“You look like you just rolled out of bed.” She’s using her I’m-The-Producer voice.
“Fine.I’ll go clean up. Don’t burn the place down,” Poirier says before disappearing down the hall.
Parker takes a seat next to me on the sofa. “Nice work last night, Matty.”
I infer they’re talking about the overtime goal I scored to close the shootout. I won’t deny it was smooth. “Thank you.”
“Hate to root against my own team. I grew up going to Rattlers games.”
“That’s unfortunate.” I’m only half-joking. I watch as Freddie unloads groceries, the Santa get-up nowhere to be seen. A few moments later, Poirier slinks back into the room in a sweater and actual trousers.
“Better, Hearst? Or has something else got your panties in a twist?” he says.
I pale. Her gaze flickers to me, then quickly back to Poirier, but I’m pretty sure my teammate notices. His expression turns suspicious, which in turn makes Ryan look around.
“Something the matter?” the cameraman asks.
“No,” I say quickly.
“This’ll work, Poirier. Here, put these on.” To my relief, Freddie hastily pulls the apron and Santa hat out of her bag. I won’t be the only one dressed like a total dumbass.
He looks appalled. “You can’t expect me to wear those.”
“Mattias did,” Freddie says.
My attention shifts briefly to her at the sound of my name, then back to Poirier. “I didn’t have a choice.”
“I’m not paid enough for that,” Poirier says.
“You’re paid like five million a year,” Ryan scoffs.
“Exactly. Not nearly enough.”
“Think of how many fans you’ll bring in when you endear them to your hamburger soup,” I say.
“I don’t know how to make that shit. This is gonna be a disaster,” he mutters. I catch Freddie looking at me again, but when I acknowledge her she glances away.
I take that as my cue to leave. “I’ll leave you all to it.”
“Wait, Mattias.” It’s her voice.
I stop, my hand nearly on the door handle.
“Can I talk to you outside for a moment?”
I keep my face as neutral as possible. “Alright.”
She follows me out, cornering me the moment I close the door. “The other day was a mistake.”
I’ve had gloves-off brawls that hit me more softly than those words, even if in theory I agree with them. I should never have put myself in this position.
“I’m listening,” I say slowly.
“Honestly, I blame myself for staying behind. I should have gone home. The last thing I intended was for things to go where they did.” She drops her voice lower. “It’s not that I didn’t like it, but we can’t do this.”
I knew this would happen. So why does it sting like a slap in the face?
“Maybe you should have considered that before you initiated it,” I reply, caustic.
