Chapter 10
Freddie
I simmer in the back seat the whole way back to the rink.
Falkenberg doesn’t say anything else to me, but I see him white knuckling the gearshift while his jaw tics in silence.
He reminds me of Norman Bates, the way he’s well-mannered and polite on the surface, but below the facade he’s obviously wound tighter than the watch on his wrist. Guaranteed I’m even less excited about this arrangement than he is, but jeez.
It’s not like he’ll have to hold my hand.
Besides, it’s a sports documentary, not an homage to mid-century Italian horror or anything that would require true artistic finesse.
“We’ll discuss this more at home, Freddie,” my father says when we get out of Falkenberg’s car.
I wonder if it sounds like a threat to our company, or just to my ears.
Unintentionally, I catch Falkenberg’s eye over the roof of the car.
In the sunlight, his hair is the color of champagne—his eyes almost colorless.
He looks as cold as the ice he skates on, like he might melt away in the warm sun’s rays.
“Sounds good, Dad,” I throw over my shoulder, giving the team captain one last stony look before I turn and head for my car.
I’m going to go get that margarita. I park the car at my parents’ house, then walk down to my favorite beach cantina where Grace and Margot are waiting. I find them on the back patio.
“What crawled up your ass?” Margot says the second she sees my face.
I shake my head and order a drink.
“That bad, huh?”
“I’ve got a new demo you could use to take the edge off,” Grace says, looking conspiratorial behind her curtain of long, black hair as she takes a sip of her paloma.
I roll my eyes. “Thanks, but no thanks.”
Grace is a film editor, but since work in Hollywood has been so slow, she started a sex toy business on the side, much to her very Catholic family’s horror.
Most of them still live in Manila, though, so they hardly get a say.
Part of crashing in her spare bedroom the last two years has been dodging boxes of dildos scattered around her living room when I get up for a glass of water in the middle of the night—and for some of those products, I use the term dildo very loosely.
To each their own, but some brave soldiers are really pushing the limits of what’s physically possible.
“So, your uncle’s on his villain arc,” Margot breaks the ice.
“He’s an Aquarius. He was born on a villain arc,” I say as my margarita arrives with a sugar rim instead of salt, just the way I like it. “He just didn’t get caught till now.”
“I didn’t realize they’d booked him already until I saw his mugshot on TV at the gym today,” Grace says.
“Oh yeah, my mom started disinfecting the door handles when she saw that. She only does that when she’s spiraling.
She’s so embarrassed. Won’t show her face at the country club for weeks, guaranteed,” I reply, a little twinge of pity stinging my heart as I say it.
I know the country club is her safe haven, but I never had the luxury of that escape.
“So, she’s not holding up well. What about Elle?” Margot asks. She always had a soft spot for my little sister.
“Elle’s Elle. I think she’s mostly worried about not being invited to frat parties next year, but those guys will probably just think it’s cool.” I roll my eyes.
“And you?” Grace says.
“Well the good news is I’ve got a job,” I say tersely.
“My condolences,” Margot drawls. Margot is like if Daria the cartoon was a lawyer.
She grew up next door, always handling the business side of our childhood ventures.
There was never any question of how many quarters we’d earned with our lemonade stand or how many rocks we’d need to paint to buy a fruit cup from our favorite fruit cart.
Margot always knew. Now she’s an entertainment lawyer for a big film studio.
Grace smacks Margot’s arm then looks at me. “Directing?”
“Kind of.”
“Don’t tell me you’re going the adult film route? Though honestly the pay’s not bad if you’re willing to get kinky. Everybody’s into weird shit these days.” Grace licks some chili salt from the rim of her glass.
“Not porn. Worse.”
“You wouldn’t dare sell feet pics without consulting us.”
“Hell no.” I can’t even find a guy I like enough to sleep with, let alone film myself sleeping with or letting him slurp on my toes, but that’s a whole other can of worms. “It’s a hockey documentary.”
Margot sticks her finger in her mouth and pretends to barf.
“For the Monarchs? You’re talking to your dad again?” Grace says.
At first glance, a lot of people might think Grace ditzy. She’s bubbly and animated, with tan skin and a smile permanently plastered to her heart-shaped face, but she’s sharp as a tack and graduated top of the class. Nothing gets by her.
“Apparently. He wants me to start next week.”
“Riveting,” Margot says.
“I’m not excited to work for him, but unfortunately the offer’s too good to turn down.”
