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The air is thick with curses in at least three different languages. I catch glimpses of Uncle Whitey’s flat cap sailing through the air like a frisbee.
I duck another flying nesting doll (seriously, how many of these things are there?) and find myself back-to-back with one of Uncle Whitey’s guys. I’ve never wished so hard for my hockey gear—at least then I’d have some padding.
“Sawyer!” Maggie yells over the din. “We need to get out of here!”
She’s right, of course. But as I look around, I realize we’re caught in the middle of a mob mosh pit. Fists are flying, nesting dolls are being weaponized, and I’m pretty sure I just saw someone try to clock another guy with a dry salami.
Of all the odd things to bring in your pocket. Maybe he figured he could have a snack if he didn’t use it to clobber someone?
”Okay, new game plan,” I shout. “We’re going to make a run for it. You take Otto, I’ll clear a path.”
I grab Maggie’s hand and start bulldozing through the chaos like I’m on a power play. “Stay close!” I yell over my shoulder to Siobhan.
Otto’s squawking his head off, alternating between “Tickle tickle” and “Who’s your daddy?”
We’re dodging flying nesting dolls and flailing limbs when suddenly, the warehouse doors burst open with a dramatic bang. For a split second, I think it’s the cops, here to arrest us all and end my hockey career before I can even make it to the playoffs.
But no. It’s much, much weirder.
Three massive figures in full Toronto Titans gear come barreling in, helmets on, and hockey sticks raised.
My jaw drops. There stands Owen, flanked by Hendrix and Griffin. They look like they’ve just stepped off the ice and into the penalty box.
“Hey! Who started the game without us?” Hendrix yells.
“What the—” I start, but Owen cuts me off.
“No time to explain, buddy. Let’s play some offense!”
And just like that, my teammates launch into the fray.
Owen, our fearless captain, takes a running start and bodychecks an Italian enforcer so hard the guy probably sees maple leaves. Hendrix, grinning like a maniac, swings his stick in a perfect slap shot, sending a nesting doll flying across the room to bonk an Irish goon on the head, while Griffin, our gentle giant of a goalie, uses his reflexes to catch and deflect flying objects.
“Did you call for backup?” Siobhan asks, her eyes wide with disbelief.
“I didn’t even know I had backup!” I reply, watching as Hendrix hip-checks a mobster into a pile of packing peanuts. This is crazy. How did they even find me? It’s just like the ending of The Mariachi sequel, except instead of a posse of musicians, I’ve got hockey players.
The warehouse has turned into the weirdest hockey game I’ve ever seen. Mobsters are slipping on scattered nesting dolls, my teammates are lining up right next to the Irish enforcers, checking goons left and right, and Otto is providing colorful commentary from his cage.
“Penalty box! Two minutes for high-sticking!” Hendrix yells before slamming into an Italian mobster.
It’s utter madness, and I think for a second about how strange it is to get in these situations with Maggie so often.
Some goon gets cross-checked into my back, and I momentarily get sidetracked into pushing him off me. When I turn back to Maggie, one of the Italians is making a beeline toward her. His meaty hands reach for Otto’s cage, probably because he’s looking for something to throw besides dolls.
Maggie clutches that cage like it’s a life preserver.
“Oh no, you don’t!” Maggie snarls, her knuckles white around the cage bars.
“Let go, lady!” the mobster grunts, yanking on the cage.
“Never!” Maggie shouts back, her feet sliding on the concrete as she pulls with all her might.
It’s like watching the world’s most bizarre game of tug-of-war.
But before I can reach them, Siobhan swoops in like a Valkyrie. With a war cry that would make a Celtic warrior proud, she whips off her shoe and starts swatting the mobster like he’s an overgrown mosquito.
“Take. That. You. Sweaty. Creep!” she shouts, punctuating each word with a smack.
