Chapter 16 #2
Getting candid footage is almost impossible, because none of the team are relaxed when I’m present.
Their eyes track my camera, constantly breaking the fourth wall.
Falkenberg does his job briefing me on practice, but no matter how much interest I feign, he’s clipped and short, providing only the most necessary information.
He spends as little time with me as possible—even though sometimes I catch him watching me from across the ice.
At night when I’m up biting my nails, too anxious to sleep, I study the players, the franchise, the history of the league, but there’s so much to learn, it’s like drinking water from a firehose.
Half the time, I’m unable to follow when Falkenberg explains what plays they’re going to skirmish, but I’m pretty sure that’s by design.
He talks briefly and directly, and he disappears before I can ask questions.
I’d never admit it frustrates me, because that would only be giving him what he wants, which is to see me fail.
Sometimes I really don’t understand why I took this job, but I keep telling myself to think of the money I stand to make and the films I can produce with it, to consider a future where my father can’t loom over my shoulder.
Plus, there’s the prestige of owning my own studio, and the possibility of re-shaping the film landscape the way I want to.
Maybe I can even hire Grace and Margot. A high tide floats all boats, after all.
Halfway through the last week before preseason officially begins, I decide I’ve had enough of being shut out, so I corner the team captain in the parking lot.
“Falkenberg,” I call after him.
He stops and turns, one hand on his car door handle. “Hearst.”
“Come on, it’s been a month and a half. You can call me Freddie. Hearst is my father.” I’m never going to get him on my side without at least pretending that we’re friendly.
He considers me with a shuttered expression, and I allow my gaze to flit briefly over him.
He’s wearing a black tee and sweats—have I ever seen him wear color?
He admittedly looks good with his damp hair hanging around his ears, a few strands curving over his forehead and temples.
My heart rate speeds up when I notice we’re alone, though I’m not sure why. I’m not afraid of him.
“What is it?”
“Do you want to get a coffee?” I ask.
He frowns. Grimaces, more like, as if it causes him pain to even consider spending time with me.
“To talk about the season, obviously,” I clarify. I don’t want him thinking I’m asking him out or anything like that. Animosity aside, I don’t shit where I eat. “We’re almost done with training camp. Preseason starts soon and I need to know what to expect.”
He takes a pointed glance at his antique-looking watch. After a moment he says, “I’m free for an hour.”
“Great. You won’t like the way I drive, so let’s take your car. There’s a café around the corner.”
“Are you asking me or telling me?”
“Telling,” I reply sweetly.
He visibly chafes at that, but keeps his mouth shut.
Giving him a smug look, I slide into the passenger seat. It smells like him—a thought that makes me flush the second I realize I know what he smells like. Woodsy and piney with a hint of mint and soap. He gets in beside me, a stiff silence falling over us the moment the door clicks shut.
“You’ll have to direct me. I’m not familiar with any coffee shops around here.”
“You never stop and get coffee before work?”
“I don’t drink coffee before I skate. Only afterwards. And calling whatever you Americans brew coffee is an insult to the concept.”
I recall the way he looked at the pot I brewed and frown. “We have plenty of good coffee.”
“Where?”
“The Busy Bean has good coffee. Guaranteed.”
“And if it doesn’t?”
There’s something almost threatening about the way he says it that makes something twist low in my belly. Serial killer energy.
Why the hell am I attracted to it? Must be all the lead paint my parents were raised with. The toxins compromised my brain in utero.
“Then I’ll buy you a beer,” I say to him. I hope I don’t look as flustered as I feel. Being alone with him unsettles me.
He doesn’t look at me as he shifts the car into gear, but I swear he’s fighting the ghost of a smile, and it feels like my first victory. Could this man possibly have a sense of humor?
The air around us is thick as soup for most of the ride, and we don’t make conversation as I direct him to the Busy Bean.
I keep telling myself it’s a professional meeting with professional intentions, and that there’s no reason for it to be awkward.
My eyes don’t listen, straying back to the way he grips the gear shift, how his long-fingered, vascular hand fully encompasses the stick.
He has nice hands. I like the way they have a few scars along the knuckles.
“In here.” I point to the lot entrance. He parks the car and gets out, waiting for me to lead the way.
I shove away all thoughts of his hands, and who he might touch with them as I steer us inside.