Chapter 19
Mattias
I can’t believe training camp is already over.
The team is in better shape than I thought.
I’m uncertain if it’s because everyone knows their careers are on the line and they’re putting their hearts into it, or if the trades and drafts we’ve made are finally starting to pay off.
Coach has me on a starting line with Bell and LeBlanc, and it’s like the three of us can read each other’s minds.
With my speed, Bell’s puck handling, and LeBlanc’s ruthlessness, we may actually have a shot at some points.
Despite the delicate rapport Hearst and I have developed, I still have every intention of getting her out of here.
Preferably before the real season starts, but at this point, that’s probably not realistic.
She’s gotten her bearings better than I thought she would and has refrained from any more ankle sprains. She even has a good sense for gameplay.
I would never admit it aloud, but sometimes I don’t even mind her company.
Suddenly it’s the Saturday before preseason, and I’m standing before my hallway mirror in a tailored navy suit.
The Puck-Drop Banquet is tonight, and I wish I was anywhere else.
I hate dressing up but it’s part of being in the NHL, so I’ve come to tolerate it.
Still, I feel like a pretentious asshole with my starched shirt, loafers, waxed hair, and cufflinks.
My friends from back home would laugh if they saw me like this. Micke would, too.
My formal invitation included a plus one, but I’m not bringing anyone.
I never have in previous years. I don’t have any friends in LA, just colleagues, and my brief swipe through the dating apps last week resulted in another deletion.
I briefly wonder if Hearst is bringing anyone.
She didn’t allude to a significant other, saying she’s focused on her career, but things change.
Besides, I find it a little hard to believe she has trouble finding dates, though I’m not sure why I’m even thinking about it.
It’s not my business. I glance at myself one more time in the mirror, make a face, and call a cab.
Hugh Hearst has booked a banquet hall in a historic downtown hotel. It’s probably filled with Hollywood legends, but I couldn’t care less about that stuff. I just want to get in, fulfill my social obligations, then go home and get to sleep at a decent time.
There is a private entrance to avoid the public, and I’m ushered inside by two stuffy-looking guys in black suits.
I can practically feel the walls closing in from the moment I set foot in the banquet hall.
I’ll make my rounds so well that nobody can say I didn’t attend, listen to any necessary speeches or presentations, and then leave.
“Oi! Nu ?r gubben h?r.” Adrian Westergren, one of the other two Swedes on the team, says before shoving a champagne flute into my hand.
Now the old bastard's here. He’s a typical Stockholmer, with blond, shoulder-length hair which he slicks back, finely tailored clothes and a clean-shaven face.
He’s a few years older than me. His girlfriend gave birth to their first child this summer.
All of that stuff seems a world away, but part of me can’t help thinking back to Hearst’s comments about me being late to the game.
I shove those thoughts away with a scowl.
The champagne is tempting—maybe it’ll dull the crawling sensation in my skin—but I almost never drink, so I set it down on a nearby table.
“I don’t know who you’re calling old man when you’re the one changing diapers,” I say to Westergren.
“The diapers of a future Founders’ Cup champion, gubbe.
Just a few more years and I can buy little Valter his first pair of skates,” he says in English, but with an exaggerated Swedish accent.
Unlike me, he’s never made any attempt to master the American dialect and I don’t blame him.
I think it’s a crass, ugly sound, and Americans speak like their upper lips are glued to their teeth, but I prefer blending in where I can.
Thompson spots us then, strolling up to us accompanied by a pretty brunette in a red dress. He’s dressed in a flashy herringbone suit. I brace myself, a sour taste filling my mouth.
“No dates, boys?” he says.
While I’ve budgeted for a certain amount of misery for the evening, discussing dates with Thompson is not on the agenda. After his comments about Hearst, I have half a mind to put in a trade recommendation with Hugh—not that that’s within the realm of my power, but it wouldn’t hurt to try.
“My girlfriend is using the toilet,” Westergren says.
“What’s your excuse, Falks?” Thompson asks with a skeptical look.
“Falks?” I repeat drily.
“Don’t dodge the question.”
The brunette on his arm smiles at me, looking back and forth between us.
“I’m not as young as you, Thompson. Dates take time and energy.” With a new woman on his arm every week, it’s a miracle he has any energy left for hockey.
Thompson gives me a disdainful look.
“Sounds like you’ve been spending time with the wrong dates,” the brunette says, startling me by laying a hand on my arm. I flinch and drop my arm to my side, but she smiles up at me anyway, her long lashes dusting her cheeks.
“Excuse me, I’m going to go find another drink,” I say, not caring if anyone notices I never touched the first one. I slip away, put off by the jilted look in her eyes.
The rest of the team, corporate heads and franchise staff have begun to filter in with their plus ones, making the room feel like a jar of pickled herring.
There’s an open bar against the far wall, and I’m stopped three separate times by stakeholders and staffers saying hello, introducing me to their friends, and asking for anecdotes about the upcoming season on the way there.
A few people even ask for photos with me, which I oblige, even if chewing concrete would be more pleasant.
It’s a relief when I finally have a glass of crisp sparkling water in my hand, and I slip into the periphery of the room to settle my nerves alone.
My eyes wander over the crowd, and drawn like a doomed moth to a lightbulb, they land on the figure of a familiar, dark-haired woman in a curve-hugging black dress.
