The next day, Ryan, Parker, and I travel with the team to Edmonton. Falkenberg is cordial and pleasant, and I guess I should be thankful that we’ve seemingly moved past our little error well enough to make eye contact again, but I can’t stop thinking about what he said last night.
I’m not sleeping with anyone, an accent I hardly notice anymore tinting his words. It shouldn’t matter to me who he fucks or not, and I probably should have kept my stupid mouth shut about the puck bunny nonsense, jealousy isn't a good look, but I just keep remembering the earnestness in his eyes. Like he wanted it to be my business.
Maybe he feels guilty about hooking up with me and wanted to spare my feelings by making me feel like I wasn’t just one out of many, which was courteous, I guess. I’ve never really been the kind to give a shit about a man’s sexual history, so long as he treats me well and doesn’t pass along diseases (or murderous stalking entities).
Or maybe he wanted to tell you he’s available,says a traitorous voice in my head.
I steal a glance at him across the hotel lobby, foolishly wondering if the man more committed to his career than anyone on this team could possibly have a genuine interest in me. What would that be like, in a world where such a thing were possible to pursue? He’s looking out the window, watching the snow fall while Coach Marshall checks us all in.
I wonder if it makes him miss home.
I shake my head. I can’t think about this. The team will sell next summer, and most likely relocate, meaning he’s got about another six months left in LA. I’m not going anywhere. I’ve never wanted to live anywhere else. My life, my work, is there.
It’s hard to focus with the sale date looming closer. It’s the middle of December already. Soon it’ll be the new year. Back in LA, I’m sitting in my office, looking up suits who have expressed interest in buying NHL teams, wondering if there’s someone I can pitch besides whoever my father has in mind, when there’s a knock at my door. Poirier walks in, not waiting for me to open it.
“Hi,” I say, slamming my laptop shut.
“Bad time?” he says all too casually.
“What do you think I get up to in here?”
He shrugs. “I don’t know, Freddie. You’re kind of a weirdo.”
I roll my eyes. “Can I help you with something?”
He folds himself into one of my chairs. “Not really. I came to check on you.”
There’s a furrow in his brow, like something’s bothering him. “Check on me?”
“You haven’t been around as much lately.”
I blink several times. I have been avoidant, but I never thought Poirier of all people would be the one to notice. I wonder if Mattias has discussed what happened between us with anyone—especially any of the players. Surely, he wouldn’t kiss and tell, right? My voice sounds rough as I say, “I’m just working on stuff. Everything’s starting to come together with the documentary.”
“Hm. Nobody’s said anything shitty to make you hide in here, eh? I don’t know if you’ve heard, but I like hitting people.”
I want to smile but I can’t, because if anyone deserves a punch in the face right now it’s me. Still, I manage to joke, “You do? I didn’t know.”
His smile fades, his eyes circling over my face in a way that makes me shift in my seat, like he’s searching for something. Finally, he gets up and says, “Offer’s on the table. Just let me know.” He pauses on his way out the door, drumming his fingers against the frame. “Oh, and Freddie,” he hesitates, contemplating his next words. “It’s not often he lets someone in.”
I go still, my throat drying out. Opting to feign ignorance, I say, “Who?”
Poirier gives me a half-smile, then disappears.
“How are you doing, Mija? Staying off the dull skates?” Ines says when I run into her at the vending machine.
“Good,” I lie, barely able to look at her at all. “Hoping we make the playoffs.”
More than anything, I just want to delay the inevitable.
“Yes, it seems like we might have a real chance this year,” she says gleefully, keeping her tone low like she’s afraid of jinxing it. “I saw the holiday special. Tell Ricardo he needs to visit my office next time you see him. His tamales need work.” She winks.
I’m not one to judge. I never learned to cook, and I’m probably too old to keep blaming my parents for that. I’m too old to keep blaming them for a lot of things, I think. LikeCandymansummoned by looking in the mirror, I get a text from my father on my way out, which stops me in my tracks in the parking lot.
Dad
Come see me when you get home. Have some developments I’d like to discuss with you.
Adrenaline hits my blood. Since when did my father bring me in on business deals? Am I becoming the sort of person he respects?And what does that say about me, if so? Not to mention this fucking Monarchs Christmas party coming up, where I’ll be expected to bump elbows with all the corporate staff and express how thrilled I am about a future for the team that doesn’t fucking exist. The stress is enough to make me dig into my bag for my emergency pack of cigarettes and I pull one out to light it.
