“Can we angle the camera this way?” I ask Ryan. “Those Calgary fans are acting rowdy and I want to make sure we catch it on camera if they start a brawl.”
“You think Canadians are gonna start a fight?” Parker casts me a wry look, holding their boom above their head, which accentuates their lean, strong-looking arms in the sleeveless wrestling shirt they’re wearing. Boom operators have to be strong—but for a Texan, I’m surprised Parker isn’t freezing.
“It’s been at least twelve hours since they were within driving distance of a Tim Horton’s. They’re primed for aggression,” Ryan says.
The puckdrops and my eyes land on Falkenberg. From the get-go I can tell he’s more in the game today. Maybe it was the jet lag, but his performance was uncharacteristically sloppy yesterday, though I’d never say that to his face. I’m sure he’s aware.
His fan club is out in force today, too. I can’t understand them because they’re yelling in Swedish, but when Falkenberg scoops up the puck for a breakaway play and slapshots it into the net, they go crazy, giggling and shrieking amongst themselves. A man behind me is yelling, too—so much that he accidentallythwacksme upside the head with his Monarchs flag.
I scowl at him over my shoulder.
“I’m so sorry,” the man says in a thick Swedish accent, looking horrified. He must have heard us speaking English. My eyes fall on a number 24 embroidered on his arm. He’s wearing Falkenberg’s jersey, but so are a lot of people. I nod and turn back around.
Ryan and Parker begin circling the boards, capturing the action shots from a safe distance and leaving me to keep an eye on the gameplay. It’s a better match than yesterday. Part of me recoils at the notion that suddenly I seem tounderstandwhat constitutes a well-played hockey match, but I guess that’s the least of my worries.
It’s colder today than it was yesterday, and scents of woodfire and hotdogs lace the crisp autumn air. I draw my jacket closer around myself, keeping my eyes glued to the ice. Halfway through the second period, the teams have switched sides and Falkenberg has possession of the puck again. He passes it to LeBlanc, who passes it back, and Falkenberg manages to tip it into the net behind the goaltender’s right skate. Seeing the grin that splits his face as the team crowds him in a hug, I can’t help but smile. The expression is a rarity. Maybe he can feel me thinking so, because his eyes land on me as the dogpile breaks up—and then his face falls when he notices something over my shoulder.
I turn around. The man who accidentally thwacked me is waving. Falkenberg’s expression turns indecipherable, but I find it odd how he glances over his shoulder at the man behind me once more as he skates back to the other side of the ice.
I can’t help myself. I’m too nosy, so I turn around and say, “Do you know him?”
If the man is off put by my butting into his business, he doesn’t show it.
“That’s my brother,” he replies, nothing but pride in his eyes.
Chapter 27
Mattias
Micke’s here.
I never told him that I would be in town, and he came anyway. I should have expected it given how closely he follows the season, but it’s still a shock to see him sitting there. It’s been three years, but he looks the same: several centimeters taller than me, but with less muscle, lighter hair and a rounder face. Maybe he has slightly more wrinkles around his eyes.
My mother is nowhere in sight, not that she’d ever come to a hockey game. She never has before. Åsa Falkenberg doesn’t leave her house, especially not to watch hockey.
Just when I thought my cortisol had peaked, I notice Micke talking to Hearst. Does she know he’s my brother? If she doesn’t yet, she will soon, and I’m rankled by the thought of her learning things about my life, or specifically about my mother without me present. I immediately want to separate them, but I’m halfway across the arena and I’ve got a game to focus on. Leave it to Hearst to nose-dive right into my personal life during the one moment I can’t push her away.
“Let’s spank these goons,” Bell says from my left. The noise of everything else fades away as I zero-in on the match.
We don’t win, but it’s damn close.
“Matte!” Micke practically tackles me the moment I step off the ice, the sound of my nickname and my brother’s familiar scent of diesel and peppermint snus snapping me back to my childhood. For a moment, I almost feel home.
“Fyfan,Micke,” I rasp as he squeezes the life out of me.
He gives me one last squeeze, then lets me go. Switching to English he says, “You think I don’t follow the season? If you won’t tell me you’re in town, I’ll have to ask your boss. Isn’t that right, Freddie?”
It’s then I notice Hearst standing a few steps away, a self-satisfied glint in her eye as the wind tousles her dark hair.
“You have my number,” she says, punching Micke lightly on the shoulder. My fingers twitch.
“Did you hear that? I have her number,” he says sweetly.
Of course Micke went and made friends with the one person I’d rather he never utter a word to in his life. He’s a wellspring of information I don’t want her to know about me. She’s already wormed her way into my team, I don’t need her worming her way into my personal life, too. My change in expression must be an ugly one, because Micke’s grin turns wicked. Asshole.
“I’m sure Hearst’s father would be extremely pleased to hear she ran away with an electrician from Sweden. He’d probably send the CIA after you,” I say.
“My father wouldn’t, but one of the lizard people he lobbies might,” she replies matter-of-factly.
