“Follow up with Coach Marshall when you have the results,” he says bossily from over my shoulder, as if I couldn’t have deduced that myself.
“Don’t you have practice to worry about, Mattias?” Ines replies, making me grin.
“Theoretically, but someone is making a habit of wasting my time.” His cold eyes flit over me, his expression hard.
“Fuck off, Falkenberg,” I say, giving him another middle finger for good measure. He’s going to ruin this for me if I don’t keep him in check, I can feel it.
“Just let me know if you two need me to call an ambulance,” he replies.
I glare at him and he disappears. Dick.
“Are you trying to upset the Captain?” Ines smiles at me. “He doesn’t usually talk so much.”
“He upset me first. Asshole.”
Inestsks. “Well, let’s hear about what you’ve done here. How did this happen?”
I proceed to tell Ines how I’ve twisted my ankle. Shetsksagain, examining it.
“Is this your first time on skates? You need to be more careful. It’s turning red as a tomato.”
“I was being careful, but that won’t help if these guys are out to get me. Falkenberg’s made it clear I’m not welcome.”
Nor should you be, says a little voice in my head. I force myself to ignore it.
“You’re the movie maker, hmm?” She tilts her head, looking up at me with warm, dark eyes.
“Trying to be,” I sigh, feeling more brittle than usual. It’s getting harder and harder to refer to myself as a filmmaker, given that I have no agent and no notable credits to show for myself.
Ines must pick up on that, because she says, “Don’t let those boys get into your head. They’re good for chasing pucks around, but they don’t really know what they’re talking about.”
The smile she gives me feels conspiratorial, like this isn’t a thought she voices often. It warms me up a little—only for me to shiver when she slaps an ice pack on my ankle. It’s supremely less comfortable than Falkenberg’s gentle fingers. There was something mesmerizing about watching him undo my skates, something uncomfortably intimate, almost like being undressed. I’ve never had a man on his knees in front of me like that, even if fully clothed. The memory makes my stomach flutter.
Margot’s right. Falkenberg is admittedly attractive, but in the same way one might feel drawn to an electric fence, inspiring both morbid curiosity and a firm desire to stay away. It doesn’t help that he has a uniquely displeased mouth, and there’s something so rewarding about making him frown—
“I’m going to refer you to an MRI specialist, just to be safe.” Ines breaks my completely unprofessional train of thought.
I groan as her words sink in. Man, I really don’t have time for this. The short week of pre-production I had was barely enough to lay out my plans for the entirety of the season. Even though I’ve managed to get some homework done, I still don’t have a comprehensive understanding of the team. Hopefully my father won’t hear about any of this. To Falkenberg’s point, he could easily replace me with someone more experienced if I give him reason to, and just like that, my twenty-five million dollars and independent future would disappear. I need to find a way to earn the team’s respect and keep it. I’ll need them to work with me if I want to get the best shots, the best interviews, and ultimately raise the team’s value.
Unfortunately, that’s probably not going to happen without capturing the respect of their captain. As much as it pains me to say it, I’m going to need Falkenberg on my side. One way or another, I’m going to have to win him over.
Suddenly, taking some time off with a sprained ankle doesn’t sound so bad.
Chapter 15
Mattias
Coach doesn’t spare us any mercy. Some of the guys have been too indulgent in the off-season, and we all pay the price. Coach Marshall drills us until I think I’m going to puke. Pulkkinen—our shoddy new defenseman trade from the Gulls—and DeBoer actually do, which only irks Coach more. The whistle blows again, and again, and again.
I don’t feel sorry for them. Performance starts with nutrition, and there’s nothing nutritious about too many beers and burritos. I’m growing more convinced the team is fucked, but I’m paid too much money to show any indication of thinking that, so I keep my nose on the grindstone and power through until my thighs are burning and my chest is heaving and I’m nearly doubled over. The average retirement age for a forward is thirty-one, meaning I’ve got about three years left to win the Cup if I’m lucky—and I refuse to go back home to Sweden without a championship.
“Coach is right. Our conditioning is shit,” I say when we’re in the locker room later, and I’m peeling off my sweat-drenched pads. “I don’t know what you’ve all spent your summers doing, but you’ll cut that shit out now if you want to play this season.”
“We’re lucky the cameras missed that one.” Fontenot whistles and shakes his head. “Speaking of cameras, how’s Freddie?”
My jaw clenches. I pause where I’m unstrapping my elbow guards. “I’m sure she’ll be fine.”
I glance at Fontenot. He looks deflated, staring at his skates with his dark hair clinging to his temples, like he might actually be worried. None of these guys better develop a soft spot for Hearst.
