybe I'm thinking of something else,” I said. “No need to Google it.”
“Anyway, we're here,” Lance said as the cab rolled to a stop.
We climbed out. A line of cabs had arrived ahead of us, and a dozen athletes in suits and ties waited for us. I spotted Radar, huddled closely with another one of his older teammates, having what appeared to be a serious chat.
There's no way he'd tell any of his teammates about what happened, right?
Radar looked my way every so often, hoping to catch my eye, but still I didn't acknowledge him.
We entered the restaurant as a group. Bright and smiling at the hostess desk were two blonde girls—the same girls, I realized, that were working last night.
They greeted all the players that went past by name.
“Hi Brooks! … Hi Josh! … Hi Radar! … Hi Shea! … Hi Ilya! … ”
Then we walked past.
“Hi Lance!” one of the hostesses said. “And oh, you brought your little sister tonight! Ella, right?”
“That's right!” Lance said, giving her a wink. But then he turned to me with a suspicious look. “Now how the hell did she know you're my sister?”
