“Alright let’s wrap it up,” Coach Marshall interjects. “We’ve got better things to do than terrorize Freddie.”
I spare Hearst another glance. She has a pinkish tint to her cheeks, rolling her lips together like she’s trying to keep from smiling. She tucks her short hair behind her ears—a habit, I’m noticing—then makes an effort to straighten out her gray sweatshirt, like it’ll make her look any less a slob. She very obviously has no standards of personal grooming. I doubt she’s ever even held a job, let alone had to dress for one. She’s the personification of everything I loathe—a nepotistic spoiled brat who hasn’t had to work for anything in her life.
It’s infuriating.
“Alright boys,” Coach says, breaking me from my trance. “Go pad up.”
I tear my eyes away from Hearst and head for the lockers, eager to empty my mind with a hard skate.
Chapter 12
Freddie
Grace
Not me getting excited for hockey season.
Margot
Have you moved past your fixation with psychoanalyzing tradwives on Flicks?
Grace
I felt I was taking on too much brain rot
Margot
Good news, smooth brains are conducive to enjoying hockey
Freddie
I’ve only been moved out for a few days, and you’ve already turned to watching trad wife content???
Grace
Something has to sate my morbid curiosity now that you’re not watching slashers on my couch all the time.
Maybe I shouldn’t have insisted on directing from the ice, considering I look like a total dumbass on skates, but with twenty-five million dollars on the line, I’ll be damned if I don’t get the best shots I can. I keep wanting to reach for the railing, but I can feel the team watching me, so I refuse to let myself hold it. I’ll get the hang of it soon. It’ll be like riding a bicycle.
Ryan, on the other hand, is as graceful on skates as he is with a steady rig, which means that unlike most DPs in town, he hasn’t lied about the special skills on his resume. Apparently he played hockey in high school, back in Jersey. At least one of us knows what they’re doing. Parker looks a little less comfortable, all tall and gangly with a scowl on their hard, angular face, but I appreciate their effort. Coach required the three of us to wear caged helmets in case any pucks fly our way, but I’m more worried about the camera than my face. It’s much prettier, plus it’s a rental.
The team spills onto the ice, padded up with their sticks in hand. I don’t even have to tell Ryan to get the shot. He’s already in position. We do our best to stay out of the way, keeping to the rink’s edge as the players warm up, stretching and feeling out their skates. They’re all so graceful and agile, almost like ballerinas when they move, which is odd considering they’re all very large grown men—most of whom enjoy getting in fights. I spot Falkenberg on the far side of the rink, saying something to a few of the pimply-faced, younger-looking guys who must be this year’s draft picks. Saying something dickish, I’m sure, which has me wondering why he got the team captain title in the first place. Still, I can’t help noticing how broad his shoulders look in hockeypads, how elegant he looks as he moves across the ice, gliding backwards like he was born on skates. When he turns, I see a number twenty-four splayed across his back.
I roll my eyes and look away. The sooner I get this documentary over with, the better.
It’s clear Coach Marshall means business from the moment he steps out of the locker room. The players line up shoulder-to-shoulder and he gives them a hard spiel about how this season needs to be different. Not just their careers, but the continued existence of this franchise hinges on this season.
“Good thing we’ve got Freddie and the crew helping us out,” he adds, waving my way with a grin.
I force a smile in return, then look down at my skates. Guilt gnaws at my insides, like one of those medieval torture rats, but I lock it away in a box inside my mind. I’m never going to get through the year if I let myself think about how none of them, not even Coach Marshall, will have a job here this time next year.
“Alright, boys. Let’s see how you've treated yourselves this summer,” Coach Marshall says to the players. My gaze trails over them, taking note of who’s who.
Last night when I couldn’t sleep, I lurked half the Monarchs on Fotogram. Their off-seasons looked just as I’d predicted: afternoons on the golf course, Santorini sunsets, and yacht parties with beautiful women. One player was notably absent from the feed, however. Falkenberg’s last post was of him attending the Frozen Cup three years ago, and before that, a poorly-lit shot of him scoring a goal in some European league. The rest were all older snaps overlaid with ugly, dated filters from his teenage years, back when he was still playing for his local league in Sweden. He looked even more socially awkward then.
I found no sign of a personal life anywhere.
Coach Marshall blows his whistle and starts the team on a series of conditioning drills. The players barrel from one end of the ice to the other, then turn on a dime and race back to the start. Skates scrape over the rink, making ice chips fly. Another whistle, and the players drill again—faster, then faster again.
