There’s a seriousness in his expression I haven’t seen before. My first instinct is to sayyesbecause I have a penchant for self-pity, but then I recall what he said just minutes ago—that I’m a bad liar, and I realize I don’t want to lie to him any more than I already have to. The truth is, I’m not sure anymore.
“I’d like to think that I could be good enough, but how can I really know when nobody will give me the chance to prove myself?”
“Your father won’t pull some strings for you?” To my surprise, I don’t hear any judgment in his tone.
I shudder. “He could, but I don’t want him to. He’d hold it over my head for the rest of his life. I don’t ever want to owe him anything else. I want to earn my own money, move out of his house, and never think about his opinion of me again.”
Falkenberg looks away, but he squints at the sky like he’s mulling something over. “I understand. My father has been dead for twenty years and I still feel like I owe him everything. I don’t know if that will ever change. I don’t know if it will for you, either.”
My mouthfalls open at the revelation—at this deeply personal piece of information that I don’t feel I’ve earned at all.
“I’m sorry,” I manage, not knowing what else to say. Suddenly I feel like an insensitive twat for bitching about my father to someone whose father isn’t even here anymore.
“It’s okay. It was decades ago,” he replies with a shrug. “It was a car accident. He was taking me to hockey practice and the roads were icy. A lorry lost control going into a roundabout. I don’t remember the crash. When I woke up in the hospital, they told me he was gone.”
I recall the scar on his collar and the insensitive shit I said on the plane, about dying in fiery crashes and asking if his parents were coming to watch the game. God, I should really consider sewing my mouth shut, like that scene inOuija.
“That’s partially why winning a Cup is so important to me. He died helping me chase my dreams. I want them to amount to something,” he adds, picking up a rock and skipping it over the water.
“Fuck. I’m so sorry about what I said on the flight. I feel like an asshole,” I mutter into my scarf, bunching it up to cover my face.
A cold hand wraps around my wrist, lowering my hand. Falkenberg is looking at me, the corners of his lips tilted up to my surprise.
“Don’t. You didn’t know.” His gaze flits over my face and he looks like he’s about to say something else, but then decides not to.What were you going to say?I want to ask him, but I never get the chance.
The sky opens and it starts pouring rain.
Chapter 25
Mattias
I can’t focus. Maybe it’s the fact that I’m home and I keep wondering if there might be someone I know sitting out there in those stands. My mind is anywhere but the puck as we shift into our starting line on the outdoor Stockholm city arena. It’s hard not to look at Hearst. I know she’s watching, probably filming, too, and it puts my teeth on edge. Ever since yesterday, I’ve been plagued with a disgusting sense of guilt. I shouldn’t have fantasized about her. I should have just stuck to watching porn like a normal, mindless idiot instead of fantasizing about people I know. People I work for.
When did I become such a pervert? And whyher?
I could barely look her in the eye during the first half of our outing yesterday. I was so caught up that I couldn’t even refrain from teasing her about The Incident when she’d indirectly brought it up, if only so I could gauge her reaction. The masochist in me wants to know if this inconvenient little attraction isn’t entirely one-sided.
I’m still not sure.
Even so, I would be a complete and utter fool to do anything about it. She’s not worth my career, something I keep reiterating to myself—even if thinking of her as nothing but an obstacle to overcome feels increasingly cruel.
I was happy when the rain cut our afternoon short so I could go back to my room and resume studying game clips, but of course she hadn’t brought an umbrella. She was so distraught at the possibility of ruining her camera that I had no choice but to give her mine, ruining my coat instead.
There are few things that smell worse than wet wool.
Our goodbye was awkward—all out-of-breath thank yous from her, the cold reddening her throat and cheeks, while I stood there wordlessly, skin hot, my hands shoved deep in my soaking wet pockets. Our oddly intimate conversation lingered between us before I finally nodded and returned to my room.
Now I’m supposed to play a hockey match, when I’ve hardly had time to prepare.
An autumn wind barrels through the trees as the puck hits the ice, demanding my attention. Maybe it’s the cold weather, but I’m slower than usual, and Hornstull Ishockey Klubb, a.k.a. HIK—the current highest-scoring team in Sweden—snags the puck and barrels towards Häkkänen. I rush after them, my lungs burning as I try to intercept a pass, but their forwards have too much of a lead on me. Their sly wing tips the puck into the net, right behind Häkkänen’s back, and it catches in the netting with a softthwap. Goal, HIK. Häkkänen lets out a string of curses and I don’t have to speak Finnish to know they would earn him a slap from his mother.
On the next play, Bell manages a breakaway but I’m not where I need to be when he tries to pass to me and HIK snags possession again. Fuck. My heart rate must surpass 200 bpm as I chase their center down the ice, but he weasels his way past me, smirking at me beneath his visor. He swivels his hips into position to shoot, and I reach my stick out in a last-ditch effort to intercept, but it lands too high and a whistle blows. Slashing. Into the penalty box I go.
I’m breathing hard as I take a seat, pulse pounding in my ears while sweat drips down my face. My gaze wanders over the stands, looking for anyone familiar. I don’t spot anyone I know, but that doesn’t mean nobody is here. It’s been a few years, but I’ve played with some of these guys before—back when we were younger. A lot of them are trying for the NHL but haven’t made it yet and probably never will. It makes me ill to think that if this season ends poorly, it’s highly likely I’ll end up back here—vying for a spot with HIK, playing in Stockholm.
Might as well shovel my own grave at that point.
I catch sight of Hearst. Bundled in a downy coat, she’s sandwiched between her crew. The short, grumpy one is wearing a full parka, the taller one holding their boom with a lit cigarette hanging out of their mouth. Hearst’s lips move as she instructs her cameraman to make an adjustment, and from this angle, it almost looks like she knows what she’s talking about. Like she cares about the game. I tear my gaze away.
