More marketing will help. It’s last minute, but when my father calls me into his office to talk production progress on a Tuesday night in October, a panicked idea hits me.
“Hi, Dad.” My voice is strained as I take a seat across from him.
“Freddie. I’m sure you’ve heard the news about ticket sales.”
Of course I have. Sam from the media office, who still has his job, won’t stop using it as an excuse to text me, mansplaining about what corners of the rink to film from to make it look the most full.
“I know,” I say. “I have an idea I wanted to discuss with you.”
I brace myself to be struck down, to feel Ghostface’s knife in my back.
“I’m listening,” he says instead.
I wasn’t expecting that response. Clearing my throat, I say, “It’s going to be hard to film a documentary hyping up the team if there’s no hype in the arena.”
“You don’t gotta tell me that, Fred. I wasn’t born yesterday.” He folds his hands over his stomach. His graying hair looks extra thin today—or maybe he just looks wearier than usual. Suddenly I feel ashamed and sad to notice his aging, but then I think of Falkenberg, and remind myself that aging is a gift. “This is par for the course for the Monarchs, but the networks aren’t happy as you can imagine,” my father adds, unaware of my existential train of thought.
God forbid network CEOs don’t make forty million dollars a year.
“I think I might know one way to boost ticket sales,” I say cautiously, fully expecting to be torn down. “What about a holiday special?”
He laughs, like he thinks it’s the most ridiculous idea in the world. “This is a hockey team, Fred, not a kid’s cartoon.”
“LA’s an entertainment town. If you want people to get involved in the sports team, you’re going to have to make it more entertaining than just sports. Half of this town has never owned a sports jersey in their lives. It’s full of overgrown theater kids and musicians, living on their parents’ money. If you want to get those people into sports, you’re going to have to make it theatrical. Or at least like reality TV.”
His brow furrows, but he doesn’t say anything. Slowly, he tilts his head, and for a moment I’m eight years old again, asking my father if we can get gelato after dinner. While he thinks, my mind wanders to one team captain, who’d probably strangle me himself if he heard the words coming out of my mouth. I imagine what he’d look like in a Santa hat and apron, forced to bake Christmas cookies and smile for my camera.
“Not a bad idea,” my father says after a long, tense moment.
“Really?” I’m shocked.
He shrugs. “I’m open to trying it.”
I guess he’s in an amicable mood. “There’s one other thing,” I start.
He raises a brow, and for a fleeting moment it feels like we could have a real relationship if we tried—that he could be a father I want to spend time with.
“I’d like to hire Grace for post-production.”
He shrugs again. “Sure.”
It’s a reminder that artists are as interchangeable to him as they are dispensable. Still, my heart lifts at the prospect that I might be able to throw Grace a bone—a thanks for all the ways she’s helped me out the last few years. Plus, she’s just really fucking good at editing.
“I have my plate full as is.” My father stands from his desk. “This consulting firm is running me ragged with the restructuring, and you don’t even wanna hear about the legal fees. Do whatever you think is necessary. Just make sure you stay within the allotted budget and don’t make a fool of us. You don’t want me to regret this.”
I wonder if he’s threatening me personally or professionally. Either way, I don’t want to find out.Six more months,I tell myself. Six more months until I’m paid enough money to never have to speak to him again if I don’t want to. I can do this.
My future depends on it.
Chapter 29
Mattias
Despite my usual reservations, I’m highly considering chugging half a bottle of akvavit when the doorbell rings five minutes earlier than expected. I grit my teeth, glance at the bottle in my freezer that's been sitting there since last Christmas, then decide better of it. I should keep my wits if I'm going to be on camera. I go to open the door.
My least favorite trio (and I have a lot, like the Dallas Rattlers’ starting line) are waiting on the other side. Hearst is wearing a Santa hat, even though it’s still October. I don’t even have time to say anything rude about it before her cameraman brushes past me, inviting himself and his ugly Bears hat into my home.
“Manners, much?” the Texan says, echoing my thoughts.
