Chapter 8
Freddie
I wonder if my father or his head coach are being suffocated by the tension, or if it’s just me.
This is so absurd, I have to stop myself from laughing—especially when I once again notice the air freshener hanging from the Volvo’s rearview, along with a faint scent of pine clinging to the seats.
When I saw the car in the parking lot, I would have thought it belonged to an old man.
It doesn’t.
I steal a glance at the team captain, whose name is apparently Mattias.
Mah-tee-iss. Wearing all-black training clothes that hug his lean, lithe form, he’s sitting up straight with one hand on the gearshift and the other gripping the wheel, driving warily and slowly.
His damp hair is the color of straw. It’s a little shorter on the sides with a longer fringe.
Guys like him are a dime a dozen in LA: tall and athletic with a sharp, clean jaw, though his thin mouth seems displeased by everything.
There’s a coldness to his pale eyes and fair features that’s off-putting.
Shielding my phone screen from Coach Marshall’s sight, I type LA Monarchs Mattias in my search bar and let it auto-populate.
A series of grumpy-looking headshots appear.
Mr. Iceberg’s last name is actually Falkenberg.
He’s the team captain, and he’s from a small town just north of Stockholm, Sweden.
He’s twenty-seven years old, twenty-eight in January, and this will be his eighth season with the Monarchs.
His contract is worth $50 million, not that that’s anything compared to the kind of money my father has, or even on the high end for a professional athlete’s salary, but it’s a good chunk of change and a hell of a lot more than I’ve got right now.
I skip over the snippet about his career in Europe in search of more personal details but can’t find any.
He’s probably got some live-in bottle blonde girlfriend, the kind signed to three different modeling agencies across four different continents.
I’m sure he spends his off seasons golfing at pretentious resorts, vacationing in the alps, and doing the occasional photo op where he pretends to give a shit about some children’s charity or another.
Professional athletes are all the same. Between my father’s hobbies and living in LA, I feel like I’ve met them all.
The car comes to a stop, and I flick my browser closed, pocketing my phone.
“This place is one of my go-to’s,” Coach Marshall says as we head inside.
It looks overpriced and inauthentic, but my profligate father wouldn’t be caught dead at a taco truck, and I doubt we’ll be here long anyway.
We take a seat in a corner booth, my father sliding in next to me.
I try not to grimace at his proximity, or the way he takes up more space than he needs.
Falkenberg looks similarly unhappy as he takes the seat across from me.
This is going to be fun.
“I’ll take an iced tea,” my father says when the server arrives.
“Make that two,” says Coach Marshall. “And make mine sweet if you can.”
“Just water for me.” Falkenberg doesn’t look up.
“Cola,” I say. I swear Falkenberg’s lip twitches as I say it.
Of course, soda is beneath him, too. What I really want is a margarita—one of those sangria ones that are a one-stop blackout in a glass—but the last time I drank around my father, we got a noise complaint from the neighbors, so I’ll settle for sugar.
Already knowing I’m having the enchiladas, I pretend to be engrossed by the menu while sneaking glances at the player across from me.
Falkenberg is well-built but not too bulky, with wide shoulders, a defined chest and a trim waist. Being a Big Thigh Haver is part of his job description, so he’s probably got quads for days, though I can’t see them under the table.
I wonder if he’s ever had a soda in his life.
Unfortunate that his good looks are wasted on his personality, as is so often the case with men in Los Angeles.
“I’ll be straight to the point,” my father starts.
“We’re all aware the team’s image is a mess.
Even before the recent scandal, the Monarchs haven’t made the playoffs in ten years.
I haven’t figured out who’s to blame for that yet, but trust me, I will.
” His gaze lingers over the two of them.
Coach Marshall raises a brow, while Falkenberg’s jaw tics.
“For starters, I’ll be stepping into the general manager position. Stelling is out as of this morning.”
I don’t really know what firing the general manager means in terms of the team, but Marshall and Falkenberg both look dumbstruck.
“The next thing I’d like to mention is that I’m going to have a documentary filmed about the season.
The Monarchs are in an underdog position, and we should capitalize on it.
A documentary will repair damaged rapports with old fans while bringing in new ones.
I don’t expect to be able to turn LA into a hockey town, but there are plenty of casual sports fans here.
They’re just not interested in hockey,” he continues.
“And why would they be? As it stands, the Monarchs are trash.”
Who needs villains when fathers exist?
“With all due respect, Mr. Hearst, it takes years to build a team,” Coach Marshall replies evenly, though the way his eye twitches tells me he’s biting his tongue. Falkenberg glances at Coach Marshall, then at me. His expression is inscrutable.
“Well, you’ve had a decade,” my father shrugs.
“And the pieces are finally coming together. A documentary sounds like a distraction we can’t afford right now,” Coach Marshall says delicately.
“To be frank with you, Darius, I’m not soliciting your input. I’ve already got consultants on the job. The team needs a branding overhaul, and a documentary is the way to do it. The streamers are interested. Trust me.”
Coach Marshall frowns, but he rolls his lips together and doesn’t push the issue.
I’m not sure if he’s figured it out yet, but there’s no talking back to my father once he decides to steamroll you.
I feel sorry Coach Marshall has to deal with him.
Meanwhile, Falkenberg’s looking at me like I’m a piece of chewing gum stuck to his skates.
Like this has anything to do with me.
I give him a challenging look. Deep down, some part of me feels guilty for being here, watching my father delude them into thinking we’re gonna fix the team when I know he plans to sell it, but I don’t owe these people anything.
There’s probably some rich person down the road dying to snatch up the Monarchs.
Maybe they’ll even pay better, and on the bright side, they won’t have to work under my father.
