Chapter 11
Mattias
There’s a camera crew setting up when I arrive at the rink for our first practice of the season.
Fuck me. I hate dealing with the media as is, and now this?
I look for the culprit, and find Daddy’s little tax write-off is already hard at work meddling on my ice.
She’s wearing skates—the wrong kind, with a toe pick—and looking like a bossy bitch.
Her arms are crossed as she speaks to two crew members, one wearing a camera rig and the other holding a microphone.
“What’s all this?” I say.
She jumps when she hears my voice, then twists to face me, nearly losing her balance in the process. She’s a threat to the public with technique like that.
“This is Ryan. He’s our DP.” She gestures to the camera guy, who looks like a total douche with tan, weathered skin, a scraggly beard, and a backwards Jersey Bears hat that looks at least twenty years old. “And this is Parker. They’re our boom operator.”
The other person is a tall, pale, scrappy-looking person with tattoos, cropped dark hair, a nose ring, and a trucker hat. I don’t know what a DP or boom are, and I’m not interested in finding out.
“What do you think you’re doing?” I say.
“My father told me to be here for practice, so I’m here for practice. Maybe you didn’t get the memo that we’re making a documentary.”
“Not on the actual ice. That will interfere with training.”
“Yes, on the ice. Making a good film means getting good shots,” she counters.
“Making a good film won’t matter if the team performs terribly because you’re distracting them,” I snap. For good measure I add, “By being in the way.”
I don’t want her to think I meant anything else.
“Right.” She narrows her eyes, sizing me up through her long lashes the same way she did in the post office.
It sets my teeth on edge, though I don’t know why, considering I have the upper hand here.
This is my ice. “Well, if you’d like to take it up with Coach Marshall, be my guest. He’s already cleared it,” she adds.
Men vad fan. What a little—
As if on cue, the traitor himself appears before I can argue with her further.
“There you are, Falkenberg,” he says, looking way too pleasant.
“As you can see, we’re doing things a little differently today.
Freddie, Ryan, and Parker here are gonna follow the practice.
” I can tell from the delicacy of his tone he finds all of this as invasive as I do, but he’s doing his best to go along with it. I don’t have that sort of patience.
“I don’t think it’s necessary to—” I start.
“The fuck’s all this?” Joonas H?kk?nen, our Finnish starting goaltender, says from behind me.
He’s still wearing last season’s beard, his blond hair greased back and peeking out around the base of his neck.
He reeks of the sage he’s always burning in the locker room, his weird pre-skate ritual that we’ve all come to tolerate.
The team is starting to trickle in. To my knowledge, they haven’t been briefed on any of this.
“Why don’t you take a seat, H?kk?nen? Falkenberg, join him.
” Coach gestures to the stands. I begrudgingly plant myself in the front row just as the trust fund tyrant steps off the ice, stomping her way over to Coach Marshall like she owns the place.
I guess she technically does—and I look away to let my blood pressure stabilize.
It’s the first time we’ve all been together since last season, so I take a moment to take stock of the team.
On the top row there’s the antisocial contingent: Tremblay (RW), Sokolov (RW), and Krej?í (RW), from Nova Scotia, Russia and the Czech Republic respectively.
LeBlanc—our top-scoring forward and one of our alternate captains—is conversing in French with a newcomer I believe is Pierre Moreau, a rookie draft pick from Quebec City.
Next to him are the other Quebecois, Arsenault (LW) and Aguillard (LD).
Another rookie gives me a nod as he finds his seat, and I recognize him as Thompson, our new right defenseman, by his Poirier-appointed “pretty boy” features.
Like most defensemen, he's tall, with a delicate face that looks like it hasn’t seen enough pucks, and brown hair that just touches his shoulders. I give him a tepid nod in return.
When I glance past him, I find Hearst looking at me like she’s trying to figure something out, which puts me back on edge.
I square my shoulders and stare back at her, put off by whatever it might be.
I don’t want her sussing out fuck all. This prolonged sort of eye contact goes against my entire upbringing, and it makes my insides writhe, but I can’t let her think she has jurisdiction here.
This is my season. My team. Not some pageant to bolster her career.
Finally, she looks away.
“Who’s she?” Malcolm Fontenot, the rookie center who was a high-level draft pick, asks as he takes a seat next to Thompson.
He has a different American accent than I’m used to.
I think I read he was from Louisiana. Fontenot’s not a Poirier-appointed “pretty boy” like Thompson, but there’s something endearing about his young, pimply face.
He’s about my height, with a little more bulk, pale skin, dark hair, and a large nose.
“Our new owner’s daughter,” I say flatly.
“Off-limits. Got it.”
