“Good work, team. You’re dismissed. Falkenberg, come see me after your shower,” Coach Marshall says when practice ends. His tone is stiffer than usual. A few of the veteran players shoot me a look. I rack my brain, wondering if I’ve done something wrong.
“Yes, Coach?” I say when I arrive upstairs.
“Shut the door.”
I do, then take a seat across from him.
“I really don’t know how else to say this, so I’m just going to put it bluntly. You better not be messing with Freddie.”
Helvete. The dance. I should never have let her drag me onto the dance floor.
“I’m not sure I understand, Coach,” I say. Feigning ignorance is my best bet.
It doesn’t matter if the dance meant nothing. The optics were bad.
“We both know Hugh Hearst wouldn’t appreciate you taking an interest in his daughter. Nothing good ever comes from crossing wires in the workplace. I’m just trying to look out for you both.” Coach’s face twists in a grimace, like it pains him to say it. Likehe’sthe one uncomfortable, while I’m the one being scolded like a teenage boy.
“I have no interest in Hearst. She asked me to dance when one of the guys from the media office wouldn’t leave her alone.” I keep my tone as even as possible, despite the mere thought of that failed backup guitarist pissing me off. “I have no intention of going anywhere near her, beyond what’s necessary for the documentary.”
He looks confused. “The media office?”
“She can share if she feels like it,” I grit out. I’d prefer to refer the guy to HR, but I won’t escalate unless Hearst would like me to.
Coach nods. “Freddie’s an exceptional girl, but the last thing this team needs is more rumors and scandal.”
“My career is my only priority,” I repeat, though something twists in my gut as the words leave my mouth. Deep down, I know it’s bordering on a lie, but attraction doesn’t indicate real interest. Just because I can admit there’s something annoyingly fixating about Hearst doesn’t mean I’m going to pursue her. That would be career suicide.
“Good. Let’s keep it that way. That’s all. See you tonight,” Coach says.
I nod. Apparent the conversation is over, I head for the door. Mentally, I berate myself as I leave. This would never have come up if I’d gotten her out of here by now.
Our first preseason game is at home against the Seattle Gulls. The arena is half-empty as we pour onto the ice, lights flashing and music blaring in asad attempt to hype up the sparse crowd. Every year, our opening games are like this. Pathetic, and it hardly gets any better as we move through the season.
Taking a deep breath, I let my senses soak it all in: the sharp, almost chemical smell of the ice, the roar of voices over the rumble of announcers, the scrape of skates and the rattle of sticks. Orange and white lights flash behind my eyelids, the music vibrating in my bones. These are the moments I’ve spent my whole life dreaming about—the moments my father gave his life to let me see. I refuse to let them pass me by.
We get into position and I’m ready. My fingers flex around my stick. The team goes silent, no yapping, no trash talk. Just thick anticipation as the arena falls quiet.
The puck hits the ice and my brain goes blank, instinct taking over as I scoop it away from Morin, Seattle’s famed right wing. I’m fast. Faster than he expects, judging from the stunned look in his eyes as I maneuver it out of the line-up, passing to Bell. He fakes out their defenseman, managing a quick pass back. I’m waiting for it, catching the puck in a quick sweep and shooting it over to LeBlanc.
LeBlanc slapshots it into the net and the goal horn blares, making the crowd erupt in cheers. Goal, Monarchs. I can practically feel the air go taut with tension after that. It’s game on, and Seattle isn’t going down without a fight.
The Gulls have put in work, too. My first shift ends just as their center intercepts the puck from Moreau and steals it all the way down the ice for a goal of their own. I can feel murder radiating off Häkkänen, who barely missed the save. It’s a fast-paced game from the start.
I make the next goal off a slick pass from Bell, the goal horn erupting through the stadium again. A smile cracks across my face as I streak past the plexiglass and high-five the bench. I glance up and see my self-satisfied mug on the jumbotron, then quickly look away—only to catch Hearst’s eye. She’s standing between our bench and a camera, and she’s fucking grinning. At me. Shouting something I can’t hear.
My smile fades ever so slightly, thinking of Coach’s words.No distractions. I give her a nod, and skate away. I don’t look at her for the rest of the game.
We scrape out our first win of the year.
Chapter 22
Freddie
Freddie
Keep this here, but this morning at breakfast my dad told me he’s planning on laying off 20% of the Monarchs organization within the next few weeks. And I’m supposed to just look these people in the eye every day and not say anything?
Grace
