I want togo with him, but this guy’s not going to let me through.And even if he did, Mattias wouldn’t want you there, says a voice in my head. I cut my losses and head back to the rink, glancing over my shoulder until I see the ambulance pull away.
A thought occurs to me—he doesn’t have anyone here. Micke would want to know, if he’s not watching the game already. I pull out my phone and check the time, doing a quick calculation in my head and figuring it’s around five in the morning Sweden time. That’s early, but I think I remember Micke saying he gets up at five for work. I grimace, thinking it’s really not my place to do this, but I know if I were in Micke’s shoes and found out Elle was injured from the TV, I’d be livid. I swallow my pride and hit the call button.
It rings. And rings.
“Hallå? Is this Freddie?” he says, probably noting the unknown American number.
I tell him everything.
Chapter 51
Freddie
The Monarchs beat the Ravens 3-2, but I’m not paying attention. My thoughts are on Mattias, unconscious and alone in a hospital. The only people on this side of the Atlantic who he would want with him are tied up here on the ice. Even though I know I’m the last person he wants to see,I’m going to be sick with worry until I know he’s okay. I find Coach Marshall after the game. He looks stressed, his back stiff and worry lines creasing his forehead.
“Any word?” I say when he steps out from the bench.
His expression turns sympathetic as he draws me into a hug. “Not yet. They took him to St. Andrew’s. I’m heading up there now.”
“Can I ride with you?” I ask. “I won’t get in the way.”
I just need to know if Mattias is alright.
“Sure. I’m heading out now.”
At some point, Ryan and Parker materialized beside me.
“Want us to tag along?” Parker asks, their hard mouth twisted with worry. I shake my head. I don’t want the cameras anywhere near Mattias, pretty much ever again. He made it clear he’s done with this documentary, with me, and the least I can do is honor that.
“No. See you guys later, gotta go,” I reply, skipping to catch up with Coach Marshall. He tells the team they’ll debrief at morning skate tomorrow, but from the sound of it, some of the guys are heading up to the hospital, too. I’ll go just long enough to hear his diagnosis and make sure he’s alright. He’ll never know I was there.
“Damn!” Coach Marshall slaps the steering wheel as we slide into his truck. “I don’t know what got into him.” I think he’s talking more to himself than me.
It’s cold and he cranks up the heat, though there’s a chill in my bones that isn’t helped. I stare out the window so he doesn’t catch sight of the tears stinging my eyes. If what I did had anything to do with the way Mattias played tonight, if he sustained any long term injuries because of this, I don’t know how I’ll look myself in the mirror ever again.
You’re going to do something about it, I tell myself, which is true. I just should have done something earlier. Regardless, I’ll drop by Grace’s tomorrow. She’s been gathering some backstory and clips about Eros to throw into the cut, and we’re almost ready to put it together.
Hopefully it’s enough to stop the sale.
I just need to premiere it. I’m only going to have one shot at making sure this thing sees the light of day, so my best bet is to get as many eyes on it as possible. Church isn’t going back in the bag. I’m going to bury him in hisPet Semateryfor good. The team, corporate staff, the media, and everyone in between has to see this. Grace is running two cuts of the film. The one my father thinks we’re making, and the one we’re actually dropping. Once I book a premiere date, I can send out the invitations.
When we arrive at the hospital, I box those thoughts up for later. The lobby is filled with creepy statues of praying nuns, and I wonder what off-color comments Mattias would make if he saw the place. Probably something along the lines of,does the hospital know the nuns would be ashamed of them, if they saw the fees being charged for their services?
Coach Marshall and I sign in as guests. Poirier and Fontenot have beat us here.
“He’s in the ER. Probably gonna have to stay overnight. Nothing to do but wait,” Poirier gives us the update when we get there. He sinks into a chair, his hair and skin still sweaty from the game.
I’ve never been very good at waiting.
I’ve only been seated for a half hour when I get up and start pacing the perimeter of the lobby. I keep thinking of his face—completely, disturbingly blank. I’m so angry. I’m angry at him for playing like that and taking too many risks. I’m angry at myself because it’s not my place to be angry. And I’m angry at Armstrong because he’s an asshole that deserves to have the shit beat out of him.
Another half hour passes, and I go to find a vending machine. Footsteps trotting after me make me turn, and I find that Poirier has followed me. He looks uncharacteristically grim.
“Shitty night, eh?”
“That’s putting it gently.”
“I’m gonna kill Armstrong. Gonna make him trip on his own skate and make it look like an accident when he bleeds out on the ice.”