“Extremely,” I reply. That much needs to be made clear. Some goon is inevitably going to fall for her charm or lack thereof, but I’ll personally high-stick anyone who further jeopardizes this team by getting tangled up with her.
“Settle in, boys,” Coach Marshall’s deep voice has a stilling effect. Booker Bell, our starting center from Inglewood, takes his headphones off as he sits down next to Diego Barrera, the other Californian on our team.
The rest of the guys take their seats and stop their conversations, just as the rink doors fly open once more, and Poirier saunters through. His hair looks windblown, and his eyes are bloodshot—one of his tells that he’s sporting a hangover. Starting this season off like the rest, I see.
“Sorry I’m late. Red lights were really given’er,” he says.
The breakfast sandwich in his hands that is absolutely not part of our nutrition guide says otherwise.
I’m going to let it slide, however, and I know Coach will, too, because I know he’s been here in LA working his ass off all summer and I’m not going to bring up his drinking in front of the team.
That’s how Poirier works. He gives his all, but on his own terms, and he’s not the sort of defenseman you want to corner.
“Ice burpees, Poirier.” Coach scrubs a hand over his face and shakes his head.
“Now as I was saying, things are gonna be a little different ‘round here this practice. Whole season, actually. Gentleman, meet Frederica Hearst—Mr. Hugh Hearst’s daughter. I’m sure you’re all familiar with our new owner, Mr. Hugh Hearst.”
The guys murmur and swear under their breath. Sokolov whispers something in Bell’s ear. A few of the rookies snicker. Off to a bad start.
“You can all call me Freddie,” she corrects Coach in that overly extroverted voice. I want to spear myself in the face.
“Check that out,” Thompson whispers. It’s the first time I’ve heard him talk. Fortunately for my blood pressure, Coach hears him, too.
“Thompson, consider yourself the bench’s star player this training camp. There will be no disrespecting Freddie on my ice.” His expression is lethal. “Freddie’s a professional filmmaker. She’s going to be helping us out this season. She’s on our team and I want everyone acting like it.”
Coach proceeds to matter-of-factly fill the guys in on the status of the scandal, the purpose of the documentary, and how Hearst will be following us from now and through the spring. Too many of them are excited about it.
“We’re gonna be on TV,” Tremblay remarks.
“We’re already on TV, dumbass. Like three times a week,” Poirier replies around a mouthful of sandwich.
I press my lips together.
“This stuff will take some getting used to, but we’re gonna be better for it.
In the meantime, feel free to approach Freddie or myself with any questions.
Your team captain is available as well. Mattias will be coordinating with Freddie to make sure this all goes as smoothly as possible.
” The look Coach shoots me tells me I’ll regret making any protest.
“Oh yeah?” Poirier says.
“It appears so,” I reply, tight-lipped, leaning back on my elbows and crossing one ankle over the other.
“Who’s your favorite player?” Miller DeBoer, our goonish back-up goaltender from Minnesota asks. Logan Walsh (LD) elbows him in the ribs and they both laugh.
“So far that would be Malcom, because he gave me a piece of his candy bar earlier,” Hearst replies with a grin. I glance over at Fontenot to see a blush tinging his pimply cheeks. The guys erupt in hoots and hollers. I catalogue him as another traitor.
“Suck-up,” DeBoer hollers, just as Booker says, “Damn, doggie. Didn’t even give the rest of us a chance.”
“What do you sing in your car when no one can hear you?” LeBlanc says skeptically, like he’ll be able to figure her all out with that single question.
“Nickelback,” Hearst replies without missing a beat. “Full volume, every time.”
“Canada’s pride and joy.” Poirier fist-pumps the air. LeBlanc groans while Bell hangs his head.
“What’s your sign?” H?kk?nen asks. I don’t know what they’re doing over in Finland, but he’s even more into that hokey stuff than women on dating apps.
“Taurus,” she winks.
“Alright let’s wrap it up,” Coach Marshall interjects. “We’ve got better things to do than terrorize Freddie.”
I spare Hearst another glance. She has a pinkish tint to her cheeks, rolling her lips together like she’s trying to keep from smiling.
She tucks her short hair behind her ears—a habit, I’m noticing—then makes an effort to straighten out her gray sweatshirt, like it’ll make her look any less a slob.
She very obviously has no standards of personal grooming.
I doubt she’s ever even held a job, let alone had to dress for one.
She’s the personification of everything I loathe—a nepotistic spoiled brat who hasn’t had to work for anything in her life.
It’s infuriating.
“Alright boys,” Coach says, breaking me from my trance. “Go pad up.”
I tear my eyes away from Hearst and head for the lockers, eager to empty my mind with a hard skate.