“We’re never going to accomplish what we need to accomplish if we don’t start acting like we’re on the same team,” she says.
“I brief you before every practice.” I don’t add that I’ve purposefully been doing a shit job of it, feeding her bad information in hopes of making her look incompetent. She has good instincts, and it’s been frustratingly difficult to stay ahead of her. In addition to being very much in my way in a general sense, she’s captured hours of footage by now highlighting sloppy plays and losing lines. This documentary is going to be the nail in our franchise’s coffin.
“Yeah, hostilely. You treat me like I’m the opposing goalie and you’re trying to score one over on me.”
I bark a laugh.
She gives me a withering look. “Terrible example, but you know what I mean.”
“I don’t think so. Please explain.”
“Look, I know you don’t like me, Falkenberg, but that doesn’t mean we can’t help each other. I know you want this team to make a comeback and believe it or not, so do I. The more people we get into the stands, the more money we make.”
“I still fail to see how spending our money and resources on a documentary rather than better training is the way to make a comeback. It’s business, not personal,” I say. Mostly not personal, anyway. One-on-one like this, I guess she’s not so bad, but it doesn’t change the fact that she’s a spoiled brat who doesn’t know fuck all about hockey—not to mention that half my team can’t keep their eyes on the puck when she and her cameras are around.
“Unfortunately, that’s above your pay grade. My father has decided the documentary is happening, so it’s happening. Fighting it’s only going to waste your time and energy.”
My hand curls tighter around my coffee cup. I have nothing to say to that because she’s right and I hate it. That doesn’t mean the documentary can’t still be made by someone more competent instead.
“Please stop fighting me,” she begs. My throat turns thick at the way she says please. “I don’t want what happened during the first practice to happen again, for obvious reasons,” she mutters, looking down. She’s obviously still embarrassed—and suddenly I feel like an asshole.
I clear my throat. “I’m not the only one who’s been making things difficult.”
She looks up at me. “Is that an olive branch?”
“Absolutely not. We’re not friends,” I say quickly, fighting the way the corner of my mouth tugs up.
“Great. Perfect,” she continues anyway. “Now, I have some expectations I’d like to go over in terms of the season.”
And just like that, I let her spend the remainder of the hour hounding me about preseason, the global series, which players to pay attention to during the regular season, and what sort of behind the scenes footage she might expect to get during the playoffs—which she naively believes we’ll make. I must admit, I admire her faith. It’s stronger than half the team’s. Stronger than mine, too, if I’m being honest.
My thoughts briefly trail to Sweden, imagining Micke at home on the couch, watching me going for the Cup. Maybe my mother would even watch it with him.
My jaw clenches at the thought.
“I’m not doing a ‘day in the life,’” I say when she suggests something about following me around.
“Well, you should. LA barely knows who you are and you’re the captain of their hockey team.”
“I prefer it that way.”
“Your ticket sales don’t.”
Aj.I don’t want to admit it, but that one stings.
“I highly doubt an exposé on me, or any player for that matter, would have a substantial influence on ticket sales. I’m not that interesting.” I eat, sleep, and breathe hockey. Occasionally, I mail merch home. I like working out, reading nonfiction books and grinding up vegetables in my blender. That sums it up.
“Don’t give me that fake humble shit. An editorial profile on the Monarchs’ mysterious, aloof captain would have the women in this town going wild,” she says. “That’s one thing they’ll never tell you in business school. Women are an extremely under-marketed group. We make up more than half of the population, and we like to spend our money. Especially in LA.”
I open, then close my mouth. Mysterious and aloof? I assume I must be solidly good-looking, given that women were trying to sleep with me before I had a multi-million dollar contract, butmysteriousimplies charisma that I’m certain I lack. Besides, this endeavor isn’t about me. It’s about the team.
I lean forward. “I’m not mysterious, Hearst. You can just ask if there’s something you’d like to know.”
There’snot a lot of personal information that I’d volunteer willingly, but I’m curious to know what she thinks this mystery is. Ifshethinks I’m mysterious or intriguing.
“Oh yeah?” Her fingers pause from tearing apart her cinnamon roll like a vulture would roadkill.
“Absolutely,” I say.
