Because if she does know, if it’s somehow true…I can’t even fathom it. Can’t fathom her hanging around us all season, getting to know us, getting to knowme, knowing her father was going to sell us off the whole time. I can’t fucking stomach it.
I don’t know what I’ll do.
I should text her and tell her I have the flash drive, but I don’t think I can handle seeing her right now. I won’t be able to speak to her like this. There must be some sort of misunderstanding.
Regardless of Freddie’s involvement, Hugh Hearst is planning to sell the team to a goddamn private equity firm.To go into effect following the conclusion of the 2025 season,the memorandum said. This is going to be our last year.
I’m most likely never going to win a Cup—it’s too late to rebuild on some other team. My mother is never going to see me play. I’m going to end up some old, jaded retired man with a snus addiction, coaching mid-tier hockey in Sweden. Furious doesn’t begin to describe the way I feel. I’m so fucking mad I have half a mind to go bash Hugh Hearst’s face in myself. I haven’t been so angry in a long time. When I found myself this angry growing up, I’d find some nice woods to take a walk in. I’d walk aimlessly until I was too tired to be angry anymore, but this is LA and there are no forests to hide in. None that don’t require an hour car ride, at least.
Fuck this.
I can’t even ask Poirier to beat the shit out of me because if he sees me this worked up, he’s immediately going to know something is wrong, and I don’t know what I’d tell him. I can’t say anything to anyone, not until I’ve confirmed the truth.
I’ve never prayed in my life, but I’m on the verge of giving it a try—of begging the universe that this is all her father’s work, and that she’s somehow unaware. I don’t know what I’ll do if it turns out she’s involved.
Chapter 45
Freddie
The first week of January is cold, rainy and lonely. I’ve been beside myself with anxiety since losing the flash drive. It hasn’t turned up and it’s not like I can tell my dad I’ve lost it. I wouldn’t put it past him to take real legal action against me if he finds out I’ve misplaced such sensitive information. Even worse is the idea of someone else getting ahold of it and releasing the terms of the deal before they’re made public. That might tank the whole thing—which wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world, but I’d rather have some control over the fallout.
His meetings with the private equity firm are getting more frequent, and I can tell they’re closing in on a sale. I wish I could feel excited about how well the Monarchs are doing, but on top of the team’s impending demise, I can’t shake the sensation that something’s wrong. Falkenberg will hardly look at me when I try to get his attention, and he’s been nothing but short and icy towards me at practices.
I know I burdened him with babysitting me and probably overstayed my welcome the next morning, but I thought we’d reached a tentative peace. It’s not like we hooked up again. I wonder if my father said something to him—maybe threatened him, the idea of which makes me shake with rage.
My heart soars when I finally get a text from him one afternoon two weeks after the Christmas Gala—then plummets when I read the message contents.
Mattias
We need to talk. This afternoon, preferably.
Once again, curt and to the point. Something’s wrong.
Freddie
Okay. Where?
Mattias
The pier is fine. Five?
He offers no explanation as to what he wants to meet about. It feels like a breakup, like he wants to put an end to whatever’s between us once and for all. I feel like Deborah Harry inVideodrome,trapped in a torture loop that I’m not sure is based in reality. I can’t know until I meet him.
Freddie
Sure.
My stomach is in knots the rest of the day.
The pier is windy and gloomy. Waves crash against the rocks, sending sea spray across the beach. I bundle up in a hoodie and a windbreaker. Cold air whips my hair the whole way down to the beach, dread filling my steps.
He’s there before me, of course. I see him loitering by the pier entrance, wrapped in a black wool coat and pacing back and forth with his hands in his pockets. He looks up when I approach, and stops in his tracks,leveling me with a long, hard look. He hasn’t looked this coldly at me in months.
“Hi,” I say, uncertain.
“Hey.” His tone is stoic, his eyes reflecting the icy grey of the sky. The beach is pretty empty, probably because the weather is shit, but he says, “Let’s go somewhere more private.”
I brace myself and nod, wrapping my arms around my stomach as I follow him to a bench. White caps mark the water and a puff of chilly sea spray lands on my face as a wave crashes against the jetty. The roiling, nauseating motion of the ocean looks exactly like how I feel inside, aPerfect Storm. I wish I could huddle against him for warmth, but Mattias has maintained a gaping distance between us and something tells me not to cross it.