The gown’s tie-straps and low-cut neck show off plenty of smooth skin, as does the long slit running from the dress’s floor-length hem to her mid-thigh.
I even notice a tattoo I haven’t seen before.
For some irritating-as-all-hell reason, I feel myself getting hard and start running through my usual list of mood-killing thoughts, but I can’t tear my gaze away from her.
Her cameraman and boom operator, as I’ve learned them to be called, are nowhere to be seen.
They’re probably both chain-smoking outside.
I watch as Hearst mingles with her company, and whatever she says makes them all laugh. Something twists in my gut. I want to know what she’s said, even if it’s about Hollywood or something else I wouldn’t understand.
A man I’ve never noticed before who seems to think he’s Jim Morrison’s reincarnation leans down to whisper in her ear, but her body goes rigid.
Her smile turns forced—not like the way I’ve seen her beaming with her crew.
He reaches up to lay a hand on her shoulder and she takes a step back.
I frown. The guy takes another step forward, looming over her and talking her ear off, not even noticing when she bumps into a chair behind her.
I watch as she forces a laugh, then looks around the room like she’s searching for a life raft.
To my dismay, she glances over her shoulder and we lock eyes. Her smile fades. Fuck. Why won’t she look away?
I don’t either.
Now that I think about it, the guy beside her looks vaguely familiar, but I can’t remember where I’ve seen him.
When his hand presses against her exposed back as he orders for the both of them at the bar, I swallow my water—even as the bubbles burn my throat—and look around for something else to occupy my attention.
It’s not my job to save her, especially not when I’ve been doing enough already, fielding off guys like Thompson.
There’s nothing interesting about this soirée, however.
It’s all the same peacocks, same shows of wealth I’ve seen before. She’s the most interesting person here.
I steal another glance, only to nearly choke. Hearst is stalking towards me, and there’s murder in her eyes.
“Falkenberg,” she says, cornering me against the wall, a beer in one hand and a glass of red wine in the other. Suddenly, the room feels even smaller than before.
“Double-fisting drinks in a professional setting, Hearst? I have to say it gives me a little culture shock,” I remark.
“This one’s for you, dumbass.” She shoves the beer into my hand.
My brows raise.
“I said I’d get you a beer, remember?” Her tone is hostile.
“You said you’d buy me a beer,” I correct. “This is an open bar.”
“That my family is paying for. Same difference. Take it or leave it.”
I didn’t think she’d ever actually follow through with it, or I wouldn’t have said it. Between prioritizing my conditioning and seeing what alcohol’s done to my mother, I generally have no interest, but I suppose the occasional beer doesn’t hurt so long as I don’t make it a habit.
“It doesn’t count if your father is the one paying,” I say, taking it from her.
“This one’s not personal enough for you? Don’t tell me you want to spend more time with me.” She peers at me with her dark eyes.
“I just don’t like getting swindled,” I reply casually. There’s nothing casual about the way my entire body is attuned to her presence. The way her proximity makes my skin uncomfortably hot.
“You look nice,” she says. I go rigid at her sudden politeness.
“So do you.” It’s an understatement. Her lips are darkened with a sultry shade of burgundy, her brunette hair framing her face. The way her dress hugs her hips should be illegal. It makes me want to shove her against the wall and drag it the rest of the way up her thighs.
These kinds of thoughts will get me fired.
“No date, obviously,” she says with a smirk that needles me. “No time for any of that.”
I take a slow sip of my beer, trying to ignore the way my pulse is pounding in my throat. “No. Obviously.”
Her smirk widens.
“Don’t let me distract you from yours.” I nod to the guy by the bar. He’s not as inconspicuous as he thinks. I can tell he’s watching us, though he’s trying to pretend that he’s not.
“Who?” She turns around. “Oh, Sam? He’s not my date. He’s with the media office.”
That’s where I know him from. Something about her tone tells me there’s more to the story.
“Have you told him that?” It’s not my business, but if the dickhead keeps looking over here it might become my business.
“No. I probably should,” she mutters.
“The persistent type?”
“You have no idea. I thought most people had sense enough to not shit where they eat. Guess I was wrong.”
“Why don’t you tell him to fuck off?” I say.
She gives me an exasperated look. “Because I shouldn’t have to.
I wish he’d just take the hint, but no, of course the onus is going to fall on me to make it obvious.
Then I’m going to be the bitch when he gets his feelings hurt, even though he’s the one who refuses to take no for an answer, and when it’s awkward as shit next time I have to go down to the media office for a permit, it’ll all be my fault. ”
“Onus?” I repeat before I think better of it. My mouth twists as I realize I’ve given away the fact that I don’t know the word. I hate admitting when I don’t know words.
She beams at me, and I swear my pulse stutters. “It means responsibility. Fuck. He’s coming over here.”
I follow her eye-line to see the dickhead is, in fact, coming over here. Before I can have a say in the matter, she throws back the rest of her wine and grabs my hand, dragging me from my corner.
“What are you doing?” I demand, but I don’t pull away. I let her drag me, even though she’s moving through the crowd like a bull in a china shop and people are staring.
“Let’s dance, Falkenberg,” she calls over her shoulder.
Those three words kill my interest more effectively than thoughts of my grandmother’s smorg?st?rta recipe ever could.
Fan i helvete.