“The rules have recently changed in our favor. The NHL started permitting it two years ago.” He raises his brows at me like he’s just won the lottery. I’m overcome with complete and utter disgust. “The Monarchs Christmas Gala is next week,” he continues, as if he’s only just mentioned the weather. “I’ve invited Eros Capital’s C-suite. I suggest you get to know them and show them a good time, considering they’ll be the ones stuffing your pockets and putting you back into the class bracket you came from.”
He wants me to bump elbows with a private equity firm that’s no doubt planning to rob this franchise and the people who love it for everything they’re worth. I’d rather eat glass. People say that power corrupts, but as someone who grew up close to power, I think it’s the other way around. Power attracts corrupt people. Real power is an ugly, vulgar thing, and I’m starkly reminded why I fled this house as soon as I was able.
“I’llmake sure they have the time of their lives,” I force myself to say. “Nothing like a few glasses of champagne to wash down the destruction of an entire franchise.”
“Oh, don’t be so dramatic.” He gives me a reproachful look. “On the topic of earnings, I’ve had my advisor prepare an account for you at the investment bank. He’ll maximize your portfolio for passive income which will give you time to focus on school.”
“School?” I echo.
“It’s in the terms of your hiring agreement, remember? Your cut of the sale will be deferred until you’ve completed your business degree and have been reinstated in the family trust.”
My jaw falls open. I gape at him. I don’t—I can’t—
Deferred pay? Contingent onschool?
How could I be so ignorant? I was so desperate for a lifeline, I didn’t eventhinkto check the contract’s fine print. I was naive enough to assume he wouldn’t complete and totally fuck me over like this!
I can’t believe myself. I actually feel like I’m going to throw up and look around for a trash can. Luckily, there’s one at my feet.
“This is all tentative of course, but there are some NDAs for you to sign before we can discuss it further. I’ll email those over to you, along with the tentative sale documents later this evening.”
“Sounds good, Dad,” I choke out, feeling like I’m going to faint.
I can’t go through with this. One way or another, I have to find a way out.
Chapter 40
Mattias
I don’t like Christmas. I especially don’t like Christmas in LA, where it takes over the shelves starting in September, snow is an impossibility, and everyone is roped into a frenzy over whether the new car, diamonds, or plane tickets to Bora Bora they’ve just purchased are satisfactory enough.
Mostly, I don’t like Christmas because my father loved it. I vividly remember him sitting in his armchair every December, Swedish Julmusik playing on the radio, his hand wrapped around a gin and tonic while the fireplace crackled and burned. Every year, he’d take my brother and I to the neighborhood Julbord, where we’d play in the yard in five degrees below freezing, throwing snowballs, looking for the northern lights, and eating pickled herring until we were nauseous.
Then my father died, and Christmas was never the same.
Another year with the Monarchs, another Christmas Gala. I adjust my bowtie in the bathroom mirror, scowling at a stretched bit of stitching along one of the lapels. Not too noticeable, I hope. It’s a rental, so I’m not sure what I expected. One of these days, I’ll spring for a tux of my own since I’m forced to attend all these formals, but the thought makes me want to knock my own teeth out. They’re a waste of valuabletime that could be spent training instead. I give myself one last grimace and leave the restroom.
Christmas cynic that I am, I’m in a slightly better mood than normal when surrounded by Monarchs staffers, board members, and investors. It definitely has nothing to do with the possibility of running into a certain off-limits film director. I glance at my watch, then at the double doors on the other side of the ballroom. No sign of her. I shove my hands in my pockets and set off to find Poirier.
A waiter approaches me with champagne, but I wave him away with a terseno, thank you. When I spot the defenseman in question, he’s standing next to Bell. In the corner, I see Fontenot and Thompson loading up their plates with an impolite amount of cheese and charcuterie.
“You’re missing a button.” Poirier points at my jacket.
“Where?” I examine my sleeves and jacket and find all my buttons accounted for. I look up and find Poirier snickering, which makes me want to kick his knees out from under him. “Shut up.”
“Some big wigs here tonight, man. What’s that about?”
“Who?”
Poirier nods toward several men in suits exchanging words near an ice sculpture. I haven’t seen any of them before. They’re older, but they don’t belong to the board of directors. I’d know, because I’ve memorized all of their faces.
“Dickhole Brigade, if I’ve ever seen one,” Poirier mutters.
Bell slides up to us, looking sharp in his burgundy tux. He glances at the three men. “Noticed the entourage, too?”
Whoever they are, they’re here on business. I don’t like it. I make a mental note to speak with Hearst about them. It’s possible she knows something.
“Sometimes I wish I could bodycheck our management.” Poirier sips his champagne. Then, his attention snags on something over my shoulder. “Brace yourself, buddy,” he says under his breath.