They’ll be fine, I think as I dip a chip in some salsa.
I feel Falkenberg’s eyes still on me, almost like he can hear my thoughts, but I don’t pay him any more attention.
The server interrupts us to take our food order.
My father and Coach Marshall both order burritos, while the Swede takes his time ordering chicken fajitas, but specifying no tortillas, sour cream or butter.
What a miserable life. I order my favorite, enchiladas verdes with all the works, and continue sipping my cola.
“So where does our girl, Freddie, come in?” Coach Marshall nods at me as the server disappears. There’s a note of stress in his voice that wasn’t there before. My father has that effect on people. I glance up at the words our girl—at this olive branch, thrown my way.
“Freddie has a marketing degree and a film background. Her combination of skills will be useful in turning this ship around.”
“Wouldn’t it be more beneficial to hire someone with experience?” Falkenberg speaks for the first time, his voice a smooth, even baritone.
My cheeks heat. He’s not wrong, but it still pisses me off. Maybe I’ll order that margarita after all.
“Mattias—” Coach Marshall starts.
“While I appreciate your desire to give input in matters concerning the team, Mr. Falkenberg, I think you should trust that I’m capable of making sound decisions regarding my business.
” The look my father gives him is withering.
The thing that separates my father from most fathers is that he actually has all the money and power and lack of empathy in the world to back up his threats.
“I’m just telling you, Hugh, having filmmakers around, especially of the less experienced variety, will be a distraction for the players,” Coach Marshall interjects. “During what’s probably our most critical season yet. Now Freddie, don’t take that personally. I’m just stating the facts.”
I blink, surprised my feelings even crossed his mind.
“I know. It’s just business,” I say quietly, hating how I feel like I don’t deserve a seat at this table—then look away before my father can scold me with his eyes. I swear, I feel Falkenberg’s focus drilling a hole through my temple.
“Please, Darius. These guys play in arenas packed with tens of thousands of people every week. I seriously doubt having a few extra cameras around will make a difference in performance,” my father replies. “Not that there’s much to salvage as it stands.”
“Cameras aren’t the only distraction I’m worried about.”
“What else is there?” My father sounds skeptical.
“I mean this as a compliment to Freddie here, but she’s a young, good-looking gal. You know how athletes are, Hugh. I’m concerned about entanglements; things that might lead to a lack of focus from the team.”
I snort. He can’t be serious.
“Don’t worry, Coach, I prefer men with teeth,” I say.
“I don’t see anything to be concerned about,” Falkenberg says at the same time. Dick.
“It’s not like the Monarchs’ performance can get any worse,” I reply.
He narrows his eyes. “And you’re a hockey expert, I assume.”
“It’s a sport, not rocket science.”
“You look like you could use an education in athletics as well,” he remarks.
My mouth falls open. Is he calling me fat? I haven’t been to the gym in years, but just because I’m thicker than the dolls I’m sure he’s used to hanging around doesn’t mean my curves are anything to be ashamed about.
“Enough, Mattias,” Coach says.
“Looks like I’m distracting already,” I can’t help but say.
Falkenberg looks like he wants to kill me—maybe run me over in his creepy Volvo so he wouldn’t have to dirty his hands. Coach Marshall closes his eyes.
“My daughter is correct.” My father takes me by surprise. I don’t think I ever expected those words from his mouth. I hate the way some smaller, younger version of me deep inside blooms at the praise. “If having Freddie around is an issue, I think it speaks to a greater lack of focus.”
“You said she hasn’t agreed yet. Who else are you considering?” Coach Marshall asks.
Just then, my phone vibrates. Not wanting to appear rude, I discreetly glance at my group chat titled Bad Vibes Birth Charts.
Grace
Holy shit, Fred. Just saw the news
Margot
Are you and Elle okay?
Grace
Drinks later? Need the tea ASAP
Margot
I knew I got weird vibes from your uncle. Remember when we were doing the lemonade stand, and he told us we should go inside because there were too many chemtrails ??
Grace
Ommmmg, or when we stopped by for Thanksgiving that one year and he wouldn’t eat the green bean casserole because he said only beta males eat vegetables?
Margot
STOPPPP
A snort escapes me before I can stifle it. My eyes snap up to Falkenberg, who’s watching me, just as Coach Marshall’s focus slides my way. He gives me a quizzical look and I flush.
My father gives me a stern glance. “Of course, if Fred here decides she’s not right for the job, there are other avenues to explore, but I hope you can understand why I’m not eager to bring in outside eyes, Darius.
Given the circumstances, it’s highly preferable to hire someone with personal ties to the team. ”
Other avenues mean not me. My father has promised me five percent of the sale, which a quick search tells me amounts to roughly twenty-five million dollars as things currently stand.
Maybe more if we can get the Monarchs’ ratings up.
That’s more than enough to start my own production company.
The idea of living at home makes me want to peel my own skin off, but if I have to suck it up for a little while to never need my family’s help again, that’s a price I’d be willing to pay.
Besides, I’m not going to give Falkenberg the satisfaction of seeing me back down.
Not with twenty-five million on the line and the chance to finally be free of my father.
Going back to selling old shoes, paying rent under the table and slowly approaching thirty while my mother loses sleep over my life choices just isn’t an option.
I want to do something with my life. Make something of myself.
I don’t know fuck all about hockey, but I don’t know fuck all about a lot of things, and most filmmakers would kill to be in my shoes right now.
“I wanna do it.” The words tumble out of my mouth.
Three pairs of eyes land on me.
“I’ve watched a million documentaries, and I grew up at the rink. I can do it,” I say. Both are half-truths, but I don’t need to elaborate. “When would I start?”