You need to be realistic.
Dad
Even if you produce something yourself, the odds someone will buy it are slim…
Dad
You need to be smart about your future, Freddie. You need a real career.
No respect for the time difference, or me. The asshole’s telling me to quit before I’ve even gotten started. And what is it with boomers using threatening ellipses in their texts? I look at the clock and see it’s 3:00 a.m. Laying my head back down, I close my eyes and try to go back to sleep, but my heart won’t stop thudding. Even from 5,000 miles away, he’s still managed to put me into fight or flight mode.
And I’ve chosen to work for him. To help ruin this entire franchise on his behalf.
Around 4:00 a.m., after an hour spent tossing and turning, I give up on trying to fall back asleep. I spend the next hour lying in bed, cutting clips for the Monarchs’ social media manager and examining Ryan’s footage from yesterday’s match. I feel myself roped in, even though I know how the game ends. Me—enjoying sports. Who would have guessed?
Crawling out of bed when the clock turns 5:00 a.m., I start the day off with a visit to the hotel spa, hoping it’ll relax me. Shirking off my towel, I step into the steamy jacuzzi and breathe in the scent of fresh roses and pinewood. It’s so early, the spa is empty except for me. I lean my head back against the jacuzzi edge and close my eyes, letting all of the adrenaline and defensiveness seep out of my body. When I feel sufficiently ragdoll-like, I decide I’ll head back upstairs, but not before a quick sweat in the sauna to see what Häkkänen is always going on about.
I pull on the door handle, but stop with it halfway open. My pulse stutters. Falkenberg is sitting on the bench across the room, wearing nothing but a pair of navy, mid-thigh swim trunks. His gaze lifts and our eyes lock briefly before he takes in my attire, or lack thereof. Suddenly I’m painfully self-conscious about the high-hipped cut of my green swimsuit, even if it is a one piece.
“Falkenberg,” I try my best to sound nonchalant, and his eyes return to my face.
“Hearst.” His throat bobs as he swallows, a bead of sweat dripping off the sharp curve of his jaw.
“I spoke with your fan club yesterday,” I say, taking a seat on the bench farthest from him. I can’t help it—my gaze dips down, stealing a look over his bulky shoulders, the toned definition of his arms and chest. Another drop of sweat slides down his throat.
“My fan club?”
“There was a group of women wearing your jersey at the match yesterday. They said they meet every other Sunday to drink Aperol Spritzes and watch reruns of your games.” I cross one leg over the other to hide some of myself from him.
Falkenberg’s eyes narrow.
“Joking,” I say, biting back a laugh. “I don’t know what they do in their free time, but I can’t be far off the mark from the way they were all foaming at the mouth and cackling like a bunch of hyenas. One of them said she runs a popular Flicks account. Maybe you’ve heard of it? @MrsFalkenberg.”
He looks like he wants to swallow a mouthful of glass, but he doesn’t say no. A grin spreads across my face “You have, haven’t you?”
He scrubs a hand over his face. “Fuck off, Hearst.”
“Good!” I say gleefully. “Just think how far a fan club like that in LA could take the Monarchs.”
“I don’t see how.”
“Capitalizing on horny housewives could turn more people out to games,” I reply, not telling him I’ve already started cutting together fan edits for the Monarchs’ Flicks account. “They have a lot of money and nothing better to do.”
“You can’t be serious.” He leans his head against the sauna wall. His eyes briefly close, and I allow myself to steal a glance at his lean, toned abs—the light dusting of hair that leads from his navel down past his waistband. A flare of desire rocks me and I clench my thighs together. With his arms crossed like that, it’s almost impossible not to stare at the definition of his biceps or the breadth of his chest.
A horrifying realization hits me. Iwanthim.
“Too many people underestimate the market power of horny women,” I manage to say, my feeble voice coming in a rasp. My head is swimming in the heat.
Falkenberg looks at me for a lingering moment, his pupils darker than usual, but then he stands. “I have some studying to do. See you at the game, Hearst,” he says stiffly. There’s a glint of danger in his pale eyes, almost like he can hear my hungry thoughts.
I wonder if he feels it, this little thing between us.
It feels less little than it should.
“See you,” I force myself to say, forgetting to breathe until the sauna door closes behind him.
The crowd’s livelier today. We’re playing the Calgary Wranglers in an official exhibition game, and I swear half of Calgary must have flown to Sweden for the match. I’ve got a prime seat near the boards, sandwiched between Ryan and Parker. I’m wearing a Monarchs jersey and beanie.
