My entire body tenses. I know who’s caught his eye and I know I shouldn’t look, but I do anyway.
Big mistake.
Freddie enters the room on her father’s arm. She’s dazzling in a green, velvet dress that drapes off her shoulders and shows off her throat. It even flatters the delicate tattoos on her arms. Accentuating her waist, it fans out around her in a cascade. Diamonds glitter on her neck and ears. She’s so pretty it’s painful.
My gaze slides to her father. His bright eyes are sharp and hawkish, his gray hair coiffed—the picture of decorum in his black tux. The crowd parts for them as they sweep across the floor, and I hardly realize I’m staring until Poirier jabs me in the side.
“At least try not to make it obvious,” he warns.
“Fuck me.” I drag a hand through my hair. Suddenly the room feels too small, too warm. Everyone else is looking at her, too, and I want to tell them to mind their own business, but it’s not my place. She’s not mine. She’s destined for the son of some billionaire or real estate mogul, not a small-town guy from Sweden dressed up like his name means something in the world.
“Let’s go sit, boys,” Bell says. Poirier and I follow him to the banquet tables where name placards outline our seating arrangements. The tables are set with green garlands and candles, and I take my place between Häkkänen and Coach Marshall—the latter of whom sent me an earlier text threatening to twist my testicles into a knot if I failed to make an appearance this evening. He gives me an,oh good, you’re herelook when Isit down.
I’ll swim from LA to Svalbard before I ever tell him part of me was looking forward to it.
My eyes find Hearst again. She’s standing near the end of my table next to her father while she converses with the Dickhole Brigade, smiling at something one of them is saying. Once, I would have thought she was amused, but now I can tell she’s not really laughing. She’s putting on airs to entertain these people, but she’s not actually enjoying herself.
It’s not until Freddie turns and meets my gaze that I realize I’ve looked too long. We hold each other’s eyes for a heartbeat, and her plastered smile drops ever so slightly. Then she breaks contact, taking her seat between her mother and father. I force my attention back to my empty plate. Then I do something rash. I take out my phone, and for the first time, I use the number she gave me.
Mattias
Is everything alright?
She doesn’t reply. She doesn’t even look at her phone.
Dinner is tedious. My appetite doesn’t return, and I barely touch my filet. Occasionally, I glance at the three men at the far end of the table, but I’m too far away to overhear any of their conversation. I’m sure they wouldn’t discuss anything sensitive at dinner, anyway. Still, their presence puts me on edge.
It’s so difficult to keep my eyes off Freddie. I watch as she downs her entire wine glass in two swallows, before swiftly ordering another from the waiter. Something’s upset her. Hugh Hearst gives a toast about the season, but I’m barely listening. It’s clear he hardly knows what he’s talking about, and every player in the room knows the man couldn’t give two shits about hockey. He should have let Freddie give the toast.
After dinner, I’m desperate for some fresh air and a break from socializing, so I seek out the patio garden, hoping the cold-by-LA’s-standards December air will keep everyone else inside. Instead, as I push open the door into the clear-skied night, I’m met with the exact group of people I’m trying to avoid. A curse escapes me, but in Swedish.
“Falkenberg, come join us. Let me introduce you to some friends of mine.” Hugh Hearst signals me over. I don’t spare Freddie a glance as I approach, afraid her father will see whatever appears on my face. “This is Doug, Martin, and Derek,” Hugh says.
I catalogue their names away for later.
“Mattias.” I shake each of their hands.
“Big fan,” the one called Martin says. “I played college hockey. You boys are doing great this year.”
“Coach Marshall knows what he’s doing,” I reply, clipped.
“A Coach is only as good as his players,” Derek replies.
I purse my lips. “I would say it’s the other way around.”
“Don’t be modest, Falkenberg. Darius Marshall had his time, now it’s yours,” Martin replies.
“I like to think it’s the Monarchs’ time.” I reply, checking my watch.
“Freddie was saying the same thing, though I’m not sure that counts for as much.” Hugh chuckles, and the rest follow suit.
All of the fake charm slips out of me. “Meaning?”
Hugh gives me a patronizing smile. “She’s a filmmaker, not an athlete. Most of the sports expertise comes from her cameraman. Isn’t that right, Fred?”
I know it’s not wise, but I allow myself to look at her for the first time since dinner and I’m struck by the expression on her face. Up close, she looks wounded and exhausted in a way I’ve never seen before. Maybe it’s just the alcohol, but her eyes look a little too glassy.
“I haveto disagree,” I interrupt. “Freddie knows more about the game than most people attending our matches, and she’s managed to acquire that knowledge in a very short period of time.”
