“I should probably get home,” I tell him, blushing furiously as I gather my things and shimmy back into my underwear and clothing. I don’t dare look at him, I’m so ashamed of myself.
“Okay,” is all he says, not fighting me.
Once I’ve put myself back together, I snatch up my purse and bolt for the door. I’m out of his flat before I can make this any worse.
What happened between us loops in my head the whole drive to the rink the next morning—thinking of how far I let things go, how much I liked it, how much I shouldn’t have allowed any of it to happen. I’m sure my face is as red as the final scene ofSuspiriaas I head upstairs to my office.The remake, that is.
Twisting my key, I push the door open and—someone fucking screams. I scream, too, my heart practically jumping out of my chest as a body writhes in front of me, and it’s only after I realize the sound is still going that I recognize what it is. Someone’s put one of those cheap, shrieking, motion-activated grim reapers in my office.
Someone’s pranked me. A real, proper jump scare. I burst out laughing, then grab the thing off its hook and gallop downstairs.
“Who did this?” I hold the grim reaper up to the players, all lined up on the ice.
Coach Marshall lowers a whistle from his mouth. “Freddie?”
I scan their faces, briefly stopping on Mattias. He purses his lips, but he holds my gaze. I look away before I start blushing again. Next to him, Poirier’s got a bubble in his mouth, like he’s trying to keep from laughing. He looks down at his skates, but he can’t keep it together—he bursts out laughing, along with DeBoer and Byrne next to him. The three of them nearly double over.
“Good one guys, you got me.” I flash the reaper in front of Ryan’s camera, just so he gets a clip of it. It’s almost Halloween, anyway. Coach Marshall shakes his head. Then I’m laughing again, unable to remember the last time I’ve screamed like that.
“Freddie.” Another voice cuts through my giggles—a harsh, stoic voice that sends a tremor of real fear shooting down my spine. My hand falls to my side, the grim reaper hitting the ground as I turn and see my father.
“Upstairs,” he says.
I hesitate, looking back at the team and my crew. Ryan gives me a thumbs up and Parker nods, as if to saywe’ve got this. I turn to follow my father—stealing one last glance at Falkenberg. He’s staring back at me, his brow furrowed and his mouth flat. I look away and follow my father upstairs.
Could my father possibly know?
“Closethe door,” he says as I follow him into his brother’s old office. He’s using his Firm Tone which is never a good sign.
“Hi,” I say. I don’t know what this is about, but my body is buzzing with static, like Horace fromShocker.
“Something has come to my attention.”
He looks pissed. I don’t like where this is heading—don’t like it at all. I clench my fists in my lap. “Oh?”
He raises a brow in my direction, like he thinks I’m playing ignorant.
“What is it?”
“You and Falkenberg.”
My breath leaves me. Who told him? I balk at him, but he punches something in on his keyboard then spins the laptop around for me to see the screen. Bold lettering glares back at me.
RUMOR RECAP: SCANDALIZED HEARST FAMILY HEIRESS SEEN WITH MONARCHS TEAM CAPTAIN
I want to melt into the floor. It’s one of those bonkers clickbait sites. Accompanying the headline are several photos of Mattias and I together: a blurry phone picture taken at The Busy Bean, a quality photo of me in his arms from the Puck-Drop Banquet, and a picture of us out together in Stockholm. How the fuck did they get that? There are even links to Flicks from fans speculating on our relationship status. I make a note to read the comments later.
“Do you have something to say?”
“Obviously it’s a lie,” I say quickly, well-practiced in deceiving him. I hope he doesn’t see through me. I can’t let him know the truth. I think of what might happen to Falkenberg if my dad finds out, and bile rises in my throat.
“The internet doesn’t think so.”
“Dad, come on. That’s a clickbait site. I’ve been spending time with him. So what? You told me to.” It’s a partial truth. Technically, all these sightings were work events.
“It may be clickbait, but the photos don’t lie. When are you going to start taking yourself seriously, Fred? How do you expect me, or your industry to take you seriously when you’re this careless?”
My breath leaves me, the words stinging like a slap across the cheeks. The facts never matter. The second I try to stand up for myself, he slaps me back down into my place beneath his boot. To him, I’ll never be a professional. I’ll always be his pathetic, helpless daughter who’s only good at fucking up. And in one very glaring, regrettable way, he’s correct. Ruining my own life is one thing, but ruining Mattias’s is another.
