Chapter 13
Mattias
I don’t have time to wait for Hearst to find her footing.
I just want to get this over with and get back to practice.
When we reach the boards, I release her for a moment, letting her totter her way through the door on her own.
The way she moves on skates reminds me of a moose calf running over the road, wobbling while it tries to keep its too-long legs under its body, with no awareness of self or surroundings.
It’s almost endearing. Mostly just fucking annoying.
“Which way?” she says to me over her shoulder.
I unlatch my helmet and leave it and my gloves by the gate. “Upstairs, but take your skates off first.” I point to a nearby bench. “I don’t need you tripping and slicing my throat open.”
I wasn’t trying to be funny, but she laughs.
It’s hoarse and throaty, not the sort of delicate tittering I hear from puck bunnies who only laugh with the underlying intention of signaling their interest. It’s a laugh like she doesn’t give a shit what anyone thinks.
I normally detest that American brand of confidence, and I should especially loathe it coming from a trust fund heiress with poor standards of dress and grooming who’s probably going to ruin my career, but for some masochistic reason, I don’t.
I drag my damp hair out of my eyes, pushing it back.
“Can you help me?” she says, taking a seat.
I stare at her. Has she never lifted a finger to do anything in her life? She’s like a helpless little fawn, staring up at me with big brown eyes.
“Ryan tied my skates extra tight. I need help loosening the laces, so it doesn’t hurt when I pull them off.”
“Are you going to ask me to carry you next?” I say.
“Are you offering?”
“Fuck no,” I scoff.
“Just help me take the goddamn skates off,” she says.
She’s got a mouth on her, talking to me like I’m some sort of butler boy and not team captain for a half a billion dollar franchise. That’s going to change.
“Ask me nicely,” I suggest.
“Please help me take the fucking skates off,” she replies, giving me two middle fingers and a death glare instead.
“You’re beyond help,” I say.
Her dark eyes are pointed daggers, and a sense of satisfaction fills me. I’m not usually one to poke sleeping bears, as we say back home, but I want to make her hate it here.
“Untie my skates, Falkenberg, or I’ll have my father make LeBlanc team captain.”
I don’t want to give her the victory of getting a rise out of me, but I can’t keep the withering look off my face.
LeBlanc may be on the younger side and full of himself, but he’s currently our top-scoring forward and likely to give me a run for my money once he matures a little.
Maybe she knows more about the Monarchs than I thought.
Gritting my teeth, I concede, if only in the interest of time and because I don’t want to miss the entirety of my first practice because of her.
I squat down in front of her and take the boot of her uninjured foot in my hands.
With her leg extended, I notice the toned length of her calf and thigh, the way her leg meets the round curve of her ass.
My eyes linger a moment too long, and I force myself to think of baseball, my mormor’s smorg?st?rta recipe and other mind-numbing shit before my blood has the chance to rush south.
Clearing my throat, I don’t look up at her as I say, “So the princess has done her homework.”
She wasn’t lying, her cameraman really did lace these skates up tightly—and incorrectly, I might add. It takes me too long to undo the first knot.
“Princess?”
My fingers still. I’m not sure why, but I feel caught, like someone’s walked in on me jerking off.
I glance up. “Aren’t you?”
She narrows her eyes at me. “You don’t know what my life’s like.”
I shrug and resume undoing her skates, carefully sliding one boot off. I toss it to the side, then start on the other.
“Let me know if I’m hurting you,” I say absently.
The second set of laces takes more time to undo, and though I don’t look at her again, I can feel her watching me.
Once I’ve got everything untied, I gingerly peel the boot off, making sure to not twist her ankle more in the process.
She’s wearing socks, but I’ve rolled my ankle enough times to know it’s probably swelling already.
“You should invest in a decent pair of skates if you’re going to be on the ice with us. Rentals are duller than butter knives.” I don’t know why I’m giving her tips when I’ve made it my mission to make her fail, but it slips out anyway.
“Roger that, Captain.”
I give her a wry look.
“What? Mockery works both ways. Besides, ‘Captain’ is charitable compared to the things I’ve called you in my head.”
My skin prickles. She’s called me things in her head.
“Such as?”
“Norman Bates,” she says, examining her cuticles.
“Norman Bates?” I echo as I stand, setting her other foot on the ground. The name sounds familiar, but I can’t place it.
“Have you never seen Psycho?”
“I don’t have time to watch films.”
“It’s about a severely repressed man whose childhood trauma and restrictive upbringing ultimately send him on a killing spree. He murders women who threaten to unravel his carefully curated emotional control.” She smirks up at me, sugar sweet.
I scowl. “I’m not repressed. I’m particular about my priorities.”
Sleeping around isn’t something I do frequently, due to the demands of my schedule, but that doesn’t mean I’m afraid of women. And if my upbringing had any lasting effects on me, that’s none of her fucking business.
“Norman Bates didn’t think he was repressed either,” she says.
“Do you speak to everyone like you’re their therapist?” I snap.
“Maybe you just bring out the worst in me.” She shrugs. “Whatever. Just take me to the nurse.”
“Like I said, you’ll have to ask me nicely,” I reiterate.
“Please. Before I slash your throat.” She grabs one of her skates, like she’s threatening to cut me with it. I feel the corners of my lips tick up. I’d like to see her try.
On the other hand, I’m done letting her think she’s in charge here.
Instead of offering her a hand, I grab her around the waist before she has the chance to protest, then lift her off the bench and throw her over my shoulder.
She makes a strangled noise, writhing in my grip, but she’s no match for me—even when she starts pounding her fists against my back.
Her hands are like butterfly kisses compared to the hits I’m used to taking.
“Put me down, asshole! I can walk!”
“I don’t think so.” I head for the lift.
“Treat me nicely, or this documentary’s gonna end up a Psycho reboot, and I’m going to show everyone how wound-up and repressed you really are.” Her hot breath tickles my ear. It sends a shiver down my spine.
“Good luck,” I reply.
“I mean it, dickhead.”
“You’re welcome, Princess.”