“I think I might love you, too,” I replied, smiling like an idiot in front of all the cameras.
I don’t think I’ll ever stop reliving that moment.
The league’s found a prospective owner. I haven’t met him yet—he’s some Canadian businessman, but he grew up playing hockey and seems genuine so I’m cautiously optimistic. If he sucks, well, I’m staying on as Chief Marketing Officer for the team until I figure out what I’m doing with my life, and likeCujo, I’m not afraid to bite if I must.
My father’s reputation is going to take some time to recover, if it ever does, but he’ll be alright. He’s still invested in Eros, and he’s got the family trust—something I’m still exiled from, and will remain so for the foreseeable future. If they want me to go to business school, they’re going to have to kill me first—and like any final girl worth her salt, they know I won’t go down easy.
Elle’s still mad, but she’ll come around in time. She’s young and self-righteous. I guess I could say she reminds me of someone. My father wants me to find her a summer job at the practice rink before the transfer of ownership is complete, and I even convinced him to rehire some of the laid-off staff. The community’s going to be alright.
I close the clip and re-open my inbox—only to see an unopened email waiting for me. My heart falters when I note the sender.
From:The Agnelli Agency, the email titledRE: Frederica Hearst Submission for Representation. My heart stops.
I open it.
Dear Frederica,
We hope this email finds you well. We’ve received your submission for representation via mail, and would like to discuss this mutual opportunity further. We have reviewed your recent documentary, The Comeback Season, and believe you show interesting potential as a filmmaker. Please respond at your earliest convenience with several dates and times next week when you would be available to meet for an interview.
Best regards,
The Agnelli Agency
Holy shit.
I reach over the partition and shake Mattias, and he blinks awake from where he’s sprawled out in the business class seat next to mine.
“What is it?”
I practically shove my laptop in his face. “Look!”
His glazed eyes glance over it—then he blinks and reads it again.
“Fyfan,” he mutters, which I’ve come to learn is a curse. Of course, the swearing’s not included in the Swedish language app lessons he’s making me do every day. No, those lessons come from my personal tutor, who also happens to be a Founders’ Cup champion.
“You have to take the meeting,” he says suddenly, looking stressed.
I shrug. “I hope they can do a virtual meeting. I’m on vacation.”
As if on cue, the pilot comes over the intercom to let us know we’re descending into Stockholm.
“Are you serious?” he says.
I shrug again. “I’m done living my life on other peoples’ terms."
He looks at me like I’m deranged, then smiles one of his increasingly-less-rare smiles. “If you meet with them, just make sure it’s not next Friday. That’s Midsommar.”
“Right. Well, I’m just doing a little bit of horror movie research. Between the hockey world and nowMidsommar, I think I’ll have plenty of firsthand experience with cults.”
He gives me a dry look. “That movie is nothing like the real Midsommar.”
I settle back into my seat. “I guess I’ll just have to see for myself.”
