“I think of them as subtly thought-provoking and emotive. Would you like to see some?”
“Sure.”
He’s already got his phone out, and it takes him no less than two seconds to boastfully shove it in my face. Scrolling slowly with his thumb, he gives me a front row seat to his portfolio—which I can only describe as porn for sad alt boys. It’s picture after picture of naked twenty-something women, smoking cigarettes and looking doe-eyed at the camera while they read magazines in bed. Their tits and asses are on full display, their other parts barely concealed by the sets in which he’s posed them—sunflower fields, vintage chaise lounges, outdoor showers in some countryside villa.
“I took that one in Sicily,” he says, confirming my exact thoughts.
“Wow.” I hand his phone back to him.
I know his type. He’s not much better than the jocks he likes to shit on, but he hides his womanizing behind a façade of artistic intent. Exactly the kind of man I loathe. If I had a choice between encountering a self-proclaimed artistic man or a slasher in the woods, I’d choose the slasher.
Mattias could probably crush this dickhead’s skull, and he’d probably lecture the guy about boasting and bragging while he did it.
My train of thought is a glaring reminder of why I came here. Unfortunately, putting my lips on this man has about as much appeal as re-frying a cigarette from the ashbin outside.
“Shit,” I say suddenly, interrupting his ramble about the time some fashion house paid him to shoot an editorial in the Dolomites.
“What?”
“I forgot to take my Lactaid. I need to leave.”
“Are you alright?” He stands, reaching for me.
“Send me a picture of the receipt,” I say as I grab my bag. Only, I grab it too fast and it swings over the table, knocking his wine glass on the floor. It shatters, and I’m horrified to see a few dark red droplets soaking into his bowler shirt. The couples around us look startled.
“Shit. I’m so, so sorry,” I add. “Send me a request for the shirt, too. Gotta go.”
With that, I make a beeline for the exit without another glance his way. When I step back outside into the fresh air, it feels like taking my first breath in an hour.
Later, I come apart on my hand, picturing Falkenberg’s face.
Chapter 36
Mattias
“Have you seen Freddie much this week?” Poirier asks me in the locker room the morning of the Denver match. It still reeks of Häkkänen’s sage. He always burns sage in away locker rooms before a match. Unfortunately, I don’t think it’s working, because I feel nothing but cursed lately.
“Seems like she hasn’t been around,” Poirier says when I don’t reply. He casts me a sidelong glance.
“I haven’t noticed,” I reply, leaving before he decides to test his investigative abilities.
I think she was jealous. She tried to frame it as a dig, but that woman can’t mask her emotions to save her life. The thought that she might be jealous of an evening where I brushed off every woman who so much as looked my way makes me laugh. We ended up at Birds of Paradise that night, and to Poirier and Westergren’s dismay, I found an excuse to leave that shitty club as quickly as I could. Still, the thought of her lying awake, wondering who I’ve slept with gives me a smug sense of satisfaction.
I can’t believe that little witch had the nerve to scold me about keeping things professional, only to turn around and act like she has some claim over me. Judging by the looks she kept shooting me on the shuttle when she thought I wasn’t paying attention, she’s not as over it as she wants to appear. What she doesn’t realize is that I’m always paying attention to her. Despite my best efforts, I’m still miserably aware of where she is and what she’s doing, wondering what she’s thinking about.
We lose against Denver, but hold our rank. There’s an energy in the air, something I haven’t felt since my first year with the Monarchs. This season feels different. When I leave the ice after practice before our matchup against the Vancouver Geese, my mood is uncharacteristically bright.
It dies the moment I enter the locker room.
“You guys see that viral post about Freddie the other day?” Thompson says.
I hate the way her name sounds coming out of his mouth, the way he’s cozied up to her despite the things he said about her, and it takes every bit of will I have to act unfazed. I continue stripping my skates off like I don’t give a fuck, even though I’m pretty sure my blood is already nearing a boiling point.
“The one where she and some date caused a scene at some restaurant? Yeah,” Fontenot laughs. “That guy probably got what he deserved.”
My jaw clenches. Date?
“Who gives a shit what she does in her free time?” Häkkänen says, taping up his stick.
