“I thought you could use a little privacy. Get some work done away from all these jockstraps.” He grins, a gap-toothed smile, and twists the handle, pushing the door open into an old, but very well-kept office. It has a window on the back wall, overlooking the rink.
I almost burst into tears, it’s so overwhelming. To think, he thought about my workflow—thought of doing something nice for me. He’s given me my own office. It’s a measure of status and respect I didn’t expect from this team. A measure I don’t deserve from them. I can’t help it—I throw my arms around Coach Marshall anyway and squeeze him tight, just letting myself have this moment, even though I know he’ll hate me one day not too far from now. He hugs me back, patting me on the head.
A fist clenches around my heart.
“You’ll have to spruce it up a little. Sorry about the carpet,” he adds, making a face at a few noticeable stains.
“It’s perfect. Thank you so much,” I manage to say, choking down the entirely inappropriate lump in my throat. He turns to leave, but before he can go, I add, “There’s some coffee brewed downstairs. I brought some nice beans from a local shop. I thought it might be better than that grocery store stuff.”
“You read my mind, Freddie. I was just about to look for some. Oh, one last thing.” He fishes something out of his pocket and hands it to me. It’s a flash drive, painted with the Monarchs logo. “Had these made for the team this season. Had a few extra laying around and figured you could use one.”
“More storage means more footage,” I say with a grin, twirling it between my fingers.
“That’s right.” He fist-bumps me, like a father might a daughter. Bittersweetness swallows me as I force a smile, trying not to let my thoughts wander too far down the path of what it might be like to have a father who bumps my fist. A father who’s proud of me, who wants to take my side.
Maybe in another life.
Coach Marshall leaves, and I do a quick twirl in my new office before heading downstairs to capture the day’s footage—only to be stopped by Sam from the media office.
“Hey, Freddie. See any good movies last weekend?” he asks. Ever since I told him I want to make horror films while filing for a filming permit last week, he hasn’t left me alone. I don’t mind being polite, but the guy can’t take a hint. Teenage me would have been all over him, with his shaggy black hair that I’m pretty sure he dyes, too-tight jeans and grungy shirt. Older me can suss out he’s probably the kind of guy who has a mattress on the floor.
“Depends. Do you enjoy seeing people flayed alive? If so, I recommend Laugier’sMartyrs.” I first saw it years ago, but it’s the first film I think to reference that might scare him away.
“Oh, sick. Hell yeah, dude. I’ll have to check that out,” he replies, looking all too eager. What a backfire. Now he’s going to watch it and worse,talkto me about it.
“Well, gotta get to practice,” I brush him off.
“Yeah, see ya around,” he replies with a lazy wave.
Getting candid footage is almost impossible, because none of the team are relaxed when I’m present. Their eyes track my camera, constantly breaking the fourth wall. Falkenberg does his job briefing me on practice, but no matter how much interest I feign, he’s clipped and short, providing only the most necessary information. He spends as little time with me as possible—even though sometimes I catch him watching mefrom across the ice. At night when I’m up biting my nails, too anxious to sleep, I study the players, the franchise, the history of the league, but there’s so much to learn, it’s like drinking water from a firehose. Half the time, I’m unable to follow when Falkenberg explains what plays they’re going to skirmish, but I’m pretty sure that’s by design. He talks briefly and directly, and he disappears before I can ask questions. I’d never admit it frustrates me, because that would only be giving him what he wants, which is to see me fail.
Sometimes I really don’t understand why I took this job, but I keep telling myself to think of the money I stand to make and the films I can produce with it, to consider a future where my father can’t loom over my shoulder. Plus, there’s the prestige of owning my own studio, and the possibility of re-shaping the film landscape the way I want to. Maybe I can even hire Grace and Margot. A high tide floats all boats, after all.
Halfway through the last week before preseason officially begins, I decide I’ve had enough of being shut out, so I corner the team captain in the parking lot.
“Falkenberg,” I call after him.
He stops and turns, one hand on his car door handle. “Hearst.”
“Come on, it’s been a month and a half. You can call me Freddie. Hearst is my father.” I’m never going to get him on my side without at least pretending that we’re friendly.
He considers me with a shuttered expression, and I allow my gaze to flit briefly over him. He’s wearing a black tee and sweats—have I ever seen him wear color? He admittedly looks good with his damp hair hanging around his ears, a few strands curving over his forehead and temples. My heart rate speeds up when I notice we’re alone, though I’m not sure why. I’m not afraid of him.
“What is it?”
“Do youwant to get a coffee?” I ask.
He frowns. Grimaces, more like, as if it causes him pain to even consider spending time with me.
“To talk about the season, obviously,” I clarify. I don’t want him thinking I’m asking him out or anything like that. Animosity aside, I don’t shit where I eat. “We’re almost done with training camp. Preseason starts soon and I need to know what to expect.”
He takes a pointed glance at his antique-looking watch. After a moment he says, “I’m free for an hour.”
“Great. You won’t like the way I drive, so let’s take your car. There’s a café around the corner.”
“Are you asking me or telling me?”
“Telling,” I reply sweetly.
