Mattias
I’m about to walk out the door to shoot pucks with Häkkänen and Westergren when I get Freddie’s text. I never saw a flash drive, but it could have fallen out of her purse in any number of places. I let the guys know I’m going to be a little late, then start turning my home inside out in search of it. Her glass of orange juice still sits half-empty on my kitchen counter and my attention lingers where I can still see the print of her lips on the rim. When I go upstairs, the bed is disheveled from where she slept. Her towel, still damp, hangs from the shower door and I briefly roll it between my fingers.
Mattias
I don’t see it.
Normally, the disarray in which she’s left my house would give me a stroke, and it scares me that I don’t seem to mind. She trusted me to look after her, and I don’t take that trust lightly at all.
Freddie
Shit, really? It’s not at the gas station either.
I receiveher response as I’m pulling up to the rink. I frown but put my phone away for the time being. It’ll probably turn up somewhere and the guys are waiting.
After going head to head with Häkkänen for two hours straight, I can see why other teams have been struggling to score on us this season. It’s inhuman, the way he always seems to know where the puck is coming from. Maybe there’s something to all his tarot cards and crystals. I even tried a few trick shots—the ones I’m known for, fake outs—and he blocked those, too. All in all, Westergren and I were each able to land one shot.
It’s only when I’m leaving practice that I see something I don’t like. Hugh Hearst is here, and he’s being tailed by two more men in suits that I haven’t seen before. One of them is taking pictures of the arena with a tablet. I approach them in the foyer, not bothering with feigned friendliness.
“Falkenberg. It’s almost noon. Late morning?” Hugh’s voice is clipped, his expression accusatory as he takes me in. A chill raises the hair on my arms as I take in the insinuation, but I straighten myself to my full height, glancing briefly at his company.
“Not particularly. Who are your colleagues?”
“Oh, just some inspectors. It’s been a while since we had any real work done around here.” An obvious brush off and lie.
I don’t buy it, but I nod, making a note to bring this up to Freddie later. Speaking of, I should see if she managed to find her flash drive.
“See you around,” I say.
“Yes, you will,” he replies.
It feels like a threat.
When I throw my bag in my trunk, it occurs to me that I didn’t think to check the car. I walk around to the passenger side and open the door, scan the floorboards and see nothing. Then I move the seat back, and alittle black device with a Monarchs logo tumbles forward. I think it’s hers, but it looks exactly like mine. I need to check in case it fell out of my pocket before I return it to her. I put it in my cupholder and head home.
I waste no time taking my shoes off, sprinting upstairs and plugging the flash drive into my laptop. A white light blinks on the moment I plug it in, and a window of files pops up as the device registers. It’s an unorganized array of PDFs and MP4s, not the careful organization of my own device. Happiness brims over my insides. I’ve found it. She’s going to be so relieved. Before I can eject the drive, however, a series of file names catch my attention.
Monarchs Tentative Sale Terms. Monarchs Profit and Loss Statement. Eros Capital Management Request For Proposal. LA Monarchs Equity Assessment.
My blood runs cold. I move the mouse to open the file titledMonarchs Tentative Sale Termsand my stick hand, usually so steady and certain, shakes.
It’s an email.Hugh, please see the enclosed tentative offer as discussed. I open the contract file next to it. It’s a tentative purchase agreement, signedEros Capital Managementand addressed to Hugh fucking Hearst. He’s going to sell the team.
I knew it. Fuck!
I scroll down to the terms of the agreement, digging to see what he stands to make off all of our hopes and dreams, only to find the biggest gut punch of all. He’s not the only trustee of the deal. There’s a breakout of the projected sale price—six hundred million—with ninety-five percent destined for Hugh Hearst’s pockets, but there’s another name under his.
Frederica Elise Hearst. Five percent of sale.
My brainshort circuits. I snap my laptop shut and try to stand, but I feel dizzy, gripping my office chair for support. Red smarts behind my eyes, and I break out in a sweat as my blood starts to warm. I draw in a shaky breath.
She can’t know.
She can’t.
There’s no way she would lie like this.
Right?
