All it needs is a good dose of TLC.
And lots and lots of cleaning supplies.
Maybe even a bug bomb or two. Or ten.
“This works. I’ll go check out of the hotel, grab some stuff at the store, and be back.”
“Whatever you put in the fridge make sure to label it or the guys will eat it. I’m not even joking. My boyfriend can clean the fridge out by himself. Put him together with the others and nothing is safe unless it’s clearly marked.”
“Touch this and you’ll lose your left nut kind of message?”
Jenny laughs. “Exactly that. You’re going to fit right in, Daisy. Glad to have you here.”
Now time to get my stuff and try to at least clean out a small corner to sleep in tonight.
CHAPTER 3
Hutch
“Hutch, get your ass in here!”
All eyebrows shoot up at Coach’s yell. He didn’t sound very happy. Can’t be good.
Coach Grimes is a balding man in his late fifties. Used to play in the NHL until he was taken out due to an injury in his third year. We’re lucky to have him.
Until he’s pissed at one of us.
Then we’renotso lucky because he can get particularly creative in his punishments. My first year on the team, I got drunk off my ass and showed up to practice late. By the time he was done making me do ladder drills, I’d puked at least half a dozen times.
And he made the entire team do the same. One person screws up, we all screw up. Team building he says. More like fear of getting your ass beat by your teammates on the daily because you made them puke too.
“What did you do?” Raymond Andrews, one of our right wingers, asks in a hushed voice.
“No clue.” I shrug and stand up, trying to appear unbothered when truthfully I’m shaking inside. This is my last year to impress the pros. I can’t get benched, especially at the beginning of the season when scouts are paying attention to the up and coming talent.
Coach is sitting behind his desk glaring at whatever is on the paper in front of him. I hope to God it has nothing to do with me. I haven’t done anything recently that I can think of that would put that look on his face. At least I don’t think so.
“Coach?”
“Close the door and sit down.” He scowls at the paper again and I do as he says. This is not good.
“What is this?” He tosses the paper to me.
It’s a list of our last three practice stats.
“Uh…stats?”
His lip curls. “I know that, but why do you think I’m pissed?”
When I don’t answer right away, he decides to tell me.
“You’re four seconds behind the second line and two seconds behind the third line. Do you think that’s going to get you attention?”
Shit. I didn’t even notice that.
“You’re a first line center for a reason, Hutch. We count on you to be faster than everyone else, to get the puck and move it before the other team can catch you. So tell me, what the hell is going on?”
“No one said anything to me about being slower.”
