Chapter 35
Freddie
Freddie
Which dating app is the least bleak? I need a distraction
Grace
It depends on your preferred flavor of bleak
Freddie
Let me rephrase: on which platform will I see the fewest pictures of men holding dead fish or bragging about their cryptocurrency holdings?
Margot
Easy fix: change your preferred matches to women.
Freddie
If only I could.
Grace
They’re all bad, but I find Crushed has the least NPCs. By the way, this holiday special footage is hilarious. I feel like I kind of have to edit it. Who knew Falkenberg could pull off an apron like that? I can’t believe that made you jump him, you demon.
With the files in Grace’s hands, I can finally forget about The Dinner Table Incident and try to focus on the season. It’s getting harder to look the Monarchs in the eyes, but to Grace’s point, I don’t have to take any actions just yet. Fortunately, the season is shaping up to be a good distraction. We’re presently ranked five out of eight in the western conference. Riding a two game win streak, Coach Marshall seems uncharacteristically optimistic. Not that I’m letting myself get invested.
I can’t.
Still, I find myself wishing my interest was in acting rather than filmmaking as Falkenberg approaches me before the game the following afternoon. I hate that I’m dying to know if he slept alone last night. If some other woman made herself at home in his kitchen this morning, sipping a mimosa out of the same glass I used.
“Falkenberg,” I say cordially. He’s wearing his skates, adding considerably to his height.
“Hearst.”
Succinct. Professional. He looks down at me, and for a moment, I think I see a hint of resignation in his eyes, but then he’s all business. Not a hint ofI recently gave you the best orgasm of your life on my kitchen tableto be seen.
“Ticket sales have picked up, though I’m not sure if that’s because you guys are doing better or because all the Mallards fans are driving in,” I sayin an attempt to re-establish our relationship as boring, and above board, and not one where I swoon over how tall he is in his skates.
“Mallards fans never leave their couch.” He rolls his eyes.
Was that a joke? An attempt to make me laugh?
“How was your Halloween?” It sounds more jealous than intended coming out, and I cringe.
“Wouldn’t you like to know,” is all he says as he turns and leaves me. Whatever rapport we’d had for a moment there dissipates.
I stare after him as he strides back to the locker room, then begrudgingly head to my place behind the bench.
The game gets off to a breakneck start. Morales scoops the puck off the drop, sending it flying past the Mallards’ goalie within the first thirty seconds of the game. The victory is short-lived, because Lorenzo Tribuzio, the Mallards’ left wing, slapshots the puck past Häkkänen a minute later. The crowd erupts in boos, which means they’re actually paying attention. That’s new.
A smile tugs at the corner of my mouth—followed by a fresh sense of guilt. I’ve considered the unfairness of pulling the rug out from underneath these players and the organization, but the city? I haven’t really thought about that. I guess it never occurred to me that we could really convince this town to love hockey, but if we do, only to sell the team…it would be a dump truck of salt in an already gaping wound.
Focusing proves impossible. Mattias’s shift ends, but then he’s back on the ice to assist Sokolov in another goal for the Monarchs. I barely have time to register it before Falkenberg makes a goal of his own. Two, back to back. The goal horn blares and the crowd erupts in a standing ovation.
“Fuck yeah!” Ryan shouts next to me, punching the air.
