Chapter 16
Freddie
Margot
Maybe cinema’s not dead, ladies. I just got assigned to a new arthouse feature I think you’re both going to love.
Grace
Congrats!!! Need an editor? I’m dying over here. Literally looking up Godzilla’s height stats so I can accurately replicate his ??
Freddie
Any job openings mopping the mail room, Margot? Idk how much more of this hockey world I can take
Margot
Yes but it requires a graduate degree and ten years of experience mopping mail rooms. RIP.
I’m happy for Margot. I really am, but I feel shamefully envious to see her working a job she loves, in a field of her choice, and being paid well for it.
I want that so fucking badly for myself, especially when the past few weeks have been nothing but an exercise in humiliation for me.
Luckily, my injury was just a grade one sprain, and the doctor isn’t making me wear a boot, but I still got a thrashing from my mother and the team definitely thinks I’m a moron.
I’ve resigned myself to directing from the boards, letting Ryan and Parker handle the action shots.
“Freddie, come upstairs.” My father appears in the kitchen one morning in late August. He’s like the Pale Man from Pan’s Labyrinth—all-seeing and hunting me down the moment I make a wrong move.
My bones lock up, just as Elle shoots me a self-satisfactory look over the rim of her coffee mug that says wouldn’t want to be you.
I’ll be glad when she heads back to Yale tomorrow. One less ogre to deal with.
“The statement came in for the production account,” he says.
My stomach does a somersault. “Oh?”
“You’ve cut farther into the budget than I thought you would have by this point.”
“Productions cost money, Dad. If you want this to be streaming quality, I have to use streaming quality gear.”
“Calm down, Fred. I’m not attacking you. I’m just pointing out that it’s high,” he says.
“You’re implying that I’m being irresponsible, when all I’ve done is rent the equipment I need, take out some insurance policies and pay my crew,” I counter.
“Well, let’s be honest here. You haven’t really shown me that you can be responsible with money. Your mother couldn’t believe it when I showed her the budget you’ve been given. So, I think you can understand why these numbers have raised some red flags.”
I want to tear my hair out. Yes, I was irresponsible with money when I was younger, cash from the lemonade stand fell out of my pockets on more than one occasion—but that was years ago.
It’s like they think I’m the same person I was when I was ten.
I’m careful with money now, especially now that I don’t have an endless supply of it.
In fact, I’d bet I probably spend a lot more time thinking about money than they do.
This is why it’s impossible to stand up to him. He doesn’t listen, he just sees and hears what he wants to.
“I’m keeping a close eye on the budget, Dad,” I grind out. “I’ll let you know if something changes.” I stand to leave.
“One other thing. Your crew rates look high.”
I might actually have an aneurysm.
“They’re getting the basic union rate, Dad,” I say carefully.
His upper lip curls. “Unionized labor? You couldn’t have gone with someone else?”
“It doesn’t work like that,” I reply.
“I’m just saying, I re-directed these funds from the Monarchs’ marketing budget. It’s a lot of money that could have been spent on something else, so use it wisely.”
“I am,” I bite out. That’s all he’s getting from me.
I turn and leave, waiting till I’m in my car to scream at the top of my lungs.
I’m only a month into this—working for him, living with him again—and already I feel like I’m suffocating.
I hate being home. I hate knowing he and my mother are always looking over my shoulder, judging every single thing I do.
Gripping the steering wheel tight, I tell myself that I just have to finish this season and then I’ll be free of them.
The thought loops in my head the whole way to the rink.
I pass Krej?í, LeBlanc, and Bell on the way inside. None of them acknowledge me or reply when I say hello. Bell’s got his headphones on, but I know the other two heard me. It stings, but I tell myself it shouldn’t. They’re just players, not friends.
Still, I want to put my best foot forward after the rocky start to the season, and I’ve brought some new coffee from a local shop.
I set a pot to brew in the kitchenette after setting my things down.
Falkenberg pauses for a moment to stare at it on his way to the locker room, before lifting his gaze to give me a skeptical look.
