I swallow, watching the team captain as he sails past the bench, high fiving his team. He doesn’t spare a glance my way. Nor should he. So why does it hurt?
We beat the Mallards six to two, and even Ryan and Parker seem caught up in the hype of the moment, but I can’t help feeling like I’ve lost something despite the season moving in the direction I need it to. I should be thinking about the business model for the production company I’m going to build when I have a fresh twenty-five million in hand, but instead I’m just thinking about hockey.
I spend the next few days swiping on a dating app. Putting my profile together was more brutal than Eli Roth’sHostel. Worse, swiping is even more agonizing than building a profile. Instead of fish, these LA men are showing off their sports cars and Emmy awards. In the end, I do end up matching with a good-looking photographer named Grant whose style I like and whose politics don’t seem threatening, so when he asks me out to a wine bar in Echo Park the following Friday, I say yes.
I haven’t gotten dressed up since the Puck-Drop Banquet, and it’s nice to feel pretty in my slip minidress, oversized trench and vintage slingbacks. The bar he’s chosen off Sunset Boulevard is a total hole, with a killer wine and cheese list. It’s the kind of place where young Hollywood hangs out, where you might run into the series lead of the latest teen drama in the bathroom.
“Freddie?” I hear a moment after I step inside.
My head turns and I see Grant in a booth along the wall. He stands when I start towards him. He’s well-dressed in a bowler shirt, pleated pants and loafers, his dark hair curling behind his ears, and I don’t mind it when he gives me a loose hug. He smells warm, like orange and spice, and the shy, dimpled smile he gives me is endearing.
“Thanks for saving me a seat.” I slide in across from him.
“Fashionably late. I like it.”
I glance at my watch and see that I’m twelve minutes late. Falkenberg would have scolded me.You’re probably late to every appointment.I can hear the low drone of his voice in my head, and it makes something ache in my chest. I blink the thought away.
“Traffic,” I say lamely.
“Well since you’re late, I get to pick the wine.”
“A man who asserts himself,” I remark. Potential Red Flag number one.
His brows lift. “You have to be, these days.”
Not entirely sure what he means bythese days. Potential Red Flag number two. He orders us a bottle of Italian red and a cheese plate, and when the latter lands in front of us I remind myself to take it slowly and not annihilate the brie. That would be considereduncouthandunattractiveand everything else I got slapped on the wrist for in etiquette lessons.
“I can’t believe they have this bottle. It’s one of my favorites. I discovered it at a small trattoria in Montalcino last summer. I think it only cost eight euros.” He chuckles, giving me a conspiratorial look. “Gotta love Tuscany. Have you been?”
“Thrice, actually,” I lie, because I have a feeling he’s going to talk my ear off about it if I say no. I’ve never been to Italy, but I’ve eaten enough pappardelle to know where Tuscany is on a map. Sort of.
He plucks an olive off the spread and eats it, giving me a look of approval. “Then you know.”
“I prefer Napa,” I say.
He looks aghast. “Criminal.”
I smile at him. He’s handsome in a conventional way, with dark eyes, tan skin and a demeanor that says he sleeps with anyone of his choosing. Ican’t help wondering why he’s out with me. I haven’t gotten the sense that he’s recognized me, but I can’t be sure.
Falkenberg’s voice teases in my head.Which one is he? Cheating husband? Podcast host?
Podcast host for sure,I want to reply.
“So what do you do, Freddie?”
Straight to the networking, then. This is why I dropped out of business school. On the bright side, I guess he has no idea who I am.
“I’m a filmmaker. My passion’s horror but I’m currently working on a documentary.”
“I love documentaries. What kind?”
“Sports,” I reply vaguely. His excitement visibly dampens, reminding me exactly what the art world thinks about my current undertaking.
“Cool,” Grant replies. It’s obvious he doesn’t think it.
I can feel myself getting defensive. Being a pretentious art kid myself, I know exactly how it must look, but it actually is cool. I don’t hate hockey anymore. I actually like it, and if this guy took two seconds to pull his nose out of his own ass, maybe he would, too.
“What kind of photos do you take?” I take a piece of cheese between my fingers, throwing my manners to the wind.
