“Hell no.” I can’t even find a guy I like enough to sleep with, let alonefilmmyself sleeping with or letting him slurp on my toes, but that’s a whole other can of worms. “It’s a hockey documentary.”
Margot sticks her finger in her mouth and pretends to barf.
“For the Monarchs? You’re talking to your dad again?” Grace says.
At first glance, a lot of people might think Grace ditzy. She’s bubbly and animated, with tan skin and a smile permanently plastered to her heart-shaped face, but she’s sharp as a tack and graduated top of the class. Nothing gets by her.
“Apparently. He wants me to start next week.”
“Riveting,” Margot says.
“I’m not excited to work for him, but unfortunately the offer’s too good to turn down.”
“Why’s he bothering? Nobody cares about the Monarchs,” says Grace.
“He thinks maybe they will if they see this doc.” I don’t mention the fact that he intends to sell the team, because I think my father told me that in confidence, and while I don’t think Grace or Margot would say anything, it’s better to keep it mum.
“Not a terrible idea,” Margot hums as she lets her sandy blonde hair down, running her fingers through it and examining the blunt ends with sharp-nailed fingers. “People do love an underdog.”
“That’s what my dad said. He wants me to follow the Monarchs for the entire season.”
“Do you get to follow them to the locker room?” Grace says.
“Something tells me no,” I reply.
“I may need you to do some research for me,” Grace presses.
“Uh-huh. You know I’m gonna be keeping this thing strictly professional, right?” Not that that will be an issue. In addition to preferring brains to brawn when it comes to men, I don’t foresee myself being the hockey player type. I’m no model or actress, but if Coach Marshall’s nineteen year old draftees can’t keep their hands out of their pants because they’re in close proximity to a woman for the first time, that’s his problem, not mine.
“I’m just saying I see an opportunity for professional research,” Grace replies. “An athlete-inspired line of merchandise would sell like crazy.I heard about a baseball player selling a bottle of his sweat for thousands of dollars once. People pay big money for that stuff.”
I force my mouthful of margarita down so I don’t choke, resulting in a killer brain freeze.
“Oh, fuck off. They do not,” Margot says.
Grace raises her eyebrows and shrugs.
“Why would anyone bother with that? They already make so much money,” I say.
“Ego?” Margot suggests.
“I guess. I’ve only met the team captain so far, but he was a total dick. Really full of himself,” I say, not entirely sure why I’m bringing him up. I chock it up to morbid fascination.
“Oh, Mattias Falkenberg?”
I look at Margot. “Yeah. How do you know that?”
“I’ve been to a few games. Plus he’s the team captain, Fred. Not exactly an unknown. My mom was his realtor. He bought a place here in Manhattan Beach a few years back. I remember her complaining about him because he went so far under budget,” Margot replies. “She didn’t get the commission she was hoping for.”
I shake my head, recalling Falkenberg's old beater car. “Yeah, that sounds like him.”
“He’s pretty hot.”
“If you’re implying you want me to set you up, again, the answer’s gonna be no,” I say.
“Oh, god no.” Margot twists her hair back into a sleek bun, which accentuates her coltish features. “I’m done with men, but if you meet any ice girls looking for a sugar mama, feel free to send them my way.” I snort, trying and failing to picture Margot at a hockey game. She’s more of a nail salon and Napa kind of girl.
I proceed to break the news about how my parents want me to move home for a while. When my mom mentioned it earlier today, she insisted it’s mostly so they can protect me better while my uncle’s scandal peters out, but I know my father’s game. It’s all about control. So long as I keep that notion in mind, I think I can handle it, miserable as it sounds.
