Chapter 12
Freddie
Grace
Not me getting excited for hockey season.
Margot
Have you moved past your fixation with psychoanalyzing tradwives on Flicks?
Grace
I felt I was taking on too much brain rot
Margot
Good news, smooth brains are conducive to enjoying hockey
Freddie
I’ve only been moved out for a few days, and you’ve already turned to watching trad wife content???
Grace
Something has to sate my morbid curiosity now that you’re not watching slashers on my couch all the time.
Maybe I shouldn’t have insisted on directing from the ice, considering I look like a total dumbass on skates, but with twenty-five million dollars on the line, I’ll be damned if I don’t get the best shots I can.
I keep wanting to reach for the railing, but I can feel the team watching me, so I refuse to let myself hold it.
I’ll get the hang of it soon. It’ll be like riding a bicycle.
Ryan, on the other hand, is as graceful on skates as he is with a steady rig, which means that unlike most DPs in town, he hasn’t lied about the special skills on his resume.
Apparently he played hockey in high school, back in Jersey.
At least one of us knows what they’re doing.
Parker looks a little less comfortable, all tall and gangly with a scowl on their hard, angular face, but I appreciate their effort.
Coach required the three of us to wear caged helmets in case any pucks fly our way, but I’m more worried about the camera than my face. It’s much prettier, plus it’s a rental.
The team spills onto the ice, padded up with their sticks in hand.
I don’t even have to tell Ryan to get the shot.
He’s already in position. We do our best to stay out of the way, keeping to the rink’s edge as the players warm up, stretching and feeling out their skates.
They’re all so graceful and agile, almost like ballerinas when they move, which is odd considering they’re all very large grown men—most of whom enjoy getting in fights.
I spot Falkenberg on the far side of the rink, saying something to a few of the pimply-faced, younger-looking guys who must be this year’s draft picks.
Saying something dickish, I’m sure, which has me wondering why he got the team captain title in the first place.
Still, I can’t help noticing how broad his shoulders look in hockey pads, how elegant he looks as he moves across the ice, gliding backwards like he was born on skates.
When he turns, I see a number twenty-four splayed across his back.
I roll my eyes and look away. The sooner I get this documentary over with, the better.
It’s clear Coach Marshall means business from the moment he steps out of the locker room. The players line up shoulder-to-shoulder and he gives them a hard spiel about how this season needs to be different. Not just their careers, but the continued existence of this franchise hinges on this season.
“Good thing we’ve got Freddie and the crew helping us out,” he adds, waving my way with a grin.
I force a smile in return, then look down at my skates.
Guilt gnaws at my insides, like one of those medieval torture rats, but I lock it away in a box inside my mind.
I’m never going to get through the year if I let myself think about how none of them, not even Coach Marshall, will have a job here this time next year.
“Alright, boys. Let’s see how you've treated yourselves this summer,” Coach Marshall says to the players. My gaze trails over them, taking note of who’s who.
Last night when I couldn’t sleep, I lurked half the Monarchs on Fotogram.
Their off-seasons looked just as I’d predicted: afternoons on the golf course, Santorini sunsets, and yacht parties with beautiful women.
One player was notably absent from the feed, however.
Falkenberg’s last post was of him attending the Frozen Cup three years ago, and before that, a poorly-lit shot of him scoring a goal in some European league.
The rest were all older snaps overlaid with ugly, dated filters from his teenage years, back when he was still playing for his local league in Sweden.
He looked even more socially awkward then.
I found no sign of a personal life anywhere.
Coach Marshall blows his whistle and starts the team on a series of conditioning drills.
The players barrel from one end of the ice to the other, then turn on a dime and race back to the start.
Skates scrape over the rink, making ice chips fly.
Another whistle, and the players drill again—faster, then faster again.
They drill, and drill, and drill.
Ryan, Parker, and I navigate around the rink, and I do my best to keep out of the way while they man the rig and boom.
This footage isn’t particularly interesting, but you can never have too much b-roll.
Besides, I’d be lying if I said it didn’t feel good to be shooting something again, even if that something is a sports documentary.
I can’t remember the last time I was on set.
When Coach moves the team onto puck and stick-handling drills, we capture those, too.
“Alright, I’ll need you all to step off the ice now unless you wanna get padded up,” Coach Marshall tells us as the players start setting up for a skirmish.
“Roger that,” I reply.
Ryan and Parker head for the door and I push off one skate after them.
Turning to follow, I don’t see the fast-incoming puck to my left until my skate is landing on top of it.
My knee buckles and I reflexively claw at Ryan’s shoulder to try and stay upright, but I pull him off-balance, too.
Both of us tumble to the ice in a tangle of limbs and skates.
I land hard on my leg, a sharp pain shooting through my ankle.
“Shit!” I hear someone shout. Coach Marshall’s whistle blows.
“Y’all alright?” Parker says in their Texan accent.
Wincing, I push myself upright.
“I didn’t think you’d be right behind me,” a player says. It’s number 71, Ricardo Morales—one of the forwards.
Ryan swears beside me.
My stomach bottoms out as realization dawns. “How’s the camera?”
“Not sure. Okay, hopefully. My shoulder took the brunt of the fall.”
I watch in horror as he toggles the buttons, testing the settings.
