“Not all of them. Wallace is married, so is Baird. They’re two of the highest-scoring fuckers in the league.”
“And they’re on their way out.”
Poirier gives me a dark look, appearing hesitant before speaking. “You’re not that young anymore, either. Neither am I. We’ve got five years left if we’re lucky, maybe six or seven if the universe feels like granting us a miracle. Maybe you should start thinking about what comes after hockey.”
I swallow hard, trying not to appear like he’s just cracked my head against the boards. It’s something I haven’t let myself think about. Moving on with my life without a championship to my name, knowing I failed—it makes me sick.
“I’m sorry, dude. I’m just trying to be realistic.”
I force myself to swallow. “It’s fine. You’re right. I guess I just don’t like thinking about it. Most guys don’t have to think about retirement at thirty.”
“And most guys don’t have their name on a fifty-million-dollar contract.”
“Fine. But what the fuck am I supposed to do after this? Move back to Sweden and buy a farm? Tend to the sheep and goats?”
“Or you could stay here,” he shrugs.
“I don’t like it here,” I reply.
“Don’t sweat it, Mattias. You don’t have to worry about that shit today. It’s tomorrow’s problem. All I’m saying is, if something makes you happy, maybe you shouldn’t be so quick to write it off.”
The doorbell rings, saving me the misery of forming a reply. Poirier opens it, revealing Tremblay, Krejcí and Arsenault. Their arms are decked with bags of takeout.
“We brought Thai, just like you dickholes asked.” Tremblay saunters in. “Sokolov and Westergren should be along soon. Andersson's with his wife. Häkkänen said he had a sauna appointment and LeBlanc’s probably jerking off.”
I’m happy for the reprieve, but still, smiling takes work.It’s tomorrow’s problem, I tell myself again as I head for the curry, for once eager for a night with the guys.
Chapter 37
Freddie
“I like it,” my father says. I blink twice. I don’t think I’ve ever heard those words out of his mouth.
“Really, Mr. Hearst? You think the fans will like it?” Grace says in her most kiss-ass voice. I glare at her.
“I do.”
We’ve just shown him the rough cut of the holiday special and he liked it. Grace is a highly talented editor, but there’s something deflating about his praise when I know if I’d been the one to edit it, he’d have had a laundry list of critiques.
“Final cut by Thursday,” he says.
Grace gives me a nervous look. Even I know that’s a grueling timeline.
“I have another project I’m working on at the moment, Mr. Hearst. Is Friday okay?” Grace asks.
“Let’s call it Friday,” he agrees, then leaves the room.
My mouth opens, then closes, disbelieving. Not only did she negotiate with him, but he accepted it. Meanwhile, he’s spent my existence making the threats fromI Know What You Did Last Summerlook like love letters every time I’ve so much as dared to contradict him.
Grace must sense my mood, because she pulls me into a hug. “This timeline is batshit, but it’s gonna be so good, Freddie. Your ticket sales are gonna spike, and when you start your own studio you can hire me as an editor without involving your dad at all. We’ll be at the Oscars before we know it.”
“I know. Except we won’t be at the Oscars because they snub horror, but still. We’ll be somewhere. Somewhere that isn’t a hockey rink,” I reply—a sinking feeling overcoming me as the words leave my mouth.
Where will Mattias be, then? Coach Marshall? Ines?
“Then fuck the Oscars.”
“Fuck the Oscars,” I echo.
