“My father doesn’t think I know anything about hockey,” I force myself to say. “Just because it’s never been part of my world before. He thinks I should consider myself lucky that he gave me this job. That I’m really lucky compared to most people.”
“Stop.”
“What?”
“Listening to anything he says. He insulted you. I suspect it’s not the first time.”
My expression tells him everything he needs to know.
“It’s true that you wouldn’t have this job without the privilege of your family, just like I probably wouldn’t be in the NHL if my father hadn’t pushed me into hockey at an early age. That doesn’t mean you can’t become worthy of the position and honor the opportunities you’re given. You care a lot about the game, Freddie. I can see it. You’ve worked extremely hard to understand the Monarchs, and we haven’t made it easy for you. You are meticulous in your direction, and you don’t settle for subpar results. He had no right to speak to you like that, least of all in front of other industry professionals. Especially since I doubt he could tell the puck from his own asshole if he tried. So please, stop making excuses for him, and don’t accept his bullshit. You’re better than that.”
The ramshackle dam in my mind breaks again. His words burn me up like theWicker Maneffigy. Falkenberg thinks I’m good at my job. He thinks I belong. When did I become such a crybaby? More tears slide down my face. Snot drips from my nose, and I look around for a tissue, resisting the urge to wipe it away on his sweater. He stands and disappears from the room for a moment, and when he returns it’s with a tissue box in hand. Because of course he’s the kind of man who has a tissue box readily available.
“I didn’t mean to make you cry,” he says, looming over me. “I just can’t stand seeing him put you down. You don’t deserve it. What is it about him that makes you feel so worthless?”
He takes a seat next to me, so close that our shoulders touch.
I shrug helplessly. “It’s always been that way. He’s always made sure I could never achieve anything without his approval or help, and I guess deep down, part of me feels like I owe him something. I’ve never really worked for anything in my life, and all of this artist stuff, it feels like it’s going nowhere. Like my life’s going nowhere. Maybe he’s right about me.”
“Never worked for anything? Are you telling me you were born knowing the LA Monarchs player stats and starting line? Because if so, I need to have a discussion with the league.”
I snort, and with my snotty nose the sound is less than flattering. He doesn’t recoil.
“There are so many people who could do a better job.”
He shrugs. “Maybe. But they’re not the ones with the job. You can’t sit here and spin on hypotheticals.”
“I just feel like such a fraud,” I whisper. And he doesn’t even know the bulk of it. He doesn’t know what a liar I am.
“Hey,” he says, his tone demanding my attention. “Not a chance. And I say this as the man who fought for the first opportunity to call you a fraud. You’ve earned your place on this team.”
Hearing it from him makes a pride I shouldn’t feel swell in my chest. I bite down hard on my bottom lip, afraid of how badly I want to tell himabout the sale of the team. How I want to tell him I’m quitting—that I never meant for it to go this way. I was never supposed to care about him, or the team, or what happened when they were inevitably sold to some other billionaire. I was supposed to make my millions and wash my hands of it all.
“Fuck your father for implying otherwise. I hate the way he talks to you,” he adds when I say nothing.
He may as well have reached his hand down my throat and ripped my heart out of my body with the way he’s looking at me. Because he’s looking at me like he sees me. Mattias doesn’t say anything else, but he lifts his hand to my face, brushing over my damp cheek with his thumb. His palm is a reprieve, and I allow myself just a moment to lean into it.
Then, he gets up, the warmth disappearing. “You’re probably starving.”
I don’t deny it.
“I’ll make you breakfast,” he says.
Chapter 43
Freddie
Mattias makes me the best pancakes I’ve ever had in my life—although they don’t look like pancakes. They look like crêpes, especially when he throws some fresh berries on top.
“These are proper Swedish pancakes, unlike those syrup delivery vehicles you’re used to eating,” he says.When he tells me that he makes them with a carton of expired milk that he keeps in his fridge, I almost throw them back up. According to Mattias, it makes them taste better. Somehow, I manage to keep them down.
“I should probably get home,” I say when I feel I’m starting to overstay my welcome. I’m dreading whatever confrontation lies between me and my father, but like the climax ofThe Thing, this is now a fight for survival. I can’t keep on like this if I want to salvage my humanity.
“I’ll take you to your car,” he replies.
“Do you think we’re going to make it to the playoffs?” I ask as the coast flies by. With the windows down, the sun shining on my face, and Mattias’s soft cotton clothes hanging off my body, I almost feel like a new person. Like I could have a fresh start, if I tried.
He gives me a sidelong glance. “I think we might.”
