Chapter 7
Mattias
I’m in the middle of a cold shower after my workout with Poirier when Coach accosts me in the locker room. Hearing him call my name, I shut the water off and quickly wrap my towel around my waist as he turns the corner.
“There you are, Falkenberg. Make some room in your schedule. Hearst wants to get lunch.”
I feel what little color I have drain from my face. “Isn’t he in prison by now?” I’m not sure how the American criminal justice system works, but I know it usually involves prison.
“Not Teddy. Hugh. Get dressed. He’s waiting for us.” If Coach looked stressed before, he looks borderline panicked now. He’s sweating like he’s just spent twenty minutes in a proper Finnish sauna.
“Us?” I echo.
I can’t fathom what Hugh Hearst would want with any of us, let alone with me, but I’m sure it can’t be good. I’ve never spoken to him once, even when I was made Captain.
“He wants to discuss upcoming changes and expectations. I said it’d be best if you tagged along and he agreed. Thought you should hear it all from the horse’s mouth, so I don’t have to keep playing goddamn telephone.” Coach wipes his brow with the back of his sleeve.
Helvete. I haven’t prepared for this. I don’t know what value I can add, but Coach is looking at me like he needs a lifeline, so I grit my teeth.
Maybe I’ll even have some questions answered.
Not likely, though. These suits love keeping their mouths shut about anything that might hurt their pockets.
I towel-dry my hair, then change into the clean joggers and tee I’ve brought in my gym bag. They’re both black, identical to the set I was wearing this morning. I like to keep things simple and clean.
Coach is waiting for me outside the locker room.
I run a hand through my wet hair, not looking as presentable as I’d like, but I attempt to finger-comb it, then follow him to the parking lot with my gym bag slung over my shoulder.
It’s bright as Midsommar day outside, and it takes a moment for my eyes to adjust. Once they do, my attention falls on a sharply dressed man I recognize as Hugh Hearst, before shifting to the woman next to him.
I do a double-take, not believing what I see.
It’s the fucking queue-jumper. The dinged-up coup is parked behind her. I should have known.
But why is she here?
“Hugh,” Coach says, shaking our new owner’s hand with what looks like an overly strong grip by the way his hand muscles flex. “Pleasure to meet with you. This is Mr. Falkenberg, as I’m sure you’re aware.”
Our new owner gives me a stiff nod, then reaches out to shake my hand as well. It takes everything in me not to look at his companion, to pretend this is business as usual.
“Mattias,” I say. Back home, we don’t bother with prefixes and formalities. Mr. Falkenberg sounds too pompous for my liking.
“This is Freddie, my daughter. She hasn’t agreed yet, but she’ll be helming this project.”
His daughter. Fan i helvete. And what project?
“Good to see you, Freddie.” Coach Marshall’s tone becomes pure sweetness—something I’ve never heard before—and he gives her an enthusiastic handshake, his large hand dwarfing her small one.
I finally allow myself to look at her face. Her eyes are like tar pits, dark and deep and leading nowhere good. I stare back. I’m sure she thinks she sees something, but whatever it is, she’s wrong.
“I’m Freddie.” She extends her hand towards me when Coach releases her.
My gaze flickers from her face to her slender hand, covered in rings, my attention lingering on those weird tattoos. She tilts her chin in response—a challenge. So we’re pretending this morning didn’t happen, then. I can do that. In fact, I’d love nothing more. “Mattias,” I say flatly.
I grip her hand briefly, then drop it, flinching at the feel of her skin warm against mine. She frowns, the smirk from a moment ago disappearing.
“Mattias is our team captain. He’s the fastest wing in the league,” her father says with all the enthusiasm of a man discussing the weather. Still, I’m surprised he knows that, and the praise, however subdued, makes me feel like shoveling my own grave. I loathe attention.
“So who’s hungry?” Coach says cheerily, a thinly-veiled subject change.
Not me, but I probably should eat something if I want my triceps to recover from what Poirier just put me through.
“We’ll follow your lead. Who’s driving?” Hearst answers.
“That’s gonna be you, Falkenberg. We took the dog camping last weekend. Haven’t had a chance to clean out the back seat yet. How about that little Mexican joint around the corner?” Coach says.
That’s how the four of us end up piling into my Volvo.
I’d feel more comfortable cutting an old person in queue at the grocery store, but Coach asked me to come, and I should probably do some reconnaissance about what makes this asshole Hugh Hearst tick, so I start the engine.
Hugh takes the passenger seat, with Coach and Freddie in the back.
I don’t have anything to be ashamed of—I keep my car immaculate—but I make sure to disconnect my Bluetooth before the after-market stereo I’ve installed has the chance to start playing Swedish oldies.
“Clean rig. My first car was a stick,” Hugh says as I put the car in reverse.
“It’s all we drive back home,” I reply stiffly. I’m sure he’s not even listening. Players mean nothing to suits. I’m just another cog in his money-making machine, and he doesn’t need to attempt deluding me into thinking otherwise. I know my place in this league.
The ride only lasts five minutes, but it feels like a lifetime. I make a point to use only my side mirrors, minimizing the chance of meeting his daughter’s eyes in the rearview. It’s easier to pretend she’s just not there.
When we arrive at the restaurant, I’m the first one out of the car.