Chapter 3
MY FIRST MANSION
CLEO
FUCKITY FUCK.
Come out from behind that closet door, Becks demands. My four roommates are squeezed into my bedroom to watch me get ready for this big donor dinner. They’re here for the chuckles, but I need all the fashion advice I can get.
I emerge. There’s a moment of silence, then screams and laughter.
Holy smoke! Is the world ending? I don’t think I’ve ever seen Nellie in a dress before, squeals Woolly. Francoise Oullette is our resident fashionista because she’s from Montréal, where they’re born in designer diapers.
My other roommates are still laughing too hard to even speak. Woolly circles me and appraises. You can’t go with bare legs. Do you have tights or stockings?
Nope. Is my thong showing?
I peer at myself in the mirror. I look ridiculous.
Becks said the navy would look good with my blonde hair, but that’s all that’s right.
My fashion style is practical and low-maintenance.
I wear men’s workwear, like carpenter pants and Dickies shirts.
And I keep my hair braided, either in a high pony or pigtails. Zero fuss.
I groan. I haven’t worn a dress since I could talk and tell my mother not to buy any more fucking dresses.
Woolly shakes her head. If tonight is so important, you shouldn’t wear something uncomfortable.
Becks nods. Yeah, why are you nervous? You’re the one who’s totally chill before our biggest games.
I’ve never done anything like this before, I whine. And it’s a big deal for all of us. According to Barb’s file, Marjorie Schultz is loaded, and she’s considering a big donation to Monarch’s hockey program. If we get this donation, it will be split equally between men’s and women’s hockey.
Naturally, the men’s program already has plenty of donors. But the women’s program is the red-headed stepchild of the athletic department, so this donation would be huge. Visions of new training equipment swirl before my eyes.
Still, why worry? It’s not like you’re going alone, says Jinx. Coral Adams got her nickname after an unfortunate incident with the S-word, which lost our goalie the shut-out.
Yeah, the Alumni Office woman will be helpful, but literally anyone else on the men’s team would be preferable to stupid Roy Matsumoto. I unzip the dress and step out of it, then search for my trusty black dress pants.
Becks picks her dress up from the floor and puts it on a hanger. What issue could you have with Mats? Now that he’s single, everyone is after him. He’s smart, nice, and athletic. He’s probably their best forward, after Big Z.
He’s also sizzling hot and extremely buff. And I love his messy hair! He’s got just-fucked hair, the kind of hair you could twist your fingers into while he goes down on you, Jinx sighs, as I try to purge that disgusting image from my brain.
Knudy shakes her head. Nora Knutson is a senior and our starting goalie. Screw your heteronormative fantasies. I like him because he respects women’s hockey. We’re on the Athletic Council together and he never pulls that ‘men’s-hockey-is-more-important’ crap.
I tense at the mention of the Athletic Council. It’s a select group of athletes at Monarch that the administration consults on matters of policy and problems.
So, Nellie, what’s your beef with him? Becks presses.
But my issue isn’t my secret to reveal. Luckily, my phone buzzes at this very moment, and I check it.
Shit. It’s Barb Peachy. I’m not late, am I? I put the phone on speaker and hop on one foot as I pull my socks on. Hey, Barb. I’m almost ready.
Oh, Cleo. I’m so sorry. My son got injured at hockey and I’m just on the way to the emergency clinic with him.
I’m not going to be able to drive you—in fact, I’m not even sure if I’ll make the dinner at all.
But you can get a ride with Roy, right? And please, remember how important tonight is.
She sounds so frazzled that all I can do is reassure her that everything will be fine before letting her go.
I flash an angelic smile at Becks. Any chance you feel like driving me to Millionaire’s Mansion?
She returns a devilish grin. And deprive you of a chance to be alone with Roy Matsumoto? Never.
I groan.
You might want to put a top on, Jinx suggests. Unless ratty bra with a safety pin fastening is the look you’re going for.
Woolly selects a pale blue shirt and hands it to me.
Thanks for your help, everyone. I button up the shirt and wonder what else can go wrong tonight.
At first, there’s no conversation on our drive up to the Schultz home because I’m determined not to talk to Mats, and he’s naturally quiet. But after ten minutes of silence, I can’t take it anymore.
This is a big fucking deal, right? Maybe we should have some kind of game plan, I say.
Like what? he asks.
Typical. I’m making all the effort here, and he just lobs the conversational ball back.
Shit. I don’t know. We have to charm her somehow.
Maybe less profanity? Mats suggests, because he’s a rule-following priss.
