“Let me worry about scheduling, Falkenberg,” Hugh says as he waves the server over for the bill. “You just worry about getting your points up. They dropped last season.”
Yeah, because your brother and his clown of a GM wouldn’t let Coach Marshall do his job, I want to snap, but I bite down hard on my salted candy instead. It makes a cracking sound.
Hearst snorts, mocking me, the sound making my spine go rigid. I refuse to look at her as I fold my napkin on top of my plate, acting like I’m along for this circus, but by this time next month, she’s going to be gone.
I’m going to get her replaced.
Chapter 10
Freddie
I simmer in the back seat the whole way back to the rink. Falkenberg doesn’t say anything else to me, but I see him white knuckling the gearshift while his jaw tics in silence. He reminds me of Norman Bates, the way he’s well-mannered and polite on the surface, but below the façade he’s obviously wound tighter than the watch on his wrist. Guaranteed I’m even less excited about this arrangement than he is, but jeez. It’s not like he’ll have to hold my hand. Besides, it’s a sports documentary, not an homage to mid-century Italian horror or anything that would require true artistic finesse.
“We’ll discuss this more at home, Freddie,” my father says when we get out of Falkenberg’s car. I wonder if it sounds like a threat to our company, or just to my ears. Unintentionally, I catch Falkenberg’s eye over the roof of the car. In the sunlight, his hair is the color of champagne—his eyes almost colorless. He looks as cold as the ice he skates on, like he might melt away in the warm sun’s rays.
“Sounds good, Dad,” I throw over my shoulder, giving the team captain one last stony look before I turn and head for my car.
I’m going to go get that margarita. I park the car at my parents’ house, then walk down to my favorite beach cantina where Grace and Margot are waiting. I find them on the back patio.
“What crawled up your ass?” Margot says the second she sees my face.
I shake my head and order a drink.
“That bad, huh?”
“I’ve got a new demo you could use to take the edge off,” Grace says, looking conspiratorial behind her curtain of long, black hair as she takes a sip of her paloma.
I roll my eyes. “Thanks, but no thanks.”
Grace is a film editor, but since work in Hollywood has been so slow, she started a sex toy business on the side, much to her very Catholic family’s horror. Most of them still live in Manila, though, so they hardly get a say. Part of crashing in her spare bedroom the last two years has been dodging boxes of dildos scattered around her living room when I get up for a glass of water in the middle of the night—and for some of those products, I use the termdildovery loosely. To each their own, but some brave soldiers are really pushing the limits of what’s physically possible.
“So, your uncle’s on his villain arc,” Margot breaks the ice.
“He’s an Aquarius. He was born on a villain arc,” I say as my margarita arrives with a sugar rim instead of salt, just the way I like it. “He just didn’t get caught till now.”
“I didn’t realize they’d booked him already until I saw his mugshot on TV at the gym today,” Grace says.
“Oh yeah, my mom started disinfecting the door handles when she saw that. She only does that when she’s spiraling. She’s so embarrassed. Won’t show her face at the country club for weeks, guaranteed,” I reply, a little twinge of pity stinging my heart as I say it. I know the country club is her safe haven, but I never had the luxury of that escape.
“So, she’s not holding up well. What about Elle?” Margot asks. She always had a soft spot for my little sister.
“Elle’s Elle. I think she’s mostly worried about not being invited to frat parties next year, but those guys will probably just think it’s cool.” I roll my eyes.
“And you?” Grace says.
“Well the good news is I’ve got a job,” I say tersely.
“My condolences,” Margot drawls. Margot is like if Daria the cartoon was a lawyer. She grew up next door, always handling thebusiness sideof our childhood ventures. There was never any question of how many quarters we’d earned with our lemonade stand or how many rocks we’d need to paint to buy a fruit cup from our favorite fruit cart. Margot always knew. Now she’s an entertainment lawyer for a big film studio.
Grace smacks Margot’s arm then looks at me. “Directing?”
“Kind of.”
“Don’t tell me you’re going the adult film route? Though honestly the pay’s not bad if you’re willing to get kinky. Everybody’s into weird shit these days.” Grace licks some chili salt from the rim of her glass.
“Not porn. Worse.”
“You wouldn’t dare sell feet pics without consulting us.”
