“What does it feel like to be such an effective player, but know you may never win a Cup?”
“Next question.”
“What do you have to say to Lefebvre?”
“I still owe you that reservation.”
“Anything else you’d like to say to your team?”
A man with a microphone and a KDLA badge shoves past Freddie to get to the front of the room, whatever ill-natured answer I was about to provide dying on my lips. She stumbles into the camera, nearly knocking it out of Ryan’s hands.
“What do you have to say about the prospects of a playoff run this season?” The man asks.
“Apologize to her,” I say stiffly.
“What?”
I point at Freddie. “You just shoved her. Apologize.”
The man frowns, turning around. Freddie straightens herself while Ryan examines his camera. Parker looks ready to beat the man silly.
“You wanna pick a fight with a Texan?” I hear them say, and I’m pretty sure they add something about a concealed carry license.
“Sorry,” the man says brusquely, then immediately turns back around. “So, what do you think about a playoff run this year, Falkenberg? Is it the Monarchs’ year?”
I clench my jaw so hard I think I feel a tooth crack. “I think I’m finished here. Fontenot can take the rest of your questions.”
With that I stand, nodding to the rookie beside me. He looks a little stunned but jumps right into fielding their questions while I make my way to Freddie. Her crew steps out of my way and her eyes widen as I approach.
“Are you alright?” I say.
She nods quickly. “Don’t worry about it. Just some asshole.”
“He should apologize.”
“Actually, Mattias?”
I hate the way my heart leaps at the sound of my name on her lips. “Yes?”
“I was wondering if we could get a private post-game from you. We got some great footage of the hat trick, and it would be nice if you could speak to that and the positioning of the team at this point in the season for the documentary.”
For whatever reason, the idea of discussing it with her doesn’t piss me off and make my skin crawl the way standing on this podium does. I nod and follow Freddie, Ryan, and Parker out of the press room. The locker room has mostly cleared out when we get there. After I check it to make sure nobody is running around with their dicks out—and by that I mean Häkkänen, with his sage wand—we set up against the backdrop of lockers and jerseys.
I proceed to give Hearst a personal account of the game, as dry and professional as possible. She’s mostly looking at the video screen, but every so often her eyes flicker up to mine, and I have to routinely picture her father’s face to keep myself in check. It’s too easy to remember what she tasted like.
I think about it all the time.
When we wrap it up and head for the parking lot, there’s an awkward pause as Ryan and Parker hesitate.
“Do you need a ride home, Freddie?” Ryan asks. “You paid for dinner. I don’t mind taking you back to your car.”
“No, that’s fine. You two are going the other way.” I think they live in Silverlake. “The bus goes by the restaurant.”
“You sure?” Parker calls.
“Yeah,don’t worry about it.”
“I can give you a ride. It’s on the way for me,” I say. It’s dark out. I’m not going to let her stand around waiting for a bus by herself. In Sweden, sure, but this is Los Angeles.
