“What, are you having trouble getting into character?” she says wryly, making my attention dip briefly to her mouth. Oblivious, she continues, “You and Santa probably have more in common than you think. You’re both from the North Pole. He’s the captain of his sled, you’re thecaptain of your team. You both keep a strict schedule and you both weird me the fuck out—”
“Shut up, Hearst,” I say, moving to stand where she’s indicated.
“Just one more step to the side. Ryan’s right.” She lays a gentle hand on my ribs to guide me.
I don’t hate it like I should.
I press my palms flat against the countertop again, desperate to look anywhere but the camera while I’m wearing this moronic getup and trying not to think about where else I’d like my boss’s daughter to touch me in front of two strangers.
Hearst steps behind the camera. “I think you should introduce yourself and we’ll go from there.”
“Look into the camera for this one, Falkenberg,” Ryan adds.
I’m so thankful none of the team are here to see this.
Grimacing, I point my body towards the camera and look directly into the lens. “Hi. My name is Mattias Falkenberg, and these are Swedish meatballs.”
Chapter 30
Freddie
I check my phone as we reset for different coverage.
Grace
I can’t believe your father’s trusting me with post-production. You know this is going to turn out to be more of a fancam than a documentary, right? Make sure to get some clips of them stretching. You know what I’m talking about.
I snort. Even without the cheeky texts from Grace, staying professional while filming the holiday special is a challenge. Once we’re rolling again, I break at least three takes because I laugh before Mattias can get past his introduction. On the fourth take, Parker stomps on my foot, resulting in anowthat also ruins the take. Finally on the fifth take, he’s able to move on.
I printed out the recipe for Mattias, both in Swedish and in English just in case he’s not used to our measurements, but he doesn’t even glance at it. He talks us through his process as he seasons and forms the ground beef, prepping his cast iron as if he’s done this a million times. I don’t know why, but he never struck me as the cooking type. His kitchenis immaculate, to the point I subconsciously assumed he’d never actually used it.
Falkenberg’s apartment barely looks lived-in, either. Though the wood floors and high ceilings are nice, the floorplan seems small for a professional athlete, and I smirk when I remember what Margot said about her mother missing out on her commission. It could use a few plants to liven up the space, but the furniture is nice, with earth-toned upholstery and bronze and wooden accents. I only caught a peek at his living room, but the foyer looked as though it’d never seen a footprint. Maybe he is more Patrick than Norman.
I swallow, watching him while he’s distracted with peeling potatoes, observing his meticulous fingers. I can’t lie, I’m proud of myself for the getup. If even I find watching the notoriously standoffish team captain dressed in a Santa apron and hat entertaining, I can only imagine how much the fans are going to eat it up. Plus, there’s something weirdly alluring about seeing him in his own space.
My thoughts wander to the polished wooden staircase adjacent to the entry hall, briefly wondering what his bedroom looks like. I blink and shake my head.
“All good?” Ryan murmurs. He must think I was shaking my head at the video feed.
Falkenberg’s eyes snap up to mine and he pauses, midway through mashing a potato.
“Yeah, keep rolling,” I say. The team captain watches me for a lingering moment before returning his focus to cooking.
The whole process takes longer than I thought it would. By the time I’m staring at a full plate of meatballs, mashed potatoes, lingonberry jam, and brown sauce, nearly two hours have passed. The kitchen smells like warm spices and gravy, and my stomach makes a loud noise, reminding me I haven’t eaten since breakfast.
“And cut! I think we’re good here,” I say.
The team captain’s agony switches to visible relief. He rips the hat and apron off and tosses them aside.
“Those are too photogenic,” Ryan says from behind me as he dislodges the rig from his shoulder. “The plate looks like you pulled it out of a magazine.”
Mattias shoots him a caustic look. “Is that a problem?”
“Relax, dickhead. I’m trying to give you a compliment.”
Ryan’s right—the plate looks perfect, and Falkenberg didn’t glance at the recipe once.
“I think they look like a moose took a shit, but that’s just me,” Parker says.