For fuck’s sake, I’m not going to swear in front of an old lady. But you’re a hockey player, you can handle it. Then another idea occurs to me. Maybe you can do your thing?
He raises a dark eyebrow. My thing? I’d ask you to be less specific, but I don’t think that’s possible.
Oh, fuck your sarcasm. The only thing that’s not possible is me hating him more than I do right now. You know, your charm thing. The way you win over all the women.
His jaw is clenched as he replies, I’m not aware that I do anything specific. But it’s clearly not working on you.
And it never will. God, I wish my roommates could see you now. You’ve got them duped into thinking that you’re so fucking wonderful. But I know what you’re really like.
Based on what, exactly? The ninety minutes we’ve spent together in our entire lives—when you’ve mostly ignored me?
I didn’t know you were keeping score. But you know exactly why I hate you, I hiss back.
He turns to scowl at me. I have no clue. Why don’t you enlighten me?
God, he’s so fucking pompous. And how can he not know? Well, I wouldn’t be betraying any secrets that Mats doesn’t already know.
You’re responsible for getting my little brother kicked off the Mustangs and ruining his future in hockey! I blurt.
He reacts with a puzzled frown. Apparently, he’s ruined so many hockey careers, he can’t even keep track. After a long pause, he asks, Jordan Nelson is your brother?
Fucking duh.
He stares at me like I’m some specimen in a zoo. Oh. Did not know that.
But of course, there’s no regret in his tone, only that polite coldness. Robots have more emotional range than Mats. How could he not know that Jordan and I were related?
We turn onto a dark side road, which takes us even farther from civilization. I shiver. I’m not afraid of Mats, but I wish I was anywhere else, with anyone else.
He clears his throat. Fine, here’s the game plan.
Tonight is important for the hockey program as well as the college, so we have to rise above our personal issues.
His tone implies that all those issues are mine.
I’m sure if Barb had any idea of our… history…
she wouldn’t have chosen the two of us to attend.
Perhaps you can bury the hatchet for a couple of hours?
And let’s avoid controversial subjects like, uh, politics.
Without waiting for my agreement, he turns onto a long, winding driveway that leads up to an actual fucking mansion.
It’s a huge stone house that’s lit up by coloured spotlights.
While snow covers the grounds now, I’d bet a hundred bucks that this place has a manicured garden with statues in the summer.
Well, if I had an extra hundo lying around, which I do not.
My stomach clenches. Not only is this woman even richer than I expected, but now things are worse between Mats and me. Before, he was puzzled, but now it feels like he hates me back. While that makes perfect sense, I’m not enjoying it.
We get out of the car and walk up the wide stone steps. The massive front door is actually two doors of polished oak.
Holy shit, I mutter. Mats says nothing. Maybe his own home is even bigger.
I lift the heavy bronze door knocker because I’ve always wanted to star in a Scooby-Doo adventure. Nobody comes to the door, and it’s pretty fucking cold out here.
Mats hits the doorbell, and the door opens almost immediately.
You have to give me time to get here, scolds the older woman in front of us. She’s wearing a grey dress and black orthopedic shoes.
Showtime, Cleo.
I extend my hand and paste on my biggest smile. Mrs. Schultz? It’s an honour to be invited here. I’m Cleo Nelson, captain of the women’s hockey team.
Instead of shaking my hand, she motions for us to come in. We’re not paying to heat the neighbourhood, child.
We hustle in. She inspects us carefully and doesn’t look impressed.
I’m Geraldine. I’m the housekeeper here. May I take your coats?
Thank you, Geraldine. I’m Roy Matsumoto. He hands over his expensive-looking cashmere coat. He’s smirking, no doubt because I blew my first impression. Who has servants, for fuck’s sake?
I struggle to remove my ancient down jacket and hand it to Geraldine. A white feather floats onto her shoulder. Great, I’m moulting like a sick goose.
Old Mats didn’t spend fifteen minutes searching for an outfit for tonight.
He’s perfectly dressed in cord trousers and a stylish sweater that’s probably knitted from the wool of virgin Himalayan goats.
Of course, I didn’t miss Barb’s comment that Mats and I are opposites in every way.
Well, hopefully Marjorie Schultz likes people who are down to earth.
We follow Geraldine down a hallway of polished wood panelling and ornately framed paintings of the Schultz family through the generations. We pass a library with wall-to-wall books, a formal office, and a room full of hunting trophies. Holy fuck, this place is the Midwestern equivalent of a palace.