“We’ll see about that. Bye, Falkenberg.”
I turn on my heel and climb into my car without looking back. Another beat passes before I hear him roll away.
Chapter 19
Mattias
I can’t believe training camp is already over. The team is in better shape than I thought. I’m uncertain if it’s because everyone knows their careers are on the line and they’re putting their hearts into it, or if the trades and drafts we’ve made are finally starting to pay off. Coach has me on a starting line with Bell and LeBlanc, and it’s like the three of us can read each other’s minds. With my speed, Bell’s puck handling, and LeBlanc’s ruthlessness, we may actually have a shot at some points.
Despite the delicate rapport Hearst and I have developed, I still have every intention of getting her out of here. Preferably before the real season starts, but at this point, that’s probably not realistic. She’s gotten her bearings better than I thought she would and has refrained from any more ankle sprains. She even has a good sense for gameplay.
I would never admit it aloud, but sometimes I don’t even mind her company.
Suddenly it’s the Saturday before preseason, and I’m standing before my hallway mirror in a tailored navy suit. The Puck-Drop Banquet is tonight, and I wish I was anywhere else. I hate dressing up but it’s part of being in the NHL, so I’ve come to tolerate it. Still, I feel like a pretentious asshole with my starched shirt, loafers, waxed hair, and cufflinks. My friends from back home would laugh if they saw me like this. Micke would, too.
My formal invitation included a plus one, but I’m not bringing anyone. I never have in previous years. I don’t have any friends in LA, just colleagues, and my brief swipe through the dating apps last week resulted in another deletion. I briefly wonder if Hearst is bringing anyone. She didn’t allude to a significant other, saying she’s focused on her career, but things change. Besides, I find it a little hard to believe she has trouble finding dates, though I’m not sure why I’m even thinking about it. It’s not my business. I glance at myself one more time in the mirror, make a face, and call a cab.
Hugh Hearst has booked a banquet hall in a historic downtown hotel. It’s probably filled with Hollywood legends, but I couldn’t care less about that stuff. I just want to get in, fulfill my social obligations, then go home and get to sleep at a decent time.
There is a private entrance to avoid the public, and I’m ushered inside by two stuffy-looking guys in black suits. I can practically feel the walls closing in from the moment I set foot in the banquet hall. I’ll make my rounds so well that nobody can say I didn’t attend, listen to any necessary speeches or presentations, and then leave.
“Oi! Nu är gubben här.” Adrian Westergren, one of the other two Swedes on the team, says before shoving a champagne flute into my hand.Now the old bastard's here. He’s a typical Stockholmer, with blond, shoulder-length hair which he slicks back, finely tailored clothes and a clean-shaven face. He’s a few years older than me. His girlfriend gave birth to their first child this summer. All of that stuff seems a world away, but part of me can’t help thinking back to Hearst’s comments about me being late to the game. I shove those thoughts away with a scowl.
The champagne is tempting—maybe it’ll dull the crawling sensation in my skin—but I almost never drink, so I set it down on a nearby table.
“I don’t know who you’re calling old man when you’re the one changing diapers,” I say to Westergren.
“The diapers of a future Founders’ Cup champion, gubbe. Just a few more years and I can buy little Valter his first pair of skates,” he says in English, but with an exaggerated Swedish accent. Unlike me, he’s never made any attempt to master the American dialect and I don’t blame him. I think it’s a crass, ugly sound, and Americans speak like their upper lips are glued to their teeth, but I prefer blending in where I can.
Thompson spots us then, strolling up to us accompanied by a pretty brunette in a red dress. He’s dressed in a flashy herringbone suit. I brace myself, a sour taste filling my mouth.
“No dates, boys?” he says.
While I’ve budgeted for a certain amount of misery for the evening, discussing dates with Thompson is not on the agenda. After his comments about Hearst, I have half a mind to put in a trade recommendation with Hugh—not that that’s within the realm of my power, but it wouldn’t hurt to try.
“My girlfriend is using the toilet,” Westergren says.
“What’s your excuse, Falks?” Thompson asks with a skeptical look.
“Falks?” I repeat drily.
“Don’t dodge the question.”
The brunette on his arm smiles at me, looking back and forth between us.
“I’m not as young as you, Thompson. Dates take time and energy.” With a new woman on his arm every week, it’s a miracle he has any energy left for hockey.
Thompsongives me a disdainful look.
“Sounds like you’ve been spending time with the wrong dates,” the brunette says, startling me by laying a hand on my arm. I flinch and drop my arm to my side, but she smiles up at me anyway, her long lashes dusting her cheeks.
“Excuse me, I’m going to go find another drink,” I say, not caring if anyone notices I never touched the first one. I slip away, put off by the jilted look in her eyes.
The rest of the team, corporate heads and franchise staff have begun to filter in with their plus ones, making the room feel like a jar of pickled herring. There’s an open bar against the far wall, and I’m stopped three separate times by stakeholders and staffers saying hello, introducing me to their friends, and asking for anecdotes about the upcoming season on the way there. A few people even ask for photos with me, which I oblige, even if chewing concrete would be more pleasant. It’s a relief when I finally have a glass of crisp sparkling water in my hand, and I slip into the periphery of the room to settle my nerves alone.
My eyes wander over the crowd, and drawn like a doomed moth to a lightbulb, they land on the figure of a familiar, dark-haired woman in a curve-hugging black dress. The gown’s tie-straps and low-cut neck show off plenty of smooth skin, as does the long slit running from the dress’s floor-length hem to her mid-thigh. I even notice a tattoo I haven’t seen before. For some irritating-as-all-hell reason, I feel myself getting hard and start running through my usual list of mood-killing thoughts, but I can’t tear my gaze away from her. Her cameraman and boom operator, as I’ve learned them to be called, are nowhere to be seen. They’re probably both chain-smoking outside.
I watch as Hearst mingles with her company, and whatever she says makes them all laugh. Something twists in my gut. I want to know what she’s said, even if it’s about Hollywood or something else I wouldn’t understand.
