Chapter 6
Freddie
I leave the post office in a foul mood. My mind keeps replaying the interaction with that guy in line, wondering if I really did something wrong.
I glance around the parking lot, having half a mind to confront him, but he’s gone.
Was there some European culture difference I missed, or did he just find me that offensive?
At least I think he was European. There was a foreign lilt to his words, stretching and widening his vowels.
Not too prominent, but noticeable. I guess there’s a chance he’s one of those suspiciously German Argentinians.
I almost laugh at the fact that he was wearing a Monarchs hat—if only he knew—but the way he spoke to me leaves me second-guessing myself, like he couldn’t stand to breathe the same air as me.
Then it hits me. Maybe he did know. Maybe he recognized me, and that’s why he treated me like dirt. Because he’s a Monarchs fan, and he knows who my family are. Is this what I have to look forward to?
I feel like bashing my head against the steering wheel, but I don’t have any more time to think about it.
I pull into the parking lot of the Monarchs’ training rink twenty minutes late.
My father acts like he’s been infected with the Rage Virus when he’s kept waiting, but there was no way around it—I’d already dated and packaged up all the paperwork for my submission to the Agnelli Agency with the intention of sending it today.
By now I’ve submitted my request for representation to most of the director’s agencies in town, and all I’ve heard is crickets.
Like what happened in the post office, I can’t help wondering if my name has something to do with it.
A lot of Hollywood types don’t like my father, but the Agnelli Agency is my last shot.
They only take submissions by post, probably to deter people who aren’t seriously interested.
Sending my submission off for judgment put my teeth on edge, and I must have watched my director’s reel twenty times last night for peace of mind.
Is it the best reel on planet Earth? No.
Is it good enough to get an agent? I guess I’ll find out.
The sports center parking lot is half-empty, littered with a few parents walking alongside children dragging hockey bags.
My parents tried to enroll me in skate lessons when I was little, but that lasted about two seconds.
All it took was one bruise on my butt for me to tear off my brand-new skates and declare that I quit.
Plus I hated those itchy leotards. Sports were never my thing anyway.
I have no interest in watching grown men knock each other’s teeth out.
The only hockey player I like is Jason Voorhees.
I park in the corner, beside an old yellow Volvo with a pine-shaped air freshener hanging from the rearview.
I haven’t seen one of those things since prep school, when my friends would crack open five at once to try to hide the evidence we’d been joyriding around smoking blunts.
Surely nobody likes the way they smell, and if they do, that’s serial killer behavior as far as I’m concerned.
I stare at the rink entrance, trying to muster the willpower to get out of my car.
I haven’t been here since before I started undergrad, before I dropped out of business school and invoked my father’s ire.
It’s never a good sign when he wants to speak to me alone, not that my mother has ever been much of a shield against him.
If anything, she’s the one who uses me as a shield.
She’s happy to make me into a scapegoat that she can blame for my father’s misery, so long as it means her lifestyle won’t change.
She wasn’t raised with money, but now that she has it she’d give up anything else to keep it.
It doesn’t help that I slept like shit last night.
My mother insisted I stay over—something about personal safety and keeping the situation confined—and I wasn’t quick enough to come up with an excuse to leave.
Being back in my childhood room always revives bad memories.
Unlike other teens, I wasn’t allowed to hang posters on the walls or decorate with colorful bedding.
My father always said it made the place look tacky, that our rooms and walls were too nice to be ruined with knick-knacks, but all that ever did was make the place feel more like a hospital than a bedroom.
I glance at my phone, stalling by scrolling through my messages.
No new texts or emails. Nothing from Miles about budget changes, or any meeting requests from any of the agencies I’ve submitted to.
Nothing to show for myself when my father inevitably drills into what I’ve been up to lately. I shouldn’t get my hopes up.
Sometimes I wonder if I’m Jack Torrance from The Shining, deluding myself into thinking my artistry is going somewhere, when really, I’m just making my downward spiral everyone else’s problem.
