The words are an echo in my hollow chest.
The day the holiday special drops, I’m a bundle of nerves. The thing has my name attached to it in big white letters at the top of the credit roll: Directed by Frederica Hearst. I used to dream of this day, but seeing my name just makes me feel empty. I’m not proud of myself for this. Even still, imposter syndrome taunts me, my father’s words unraveling me like theBabadookin my head.You should have stayed in marketing. Nobody is going to like this, there’s no artistic value. Nobody is going to want you to make theatrical films with your name attached to a sports doc.
I wonder if Mattias plans to watch it. Not that it matters.
I grab a bag of overly buttered popcorn and spend the rest of the evening watching my comfort flick: John Carpenter’sHalloween. If only my life’s antagonist were a masked slasher, instead of a monster with a human face that’s starting to resemble my own.
There’s a palpable uptick in energy at the next home game. The buzz is electric, and I wonder just how many people the holiday special turned out. My phone vibrates as I find my mark along the boards.
Dad
Streamer says viewership is better than expected. Good.
It’s impressive how even his rare compliments feel conditional. A few sharp bursts of feminine laughter erupt behind me, stopping me from my spiral, and I turn to see a group of 20-something women filter into the bench behind me. Every single one of them is wearing a Monarchs jersey. They settle into their seats like they’ve got season tickets. I swear I’ve never seen them before. On another day I might have smiled, but today there’s a lead weight attached to my spirit.
It looks like the holiday special had the intended effect. More people invested in the team. More people for me to disappoint when it comes out that I was an accomplice to its demise.
The arena goes dark, bright spotlights falling on the cold ice as the music rises, and for a moment I don’t have to think about all the orange-and-black clad fans who love this team. It’s showtime. Horns blare and the players pour out of the locker rooms, the arena erupting in a thunder of cheers. The women behind me scream so loud, I worry my ear drums might blow out.
Mattias is one of the last ones out, but he hits the ice like a lightning bolt. Sometimes I forget how fast he is. My eyes track him as he makes a few swift, pointed laps of the arena, and Ryan must notice the team captain’s uptick in energy, because he pans the camera as Falkenberg skates past the bench.
“That’s him, daddy!” comes the voice of a child from my left. I look and see a small boy sitting on his father’s lap. The child is practically drowning in his kids-sized Monarchs jersey and beanie, but I see an unmistakable number 24 on the child’s arm. My heart sinks. Will this child cry, too?
The puckdrops and the Pioneers take possession, only for Mattias to intercept a pass. He turns it over to Bell, who slips it to Fontenot, who sends it back to Mattias—who’s somehow already near the net. He slapshots it past Lefebvre and the goal horn blares, sending the crowd into a frenzy. When the period finishes, it’s 1-0, Monarchs.
The second period has barely begun when Poirier checks the Pioneers’ left wing into the boards with a resoundingcrack!I watch through Ryan’s monitor as their wing, Marcus Russell, throws his gloves down and swings a hook at Poirier. Poirier takes it on the chin, hardly fazed before he grabs Russell by the sweater and starts bashing the guy’s face with his fist. The crowd whoops and hollers and in the frenzy, some man behind me throws his empty beer cup, which nails Parker in the head.
“Watch it,” they snap at the man in question. For a second I wonder if the man’s gonna gethisass beat, too. I glance back at the ice, watching as two refs pull Russell and Poirier apart. Poirier goes straight to the penalty box, looking way too pleased with himself on the jumbotron.
Falkenberg scores another goal on the next play, only adding to the fiery energy in the arena. Everyone jumps to their feet to cheer Mattias on, revealing how three of the women behind me are wearing his jersey. It feels like they’re only here to ogle him, and it grinds my gears—which doesn’t make sense because this is what I wanted. The whole point of the Christmas special and the documentary had been to encourage this exact outcome. The arena is the fullest I’ve ever seen, and it’s in part thanks to me. Women were the target audience. I should be happy about it.
The Monarchs manage to fend off the Pioneers for the remainder of the second period, and it becomes clear San Francisco’s losing steam. Mattias lands a third goal for a hat trick and everyone throws their hats onto the ice, sealing the Pioneers’ fate.
4-0, Monarchs. The team piles onto the ice and swarms Mattias, burying him in hugs. He doesn’t so much as glance my way. I shouldn’t still be thinking about him like this. Then, I think of Micke, watching at home in Sweden, and briefly wonder if his mother would ever turn on a game. If she hasn’t just yet, but she might. I think of how I’ll be profiting off of their heartbreak, too.
It’s enough to make me sick.
Chapter 38
Mattias
We sweep the Pioneers with a hat trick from me and a goal from Fontenot. When I step into the press room for the post-game wrap, I’m accosted by shouting press and the flash of cameras. I’ve had some good games, but this level of frenzy is new. They’re like a bunch of piranhas. I’ve always hated this part of the job.
“Mattias, how does it feel to be the game MVP?”
“What do you think the Monarchs are doing differently than the Pioneers?”
“What did the Monarchs do to regain their confidence?”
I open my mouth to answer, but then I see Freddie, standing off to the side next to Parker and Ryan. Her camera is pointed at me, and she’s watching through the monitor. She must see that I’m looking at her because those dark eyes lift to mine. For a moment, the lights and noise fade away and it’s just us in the room.
“Mattias?” someone says, and my attention is dragged back to the interview. “What do you think the Monarchs need to focus on to become a better team?”
“Everything,” I clip. If they’re going to give me a loaded question, I’ll give them an empty answer.
“Couldyou elaborate?” the journalist presses.
“That should be your area of expertise,” I reply.
