There won’t be a next time,I think, but keep it to myself.
As much as I’m ready to move on from shitty hospital food and the incessant beeping of monitors, a certain dread fills me when we check out. Going out there means facing reality. The reality where I’m just a washed up hockey player with nothing but a head injury and dead career to show for myself. I wonder if anyone will come visit in Sweden, or if this is the last I’ll be seeing of these guys.
The ride home is quiet. There’s a home game tonight, but none of us mention it. I don’t have it in me to go. The guys help me carry my get well cards and basket inside, even going so far as to stock my fridge with all my favorite foods. I find myself speechless.
“I’m giving you my caviar paste. Think about that,” Häkkänen says in his deep voice, holding up a squeeze tube of my favorite brand. “I don’t share my caviar paste.”
“The fuck is this?” Poirier snatches the tube, then squeezes a drop on his finger and licks it. He immediately makes a retching noise.
Häkkänen grabs it back. “Want to know my secret this season? Caviar paste. I don’t eat anything else on gamedays. Works every time.”
“Yeah ‘cause your breath scares everyone away from our net,” Poirier jabs.
Fontenot tries some, too. He shrugs, sheepish. “It’s not that bad. Kinda tastes like crawdads.”
“What’s a crawdad?” Poirier says.
“If I listen to this much longer, my brain’s going to start swelling again,” I interject, closing my eyes. It’s probably from lack of sleep at this point, but my head is throbbing.
“The caviar paste will make you feel better in no time,” Häkkänen says on his way out the door.
“Call if you need anything, Cap. We’ll make Coach Marshall pause practice,” Fontenot adds.
“Big talk for a rookie,” Poirier remarks. Then they leave me in the quiet of my empty home, with nothing but my thoughts for company.
I’m supposed to limit my screen time, but there’s nothing else to do around here and my inbox is drowning in emails, so I make quick work of sorting it out. My lip curls as I scroll through. There’s one from Ines, asking me to check in with her when I’m back at the rink. Another is from our team physical therapist who sent about a dozen calisthenic videos with exercises I can do to keep my strength up while I’m resting at home. Then, there’s an email fromher. My heart stutters, thinking it’s personal until I see the subject line.You’re Invited: First Look Screening of LA Monarchs DocumentaryThe Comeback Season.I open the email. It’s scheduled for this weekend.
I glance at the basket she left me, and my thoughts return to her hand on mine.I’m so sorry. She’d sounded genuine, but it doesn’t change what she did. It doesn’t change the fact that this documentary is still happening.
Scowling, I deliberate for a moment before curiosity gets the better of me and I reach for the card stuffed between the bags of salted licorice and cinnamon rolls. My name is written on the front in her chicken scratch handwriting, and fuck me, I still think it’s kind of cute despite how livid I am with her right now. I open the envelope and find a simple card with the wordsGet well soonon the front. I flip it open.
Mattias,
I hope you’re feeling better by the time you read this. I know you probably never want to hear from me again, and I promise, I’ll respect that going forward. I hope you’ll attend the documentary premiere, but I know you probably won’t. So instead, I brought the documentary to you. Even if you never want to see me again, I hope you’ll afford me this last chance to explain myself. All you have to do is press play.
-Freddie
I toss the card aside and lift the flash drive between my fingers, turning it over. Then I set it on my desk to collect dust.
Chapter 54
Freddie
I’m a nervous mess. The last week has been a study in masochism getting everything ready for tomorrow’s premiere. I’ve invited all the streamers, the Hollywood trades, the LA sports news networks and of course, the players, the staffers, and their families. Everyone who has even the slightest investment in this organization has been invited. Including my father.
His presence is the most nerve-wracking of all. A voice in my head tells me it’s not too late to turn back, that I could just show the other cut of the film, but I know there’s no turning back now. Grace and Margot have put too much work into helping me do this. I don’t expect Mattias to show, but I wonder if he watched the cut.
Given the way things are between us, I’ll probably never know.
“This is the start of your career,” my father tells me in our box the day before the premiere. His private equity partners are there again as well, like sharks circling a kill. They’ve all seen and approved the decoy cut Grace made. None of them have any idea what’s coming.
“Yeah,” I say, rolling my lips together as trepidation creeps down my spine.
“Goal,Monarchs!” an announcer booms. The horn blares. We’re on a four-game winning streak at home.
“Gloves are off! You know you’re in trouble when Poirier’s in the mood,” one of the investors chortles while he sips his beer like he’s some sort of fan, as if he isn’t about to dismantle the entire team. Poirier’s about to be the mostin the moodhe’s ever been.
Down on the ice, the defenseman slugs a player a head shorter than him. Devault takes two hooks to the jaw, then they’re at each other’s throats. The referee’s whistle screeches as their fists fly. Poirier’s escorted to the box.