“Welcome back, Frederica,” says the security guard at the desk, who I’m positive I’ve never spoken to in my life.
Sufficiently creepy, and not in the way I enjoy.
A whistle blows somewhere in the facility, followed by the sound of children laughing, which makes the dreadful task of finding my father’s office feel more like descending into Pennywise’s sewer than entering a sports complex.
My stomach twists, wondering what he wants.
“Freddie,” he says when he sees me in the doorway. “You’re late.”
He shuffles some papers into an envelope with too much force, and the sidelong glance he shoots me makes me feel like I’m five years old again, receiving a dressing-down for leaving crayon marks on the kitchen floor.
“Shut the door behind you.” He points at a chair.
I do as he asks and take a seat, my pulse quickening.
There are tears in the brown leather chair where yellow foam peeks out, and I wonder how many team owners this office has seen in the franchise’s sixty year history.
A history I suspect may be coming to a swift close.
I fidget with my hands while I wait for him to speak.
While he’s well-dressed as usual in tailored slacks and a dress shirt that hug his fit form, my father looks wrung out.
His blue eyes are bloodshot and his posture is uncharacteristically slumped.
Still, his thinning salt-and-pepper hair is neatly combed and his heirloom watch shines in the fluorescent office light.
“I didn’t see any feds outside,” I say, a feeble attempt at a joke. I hate sitting here, letting the bad blood between us coagulate.
“They have everything they need from me for the time being,” he snaps, like I’ve insulted him by merely suggesting that he might be in trouble. It doesn’t help that his Boston accent adds an extra sprinkle of aggression. “I’m more worried about the league.”
“Oh?” I feign interest. Truth is, I couldn’t give less of a shit, and if my father loses some money on this investment, well, good.
He and his brother deserve it. I know how they run their businesses, paying the bare minimum while expecting blind loyalty and complete subservience from their employees.
“The league will be conducting their own separate investigation, making sure everything is above board and up to standard. I imagine they’ll start sniffing around here any day now.” He doesn’t try to hide his disdain.
I wonder how much sleep he’s losing. There are few things he values more than his reputation.
Honestly, I’m kind of glad my uncle slipped up, if only so the public can catch a glimpse behind the curtain and see what kind of people the Hearst brothers really are.
They’re not tech geniuses, they just know how to scam people on an industrial level.
“Do you have full ownership now?” I ask.
I didn’t doze through the entirety of business school—or what I experienced of it.
I know a thing or two about succession of ownership.
Usually, companies have a plan in place should the principal owner die or another emergency unfold.
This situation probably constitutes an emergency.
“For the time being. The feds have to finish their investigation of course, and conclude the transfer of ownership satisfactory, which will take a few weeks. Just in time for the season,” he mutters.
“The season is still happening?”
He looks at me like he can’t believe I just asked that—like he thinks I’m an idiot. It’s a look I’m intimately familiar with, that still makes me feel small. “Well, it has to. Training camp is just a few weeks out. The season schedule has already been released. Season tickets have sold.”
“I guess you don’t wanna sell at a discount anyway,” I say. God, I hate business talk.
“That’s exactly right. Which is what I’d like to discuss with you.”
I blink. “I don’t follow.”
“Fred, what are you doing with your life?” He laces his fingers over his stomach, like he didn’t just kick my legs out from under me.
My jaw clenches. I curse myself for letting my guard down during our brief rapport. “I’m building my director’s reel.”
“Not going very well, is it?”
Fuck him. We’ve barely spoken in two years. He has no idea what’s going on in my life, which only makes it more infuriating that he’s right. I bite down on my tongue before I say something I’ll regret, loathing the way my eyes suddenly feel hot.
“The entertainment industry’s coming apart at the seams. There’s no work in this town anymore. I think it’s time to grow up.”
“I have grown up,” I grit out. “That’s why I’m focusing on producing my own stuff.”
