“This place is one of my go-to’s,” Coach Marshall says as we head inside.
It looks overpriced and inauthentic, but my profligate father wouldn’t be caught dead at a taco truck, and I doubt we’ll be here long anyway. We take a seat in a corner booth, my father sliding in next to me. I try not to grimace at his proximity, or the way he takes up more space than he needs. Falkenberg looks similarly unhappy as he takes the seat across from me.
This is going to be fun.
“I’ll take an iced tea,” my father says when the server arrives.
“Make that two,” says Coach Marshall. “And make mine sweet if you can.”
“Just water for me.” Falkenberg doesn’t look up.
“Cola,” I say. I swear Falkenberg’s lip twitches as I say it. Of course, soda is beneath him, too. What I really want is a margarita—one of those sangria ones that are a one-stop blackout in a glass—but the last time I drank around my father, we got a noise complaint from the neighbors, so I’ll settle for sugar.
Already knowing I’m having the enchiladas, I pretend to be engrossed by the menu while sneaking glances at the player across from me. Falkenberg is well-built but not too bulky, with wide shoulders, a defined chest and a trim waist. Being a Big Thigh Haver is part of his job description, so he’s probably got quads for days, though I can’t see them under the table. I wonder if he’s ever had a soda in his life. Unfortunate that his good looks are wasted on his personality, as is so often the case with men in Los Angeles.
“I’ll be straight to the point,” my father starts. “We’re all aware the team’s image is a mess. Even before the recent scandal, the Monarchs haven’t made the playoffs in ten years. I haven’t figured out who’s to blame for that yet, but trust me, I will.” His gaze lingers over the two of them. Coach Marshall raises a brow, while Falkenberg’s jaw tics. “For starters, I’ll be stepping into the general manager position. Stelling is out as of this morning.”
I don’t really know what firing the general manager means in terms of the team, but Marshall and Falkenberg both look dumbstruck.
“The next thing I’d like to mention is that I’m going to have a documentary filmed about the season. The Monarchs are in an underdog position, and we should capitalize on it. A documentary will repair damaged rapports with old fans while bringing in new ones. I don’t expect to be able to turn LA into a hockey town, but there are plenty of casual sports fans here. They’re just not interested in hockey,” he continues. “And why would they be? As it stands, the Monarchs are trash.”
Who needs villains when fathers exist?
“With all due respect, Mr. Hearst, it takes years to build a team,” Coach Marshall replies evenly, though the way his eye twitches tells me he’s biting his tongue. Falkenberg glances at Coach Marshall, then at me. His expression is inscrutable.
“Well, you’ve had a decade,” my father shrugs.
“And the pieces are finally coming together. A documentary sounds like a distraction we can’t afford right now,” Coach Marshall says delicately.
“To be frank with you, Darius, I’m not soliciting your input. I’ve already got consultants on the job. The team needs a branding overhaul, and a documentary is the way to do it. The streamers are interested. Trust me.”
Coach Marshall frowns, but he rolls his lips together and doesn’t push the issue. I’m not sure if he’s figured it out yet, but there’s no talking back to my father once he decides to steamroll you. I feel sorry Coach Marshall has to deal with him. Meanwhile, Falkenberg’s looking at me like I’m a piece of chewing gum stuck to his skates.
Like this has anything to do with me.
I give him a challenging look. Deep down, some part of me feels guilty for being here, watching my father delude them into thinking we’re gonna fix the team when I know he plans to sell it, but I don’t owe these people anything. There’s probably some rich person down the road dying to snatch up the Monarchs. Maybe they’ll even pay better, and on the bright side, they won’t have to work under my father.They’ll be fine, I think as I dip a chip in some salsa. I feel Falkenberg’s eyes still on me, almost like he can hear my thoughts, but I don’t pay him any more attention.
The server interrupts us to take our food order. My father and Coach Marshall both order burritos, while the Swede takes his timeordering chicken fajitas, but specifying no tortillas, sour cream or butter. What a miserable life. I order my favorite, enchiladas verdes with all the works, and continue sipping my cola.
“So where does our girl, Freddie, come in?” Coach Marshall nods at me as the server disappears. There’s a note of stress in his voice that wasn’t there before. My father has that effect on people. I glance up at the wordsour girl—at this olive branch, thrown my way.
“Freddie has a marketing degree and a film background. Her combination of skills will be useful in turning this ship around.”
“Wouldn’t it be more beneficial to hire someone with experience?” Falkenberg speaks for the first time, his voice a smooth, even baritone.
My cheeks heat. He’s not wrong, but it still pisses me off. Maybe I’ll order that margarita after all.
“Mattias—” Coach Marshall starts.
“While I appreciate your desire to give input in matters concerning the team, Mr. Falkenberg, I think you should trust that I’m capable of making sound decisions regarding my business.” The look my father gives him is withering. The thing that separates my father from most fathers is that he actually has all the money and power and lack of empathy in the world to back up his threats.
“I’m just telling you, Hugh, having filmmakers around, especially of the less experienced variety, will be a distraction for the players,” Coach Marshall interjects. “During what’s probably our most critical season yet. Now Freddie, don’t take that personally. I’m just stating the facts.”
I blink, surprised my feelings even crossed his mind.
“I know. It’s just business,” I say quietly, hating how I feel like I don’t deserve a seat at this table—then look away before my father can scold me with his eyes. I swear, I feel Falkenberg’s focus drilling a hole through my temple.
“Please, Darius. These guys play in arenas packed with tens of thousands of people every week. I seriously doubt having a few extra cameras around will make a difference in performance,” my father replies. “Not that there’s much to salvage as it stands.”
