It’s the fucking queue-jumper. The dinged-up coup is parked behind her. I should have known.
But why is she here?
“Hugh,” Coach says, shaking our new owner’s hand with what looks like an overly strong grip by the way his hand muscles flex. “Pleasure to meet with you. This is Mr. Falkenberg, as I’m sure you’re aware.”
Our new owner gives me a stiff nod, then reaches out to shake my hand as well. It takes everything in me not to look at his companion, to pretend this is business as usual.
“Mattias,” I say. Back home, we don’t bother with prefixes and formalities.Mr. Falkenbergsounds too pompous for my liking.
“This is Freddie, my daughter. She hasn’t agreed yet, but she’ll be helming this project.”
His daughter. Fan i helvete. And what project?
“Good to see you, Freddie.” Coach Marshall’s tone becomes pure sweetness—something I’ve never heard before—and he gives her an enthusiastic handshake, his large hand dwarfing her small one.
I finally allow myself to look at her face. Her eyes are like tar pits, dark and deep and leading nowhere good. I stare back. I’m sure she thinks she sees something, but whatever it is, she’s wrong.
“I’m Freddie.” She extends her hand towards me when Coach releases her.
My gaze flickers from her face to her slender hand, covered in rings, my attention lingering on those weird tattoos. She tilts her chin in response—a challenge. So we’re pretending this morning didn’t happen, then. I can do that. In fact, I’d love nothing more. “Mattias,” I say flatly.
I grip her hand briefly, then drop it, flinching at the feel of her skin warm against mine. She frowns, the smirk from a moment ago disappearing.
“Mattias is our team captain. He’s the fastest wing in the league,” her father says with all the enthusiasm of a man discussing the weather. Still, I’m surprised he knows that, and the praise, however subdued, makes me feel like shoveling my own grave. I loathe attention.
“So who’s hungry?” Coach says cheerily, a thinly-veiled subject change.
Not me, but I probably should eat something if I want my triceps to recover from what Poirier just put me through.
“We’ll follow your lead. Who’s driving?” Hearst answers.
“That’s gonna be you, Falkenberg. We took the dog camping last weekend. Haven’t had a chance to clean out the back seat yet. How about that little Mexican joint around the corner?” Coach says.
That’s how the four of us end up piling into my Volvo. I’d feel more comfortable cutting an old person in queue at the grocery store, but Coach asked me to come, and I should probably do some reconnaissance about what makes this asshole Hugh Hearst tick, so I start the engine. Hugh takes the passenger seat, with Coach andFreddiein the back. I don’t have anything to be ashamed of—I keep my car immaculate—but I make sure to disconnect my Bluetooth before the after-market stereo I’ve installed has the chance to start playing Swedish oldies.
“Clean rig. My first car was a stick,” Hugh says as I put the car in reverse.
“It’s all we drive back home,” I reply stiffly. I’m sure he’s not even listening. Players mean nothing to suits. I’m just another cog in his money-making machine, and he doesn’t need to attempt deluding me into thinking otherwise. I know my place in this league.
The ride only lasts five minutes, but it feels like a lifetime. I make a point to use only my side mirrors, minimizing the chance of meeting his daughter’s eyes in the rearview. It’s easier to pretend she’s just not there.
When we arrive at the restaurant, I’m the first one out of the car.
Chapter 8
Freddie
I wonder if my father or his head coach are being suffocated by the tension, or if it’s just me. This is so absurd, I have to stop myself from laughing—especially when I once again notice the air freshener hanging from the Volvo’s rearview, along with a faint scent of pine clinging to the seats. When I saw the car in the parking lot, I would have thought it belonged to an old man.
It doesn’t.
I steal a glance at the team captain, whose name is apparently Mattias.Mah-tee-iss.Wearing all-black training clothes that hug his lean, lithe form, he’s sitting up straight with one hand on the gearshift and the other gripping the wheel, driving warily and slowly. His damp hair is the color of straw. It’s a little shorter on the sides with a longer fringe. Guys like him are a dime a dozen in LA: tall and athletic with a sharp, clean jaw, though his thin mouth seems displeased by everything. There’s a coldness to his pale eyes and fair features that’s off-putting.
Shielding my phone screen from Coach Marshall’s sight, I typeLA Monarchs Mattiasin my search bar and let it auto-populate. A series of grumpy-looking headshots appear. Mr. Iceberg’s last name is actually Falkenberg. He’s the team captain, andhe’s from a small town just north of Stockholm, Sweden. He’s twenty-seven years old, twenty-eight in January, and this will be his eighth season with the Monarchs. His contract is worth $50 million, not that that’s anything compared to the kind of money my father has, or even on the high end for a professional athlete’s salary, but it’s a good chunk of change and a hell of a lot more than I’ve got right now.
I skip over the snippet about his career in Europe in search of more personal details but can’t find any. He’s probably got some live-in bottle blonde girlfriend, the kind signed to three different modeling agencies across four different continents. I’m sure he spends his off seasons golfing at pretentious resorts, vacationing in the alps, and doing the occasional photo op where he pretends to give a shit about some children’s charity or another. Professional athletes are all the same. Between my father’s hobbies and living in LA, I feel like I’ve met them all.
The car comes to a stop, and I flick my browser closed, pocketing my phone.
