There’s Moreau, Fontenot, Chapman, and Thomas, followed by Häkkänen, Sokolov and LeBlanc. Bell arrives with Poirier and Tremblay a few minutes later. I’m straining my neck so hard it might break, but I see nosign of Mattias. My heart sinks, even though I knew it was naive to hope he might come. Grace slips her hand into mine.
“You’re going to be okay,” she whispers in my ear. “Ride the lightning.”
I don’t feel like I’m going to be okay, but that’s fine. This isn’t for me. This is for them.
I look around one last time, but Mattias is nowhere to be seen. Instead, I see my father, my mother, and even my sister, who my mother made fly home for the weekend from Yale just for this. Next, the investors arrive, and they look smug—the way I’d imagine them looking the moment they pulled the plug on someone’s grandma. I can’t wait to wipe those grins off their faces. The press begins to arrive, poised to take notes. Finally, a few streaming executives trickle in, looking bored, though I suspect they won’t be for long. I take a deep breath and turn around, just as the lights dim.
The documentary opens the way I know it will, with an interview with my father. A man unknowingly about to be throttled by his own daughter,Heavenly Creatures-style.I never planned on owning a hockey team, he says, the screen cutting briefly to black before panning out for a view of Los Angeles, backdropped by the snowy San Gabriel Mountains. Cut again to skates scraping across the ice, LeBlanc sinking a goal into the net in one of the more impressive shots of the season. The sound of the goal horn trumpets through the dark rink, and I steal one more glance at my audience. They’re already captivated, soft smiles on their lips, pride in the season we’ve built glowing across their faces. Losing them is going to rip my heart out.
Grace squeezes my hand, as if she feels the tension radiating from me, just as Margot leans in to whisper in my ear. “Relax.”
It’s impossible. I spend the next few scenes staring at my feet as the documentary wheels through the early season. Training camp, the preseason, the exhibition matches in Sweden. It all feels like a lifetime ago. I don’t look up when I hear Mattias speaking in an early interview, but the sound of his voice makes my heart ache.We’ve been building this team for a while. I think this is the year it could really pay off.
I clench my jaw, knowing what happens next.
The documentary cuts to footage of my uncle, of the news segments that played back then, condemning his scandal.I’d bet my money on Hugh Hearst being the man to turn this ship around, one anchor says, just before the camera cuts to an exterior shot of Eros Capital Management’s office building.The rules have recently changed in our favor, comes my father’s voice, referring to the league’s decision to allow private equity firms to own minority stakes in NHL franchises.
A few murmurs rumble through the audience. I force myself to keep watching.
The next segment is an intercut between the season’s early highlights, their locker room post-games, players in the press box, and secretly recorded audio.On the books, it’ll be my personal decision to sell. Real estate’s worth a lot in this town, and this practice rink isn’t worth the price to build here. We’ll knock it all down.
Someone gasps to my right. To my left, a reporter whispers into a recording device. One of the players says my name—I think it’s Fontenot. I ignore him.
“Something’s wrong,” my father’s voice cuts through the murmurs. “Can we shut it off?”
I’ve locked the projector room. The film keeps playing, panning through a whirlwind of emails and tentative agreements fully exposing my father for the fraud he is.
“Turn this off!” his voice booms, but he’s the only one shouting. Everyone else is enraptured. Nobody pays him any mind. When he shouts my name, I wince, but I don’t look his way.
It’s too personal now, like watching my father be slowly dissected in front of me. I can’t watch, so I release Grace’s hand and head for the exit. Several voices call after me, but I don’t listen. I burst through the rink doors and sprint up the stairs before anyone has the chance to follow.
Chapter 55
Freddie
I lock the office door. Hopefully no one saw me come up here. My back falls against the wall, and I’m breathing hard. I can’t believe I did that.
I can’t believe I just did that.
Shit, shit, shit, shit,shit.
My phone vibrates in my pocket. Someone’s calling me, but I ignore it. I muster the courage to peek down at the ice through my office window. The film is still rolling. Most people are still in their seats.
My family is going to murder me. What they still don’t understand is that this toxic greed will continue tearing through our family like King Paimon inHereditary, until someone is willing to pay the price. I slump down to the floor against my desk, tugging at my hair, dreading where I go from here. They all know what I’ve done by now.
I should probably leave LA.
The screen’s glow disappears from the window, briefly plunging my office into darkness before someone turns on the lights downstairs. I don’t dare move, determined to hide up here until everyone’s gone.
My phone is still vibrating. I force myself to look at it.
It’s my mother.
I ignoreit.
Other notifications follow. The ping of an email, several texts. Instead of dealing with it, I turn off my phone. I don’t know when I’ll be ready to face them or what my plan is. I guess I’ll just rot here until I arbitrarily decide that it’s safe to leave.
Suddenly, I hear footsteps in the hall and freeze. They sound light—not like the hardclickof my father’s dress shoes that I’m all too familiar with. They stop outside my door. I swear I hear a hand on the handle.
