I shoot him a murderous look before pleading with Coach Marshall. “I’m fine, Coach. Let me skate it off.”
“We should call the paramedics. If there’s a fracture, she may cause permanent damage to her joint by continuing to use it,” Falkenberg insists.
I need to get away before I kill him. He’s obviously trying to get me dismissed.
“Parker can help me.” I try to shrug him off.
“If you say so.” He lets go of me so quickly I nearly fall again. Luckily Parker manages to grab me, and I don’t miss thedon’t-fuck-with-melook they give Falkenberg, which warms my insides a little.
“Mattias! Be careful. Our nurse should have a look at you, Freddie. We don’t mess around with injuries,” Coach Marshall says, looking more concerned than I deserve.
“That would be prudent,” Falkenberg agrees.
“Please, Coach Marshall. It’s the first practice of the season. I swear I’ll see someone after I get the footage I need.”
“You need to ice it, Freddie,” Coach says. “Trust me, I know from experience. Lotta rolled ankles in my career. I think you should see Ines. We’ll take a little break to go over some things here and practice will resume when you’re back.” His tone tells me there will be no more arguing on the matter. “Mattias, will you take her?”
I want to scream but manage to bite my tongue, only because I know anything else I say will be perceived as unprofessional and my first impression is already sorely lacking.
Luckily, Falkenberg protests for me. “Is that necessary? Her friends seem capable.”
He’s an ass, but at least we can agree on something.
“They need to check their equipment. Take her.”
A beat passes. Then, “Fine.”
Falkenberg skates over to me. “Let’s get this over with,” he says.
I don’t move. His proximity puts me on edge, so close I can nearly feel the warmth of him. I get the feeling he’d rather do conditioning drills all day than touch me. I’m not sure why that rankles me, but it does. I’m a little sweaty from skating around and I probably could have put more effort into my appearance today, but am I really sorepulsive? Just to make sure, I fake a cough into my shoulder, discreetly taking a whiff of myself. Nothing offensive, as far as I’m concerned. He smells way worse.
Falkenberg’s too tall for me to sling an arm over his shoulders, especially on skates, so I tentatively slide one around his waist. To my surprise, he doesn’t recoil. Admittedly my ankle is throbbing and it’s nice to take the weight off it, so I lean into him, doing my best to ignore how hard his abdomen feels beneath my arm. I stiffen when his gloved hand curls around my shoulder, holding me in place.
Underneath the sweat from practice, he smells cold and woodsy—not in the way that comes from bottled fragrance. There’s a sharpness to it, like the artificial ice and rink air cling to his skin after so many years.
I feel the whole team’s eyes on us as we skate away, and a pathetic lump forms in my throat when I consider what they must all be thinking. It hasn’t even been a full day and I’ve already proved Falkenberg and Coach Marshall right. I don’t belong here.
Not only that, but I’m a snake in their henhouse and they don’t even know it. Coach Marshall, Morales—I don’t deserve their kindness. Not when I’ve bet so big against them.
Don’t cry,I tell myself.Don’t fucking cry.Your entire future is on the line.
I stare straight ahead and let Falkenberg guide me off the ice.
Chapter 13
Mattias
I don’t have time to wait for Hearst to find her footing. I just want to get this over with and get back to practice. When we reach the boards, I release her for a moment, letting her totter her way through the door on her own. The way she moves on skates reminds me of a moose calf running over the road, wobbling while it tries to keep its too-long legs under its body, with no awareness of self or surroundings.
It’s almost endearing. Mostly just fucking annoying.
“Which way?” she says to me over her shoulder.
I unlatch my helmet and leave it and my gloves by the gate. “Upstairs, but take your skates off first.” I point to a nearby bench. “I don’t need you tripping and slicing my throat open.”
I wasn’t trying to be funny, but she laughs. It’s hoarse and throaty, not the sort of delicate tittering I hear from puck bunnies who only laugh with the underlying intention of signaling their interest. It’s a laugh like she doesn’t give a shit what anyone thinks. I normally detest that American brand of confidence, and I should especially loathe it coming from a trust fund heiress with poor standards of dress and grooming who’s probably going to ruin my career, but for some masochistic reason, I don’t.
I drag my damp hair out of my eyes, pushing it back.