“With what money?”
My fingers curl in my lap. My father won’t allow me access to the trust fund he’s set up for me without a business degree, which is rich, considering he never went to grad school, and he failed his way through undergrad.
It’s just another measure of him controlling the trajectory of my life.
Admittedly, it was brash of me to drop out of business school when I did, but I really couldn’t stand it there.
There’s no way in hell I’m going back. I’d rather scrub toilets for a living.
At least that would be ethical. Besides, I don’t want his money.
I can’t stomach the thought of feeling like I owe him my livelihood for the rest of my existence.
“I’ll find funding,” I say curtly.
“What about marketing? Everybody needs a marketing team, especially these days. There’s a lot of opportunity. Marketing’s respectable, and it’s artistic. Best of both worlds.”
I can’t stop my upper lip from curling in disgust. As much as I’d love to feel like I’ve earned something in my life, I’d rather move to Kansas and flip burgers than work in marketing.
Marketing is not artsy. Marketing is about selling things.
Salesmanship is the antithesis of art, but my father would never understand that.
What I want is to make horror movies, but he won’t hear it.
“I don’t think so, Dad. Not for me,” I say.
“So what, you’re just gonna burn out like every other wannabe in this town?”
If I was younger I might have cried, but I’ve learned to save my tears for people who deserve them.
“I never wanted to go to business school. I don’t want to work in marketing,” I say evenly. Unlike my mother, I don’t react well to being pushed.
“What you need is a career, Fred. I’d like to circle back to what you said earlier about how I don’t want to sell at a discount. I have an idea that could inflate the team’s value, something where your expertise would come in handy.”
Inflate. Something tells me he wouldn’t use that word in his little talks with the feds.
“I don’t think I have any relevant expertise.”
“I want to make a documentary about the season. There’s outside interest in the team, but only if we make it appetizing.
I’ll be hiring some consultants to make some changes around here, but nothing beats good publicity.
I’m willing to offer you a cut of the pie when we sell if you can help us get there. I’m thinking five percent.”
Unfortunately, that gets my attention. Five percent of an NHL franchise’s value is a lot of money, even for a team like the Monarchs.
Enough to start my own production company and direct my own films, bypassing the family trust entirely.
I could be my own person with that kind of money.
I’d never have to ask them for anything again.
“The job will come with certain expectations and conditions, of course.”
“Like?” I say, dread curling around my insides.
“I know you’ve been sleeping on couches, Freddie. Your mother told me. I shouldn’t have to say this, but you’re not a teenager anymore. It’s not appropriate. We want you to move home,” he replies with a stern look.
“I’m not sleeping on a couch, Dad. I rent a room from Grace,” I reply evenly.
“Is your name on the lease?”
My cheeks flame, and I hesitate, but ultimately shake my head. He already knows.
“That’s what I thought. You wanna be treated like a professional, you need to act like one. You think studios are gonna wanna do business with you when you don’t even have a real address? You don’t need me to tell you this is ludicrous. Move home, Freddie. That’s my number one stipulation.”
My jaw clenches, and it takes everything in me to remain composed.
I loathe the idea of moving home, especially when he’s conveniently left out the fact that he’s the reason I moved out in the first place.
I suspect that’s what this is all about, anyway.
His wounded ego and desire to brush things between us under the rug, shucking all responsibility for the way he treated me.
“How about this: you move home, use this gig to get back on your feet, and I’ll even help you find a place of your own.
Someplace you deserve. Teddy knows all the realtors in the city, he can find you something nice.
We can get into details later, but think about it.
In the meantime, I believe we have a lunch appointment with Darius,” he says, checking his watch.
I assume he means Darius Marshall, the Monarchs’ head coach.
I haven’t seen him since I was younger, but he was always nice to me.
The prospect of spending another minute in my father’s company practically gives me hives, but given my abysmally empty inbox and glaring lack of job leads, I agree and follow him out.