Chapter 9
Mattias
They can’t be serious. Passing a university degree off as marketing experience has to be a joke, and I can’t fathom what filmmaking skills she might have that a more experienced director wouldn’t.
She can’t be older than twenty-five. This is the future of our franchise, my career on the line, not some middle-grade talent show.
Normally I’m an expert at keeping my mouth shut, but this is too much—even if Hugh Hearst did just slap me down like a toddler.
“Do you know anything about hockey?” I press.
“Mattias,” Coach Marshall warns.
Hearst Junior drops her fork to her plate.
I scowl at it. She doesn’t use a knife when she eats.
I know because I’ve spent the last five minutes observing while she pushed her food around her plate like a child—and I’m supposed to trust her expertise in salvaging our franchise’s image?
She raises her brows at me, daring me to say more.
“Obviously I do.” She looks at me like I’m an idiot. It’s not obvious at all. Just because her father owns the team doesn’t mean she knows anything about our game.
“How many documentaries have you made?” I press.
I’m pleased to see she looks incensed. The little brat is in over her head, and I’m going to make sure everyone knows it.
“This is where you come in, Falkenberg,” Hugh says. His tone is patronizing as hell, and I clench my jaw so hard I think I feel a tooth crack. I’ll get it replaced if I need to. Won’t be the first time, or the last.
“Please, enlighten me,” I say. Hearst looks down at her phone, distracted.
“You’ll be her personal consultant. I want you to prep her before every match so she knows what to look for.
If she has questions about the game or sport, she’ll defer to you.
I assume you’re team captain for a reason.
” He lets the comment simmer a beat before continuing.
“I want the two of you to collaborate to ensure the upcoming season’s most important moments are captured. We’ve got a lot of fans to win back.”
No. No, no, no.
“Doubt I’ll need his help.” She looks up from her phone with a condescending stare.
“If Hugh says the doc’s a go, the doc’s a go.” Coach Marshall claps a hand on my left shoulder, and I don’t miss the way his fingers dig in, a warning disguised as a gesture of warmth. “You’re the best man for the job, Mattias. Nobody knows the team like you. Do us right.”
I can’t believe he’s trying to sell me this shit.
Are neither of them bothered by the fact that she’s hardly even paying attention?
And they want to funnel what I’m assuming will be millions of dollars into her pockets to film a documentary about a fast-moving sport that requires intense and constant focus?
“Freddie, you’ll be traveling occasionally with the team throughout the season, so plan appropriately. Use this week for pre-production and hiring your crew, but I expect you at the first official practice next week,” Hugh says. “We can talk about the budget at home.”
The heir apparent nods, then gives me a victorious look, two dimples appearing on her cheeks with her self-satisfied smile. My brain is on the verge of short-circuiting.
“I’m counting on you, Falkenberg,” Hugh adds. “This documentary could make or break the Monarchs’ future.”
Even if I had extra time on my hands for micromanaging additional amateurs—and I don’t, not with this batch of rookies—I would still think this was one of the worst ideas I’ve ever heard.
Having a bunch of cameras around is only going to get in the way, during the most critical season in our franchise’s history.
Baby billionaire probably doesn’t even know the difference between a hat trick and a shootout.
If they insist on having extra cameras around, the least I can do is make sure we have a team of filmmakers who actually know what they’re doing.
“Are you certain she doesn’t need more time to consider the expectations, when her full attention is available?
It seems that now is a bad time.” Looking at Hugh, I nod at the phone in his daughter’s lap.
Her head snaps up, one hand lifting to push her messy hair back behind her ear.
She rolls her brown eyes at me, her lips parting in irritation.
Throwing her phone in her bag, she says, “Now’s a perfectly good time.”
“If you say so,” I grit out. “You never know when someone might be late for something else,” I add, deliberately recalling our sparring match at the post office this morning.
She balks at me. Finished with my fajitas, I pull a salty licorice disk out of my trouser pocket and pop it into my mouth, shooting her a venomous smile with the candy in my cheek.
“Let me worry about scheduling, Falkenberg,” Hugh says as he waves the server over for the bill. “You just worry about getting your points up. They dropped last season.”
Yeah, because your brother and his clown of a GM wouldn’t let Coach Marshall do his job, I want to snap, but I bite down hard on my salted candy instead. It makes a cracking sound.
Hearst snorts, mocking me, the sound making my spine go rigid. I refuse to look at her as I fold my napkin on top of my plate, acting like I’m along for this circus, but by this time next month, she’s going to be gone.
I’m going to get her replaced.