He mutters something unintelligible in Swedish, then he stalks away without saying anything, his training bag slung over his shoulder.
When I see Thompson at the water fountain a little later, he grabs me by the shoulders just as I’m about to take a sip of water.
“Careful, Freddie! Don’t want you tripping and falling in,” he whispers before letting me go.
Then he, too, disappears into the locker room without a backward glance.
He’s the type of guy Elle would like: tall and conventionally good-looking, with brown ear-length hair, hazel eyes and a wellspring of unearned arrogance. Bleh.
The locker room door he disappeared behind looms like the gates of hell.
I half-expect Pinhead to step out. I’m sure they’re talking about me in there, discussing what a nuisance I am if they’re feeling charitable, though I’m sure there are plenty of worse things to be said.
I’m an outsider and they don’t trust me.
It doesn’t help that I know they’re right to feel that way.
Because I’m using them. It’s a thought that’s getting harder to ignore now that I’m working with the team, but I lock it down in my mind like Hannibal Lecter in the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane.
“Morning, Freddie!” Coach Marshall’s cheery voice pulls me from that train of thought. “Got something I wanna show you.”
I blink but let him lead me upstairs. When we reach his office, he doesn’t stop like I expect him to. Instead, he stops two doors further.
“I thought you could use a little privacy. Get some work done away from all these jockstraps.” He grins, a gap-toothed smile, and twists the handle, pushing the door open into an old, but very well-kept office. It has a window on the back wall, overlooking the rink.
I almost burst into tears, it’s so overwhelming.
To think, he thought about my workflow—thought of doing something nice for me.
He’s given me my own office. It’s a measure of status and respect I didn’t expect from this team.
A measure I don’t deserve from them. I can’t help it—I throw my arms around Coach Marshall anyway and squeeze him tight, just letting myself have this moment, even though I know he’ll hate me one day not too far from now.
He hugs me back, patting me on the head.
A fist clenches around my heart.
“You’ll have to spruce it up a little. Sorry about the carpet,” he adds, making a face at a few noticeable stains.
“It’s perfect. Thank you so much,” I manage to say, choking down the entirely inappropriate lump in my throat.
He turns to leave, but before he can go, I add, “There’s some coffee brewed downstairs.
I brought some nice beans from a local shop.
I thought it might be better than that grocery store stuff. ”
“You read my mind, Freddie. I was just about to look for some. Oh, one last thing.” He fishes something out of his pocket and hands it to me. It’s a flash drive, painted with the Monarchs logo. “Had these made for the team this season. Had a few extra laying around and figured you could use one.”
“More storage means more footage,” I say with a grin, twirling it between my fingers.
“That’s right.” He fist-bumps me, like a father might a daughter. Bittersweetness swallows me as I force a smile, trying not to let my thoughts wander too far down the path of what it might be like to have a father who bumps my fist. A father who’s proud of me, who wants to take my side.
Maybe in another life.
Coach Marshall leaves, and I do a quick twirl in my new office before heading downstairs to capture the day’s footage—only to be stopped by Sam from the media office.
“Hey, Freddie. See any good movies last weekend?” he asks.
Ever since I told him I want to make horror films while filing for a filming permit last week, he hasn’t left me alone.
I don’t mind being polite, but the guy can’t take a hint.
Teenage me would have been all over him, with his shaggy black hair that I’m pretty sure he dyes, too-tight jeans and grungy shirt.
Older me can suss out he’s probably the kind of guy who has a mattress on the floor.
“Depends. Do you enjoy seeing people flayed alive? If so, I recommend Laugier’s Martyrs.” I first saw it years ago, but it’s the first film I think to reference that might scare him away.
“Oh, sick. Hell yeah, dude. I’ll have to check that out,” he replies, looking all too eager. What a backfire. Now he’s going to watch it and worse, talk to me about it.
“Well, gotta get to practice,” I brush him off.
“Yeah, see ya around,” he replies with a lazy wave.