“Why’s he bothering? Nobody cares about the Monarchs,” says Grace.
“He thinks maybe they will if they see this doc.” I don’t mention the fact that he intends to sell the team, because I think my father told me that in confidence, and while I don’t think Grace or Margot would say anything, it’s better to keep it mum.
“Not a terrible idea,” Margot hums as she lets her sandy blonde hair down, running her fingers through it and examining the blunt ends with sharp-nailed fingers. “People do love an underdog.”
“That’s what my dad said. He wants me to follow the Monarchs for the entire season.”
“Do you get to follow them to the locker room?” Grace says.
“Something tells me no,” I reply.
“I may need you to do some research for me,” Grace presses.
“Uh-huh. You know I’m gonna be keeping this thing strictly professional, right?
” Not that that will be an issue. In addition to preferring brains to brawn when it comes to men, I don’t foresee myself being the hockey player type.
I’m no model or actress, but if Coach Marshall’s nineteen year old draftees can’t keep their hands out of their pants because they’re in close proximity to a woman for the first time, that’s his problem, not mine.
“I’m just saying I see an opportunity for professional research,” Grace replies. “An athlete-inspired line of merchandise would sell like crazy. I heard about a baseball player selling a bottle of his sweat for thousands of dollars once. People pay big money for that stuff.”
I force my mouthful of margarita down so I don’t choke, resulting in a killer brain freeze.
“Oh, fuck off. They do not,” Margot says.
Grace raises her eyebrows and shrugs.
“Why would anyone bother with that? They already make so much money,” I say.
“Ego?” Margot suggests.
“I guess. I’ve only met the team captain so far, but he was a total dick. Really full of himself,” I say, not entirely sure why I’m bringing him up. I chock it up to morbid fascination.
“Oh, Mattias Falkenberg?”
I look at Margot. “Yeah. How do you know that?”
“I’ve been to a few games. Plus he’s the team captain, Fred.
Not exactly an unknown. My mom was his realtor.
He bought a place here in Manhattan Beach a few years back.
I remember her complaining about him because he went so far under budget,” Margot replies.
“She didn’t get the commission she was hoping for. ”
I shake my head, recalling Falkenberg's old beater car. “Yeah, that sounds like him.”
“He’s pretty hot.”
“If you’re implying you want me to set you up, again, the answer’s gonna be no,” I say.
“Oh, god no.” Margot twists her hair back into a sleek bun, which accentuates her coltish features.
“I’m done with men, but if you meet any ice girls looking for a sugar mama, feel free to send them my way.
” I snort, trying and failing to picture Margot at a hockey game.
She’s more of a nail salon and Napa kind of girl.
I proceed to break the news about how my parents want me to move home for a while.
When my mom mentioned it earlier today, she insisted it’s mostly so they can protect me better while my uncle’s scandal peters out, but I know my father’s game.
It’s all about control. So long as I keep that notion in mind, I think I can handle it, miserable as it sounds.
“I wish we could all just work on the stuff we want to work on,” Grace sighs she finishes her drink. “It’s so sad that the film industry is in such bad shape these days. All the infrastructure is here.”
“It’s a bad time to try to make it in LA, especially if your name’s not Christopher Nolan. Even then, I hear it’s difficult,” Margot says drily. “Our studio hasn’t produced anything that wasn’t a sequel, remake, or enshitified reboot in almost a decade now.”
“Enshitification of big studios is real, but that won’t matter if I can start my own production company after this documentary,” I reply. Unable to help myself, I lean in and whisper, “The compensation sounds promising.”
“Really?” Grace replies. Margot raises a brow.
“Supposedly. Who knows, though. Maybe my dad’s mugshot will end up on TV before I can get anything out of this.” Then, standing and pushing my stool in I add, “Well, I think I’m one and done today. Pre-production starts tomorrow and I’ve only got a week. Let me know what I owe you guys.”
“Alright, miss bigshot. I’ll be counting on you for some close seats when the season starts. Research purposes, since you won’t help me out,” Grace winks, the afternoon light kissing her high, rounded cheekbones.
“Same. I’m serious. Ice girls.” Margot throws back the rest of her prosecco, her dark nails stark against the flute.
“Give me a heads up when you wanna start moving your stuff out. Gonna miss living with you, Fred,” Grace adds. “RIP to your nonexistent sex life.”
“Bye.” I laugh.
The Manhattan Beach sunset kisses my shoulders the whole walk back to my parents’ house.