I’ll jump off the Santa Monica pier and feed myself to Bruce the shark if I’ve managed to break that camera on day one.
A pair of skates comes to a lazy stop beside me, the person blocking out the fluorescent rink lights, and I look up.
My stomach drops the rest of the way down to my toes.
It’s Falkenberg. He looks indignant, like this is exactly what he expected to happen. My cheeks burn.
“Have you hurt yourself?” he asks, not bothering to mask his irritation, his blue eyes cutting behind his visor.
I ignore him and look at Ryan instead. “Please tell me it’s fine.”
“I think it’s fine,” Ryan says, still ogling the lens.
Parker pulls him to his feet. Coach Marshall skates over, squatting down to my eye level. I brace myself for a berating.
“Are you alright?” he says instead. It’s a simple question, but for some reason it hits me right behind the ribs, stealing more wind from me than the fall did. My eyes start to sting. I blink the feeling away.
“I don’t think so,” I reply after a second.
“I’m so sorry. I was practicing a pass, puck got away from me,” Morales says. Then to Coach he adds, “It was an accident, I swear.”
“Don’t worry, Morales. I know what you look like when you’re out for blood,” Marshall replies, still squatting. “Maybe we need to rethink how we approach the whole shooting on ice thing.”
“We’re fine,” I plead.
Coach raises a brow at me but offers a hand to help me up. My gaze slides to Falkenberg, finding him scowling at me as I take it. Pins and needles shoot through my ankle the second I put weight on it and I nearly lose my balance again.
“Fuck,” I hiss.
A strong arm encircles my waist.
My upper lip curls, just as a sweaty, sour scent meets my nostrils. Falkenberg’s caught me. I try to shrug him off, but he tightens his already domineering grip, giving me a disinterested look down the point of his pale, austere nose. His hair looks damp under his helmet.
“You’re going to make it worse if you don’t stop moving, Hearst,” he says tightly, lacing my name with disdain.
“Did you roll your ankle, Freddie?” Coach Marshall frowns.
“Maybe. I think I landed on it.” What a perfect way to start this job. I look like a fucking moron—in front of the whole team, too.
“She’s likely sprained it. Possibly worse,” Falkenberg says.
I shoot him a murderous look before pleading with Coach Marshall. “I’m fine, Coach. Let me skate it off.”
“We should call the paramedics. If there’s a fracture, she may cause permanent damage to her joint by continuing to use it,” Falkenberg insists.
I need to get away before I kill him. He’s obviously trying to get me dismissed.
“Parker can help me.” I try to shrug him off.
“If you say so.” He lets go of me so quickly I nearly fall again. Luckily Parker manages to grab me, and I don’t miss the don’t-fuck-with-me look they give Falkenberg, which warms my insides a little.
“Mattias! Be careful. Our nurse should have a look at you, Freddie. We don’t mess around with injuries,” Coach Marshall says, looking more concerned than I deserve.
“That would be prudent,” Falkenberg agrees.
“Please, Coach Marshall. It’s the first practice of the season. I swear I’ll see someone after I get the footage I need.”
“You need to ice it, Freddie,” Coach says.
“Trust me, I know from experience. Lotta rolled ankles in my career. I think you should see Ines. We’ll take a little break to go over some things here and practice will resume when you’re back.
” His tone tells me there will be no more arguing on the matter. “Mattias, will you take her?”
I want to scream but manage to bite my tongue, only because I know anything else I say will be perceived as unprofessional and my first impression is already sorely lacking.
Luckily, Falkenberg protests for me. “Is that necessary? Her friends seem capable.”
He’s an ass, but at least we can agree on something.
“They need to check their equipment. Take her.”
A beat passes. Then, “Fine.”
Falkenberg skates over to me. “Let’s get this over with,” he says.
I don’t move. His proximity puts me on edge, so close I can nearly feel the warmth of him.
I get the feeling he’d rather do conditioning drills all day than touch me.
I’m not sure why that rankles me, but it does.
I’m a little sweaty from skating around and I probably could have put more effort into my appearance today, but am I really so repulsive?
Just to make sure, I fake a cough into my shoulder, discreetly taking a whiff of myself.
Nothing offensive, as far as I’m concerned. He smells way worse.
Falkenberg’s too tall for me to sling an arm over his shoulders, especially on skates, so I tentatively slide one around his waist. To my surprise, he doesn’t recoil.
Admittedly my ankle is throbbing and it’s nice to take the weight off it, so I lean into him, doing my best to ignore how hard his abdomen feels beneath my arm.
I stiffen when his gloved hand curls around my shoulder, holding me in place.
Underneath the sweat from practice, he smells cold and woodsy—not in the way that comes from bottled fragrance. There’s a sharpness to it, like the artificial ice and rink air cling to his skin after so many years.
I feel the whole team’s eyes on us as we skate away, and a pathetic lump forms in my throat when I consider what they must all be thinking. It hasn’t even been a full day and I’ve already proved Falkenberg and Coach Marshall right. I don’t belong here.
Not only that, but I’m a snake in their henhouse and they don’t even know it. Coach Marshall, Morales—I don’t deserve their kindness. Not when I’ve bet so big against them.
Don’t cry, I tell myself. Don’t fucking cry. Your entire future is on the line.
I stare straight ahead and let Falkenberg guide me off the ice.