Chapter 22
Freddie
Freddie
Grace
Freddie
Something like that.
Margot
Lmao, and he’s trying to make the organization function better? Good luck with that when everyone has corporate burnout and loses all investment in organizational success.
Freddie
When I asked if he was going to give the staff raises to account for the increased workload he just laughed at me!!
Grace
He’s probably listening to one of those tech bro podcasts where they circle jerk about how nobody will even need employees in like five years
Margot
I’m surprised he was eating breakfast. Haven’t tech bros moved beyond mastication? I assumed they all had Soylent subscriptions by now.
Freddie
I hate knowing this.
Margot
Well, you are working for him. :(
It hurts to read, but Margot’s right. I knew what I was getting into, how my father operates.
I guess I just naively hoped there would be a seamless transfer of ownership to someone else when the sale happened and didn’t think my father would actually “restructure” the organization, which is a business world euphemism for putting your staff on the chopping block.
A fresh wave of nausea hits me that I suspect has nothing to do with my flight anxiety.
When I signed up for traveling with the team, I didn’t realize it would mean travel travel.
Our next two matches are in Stockholm, the first an exhibition game against a Swedish hockey club followed by a match against the Calgary Wranglers.
We’re only going to be gone for five days, but I’m still scrambling with my suitcase by the time the car comes to pick me up and take me to the chartered jet.
I hate flying. I especially hate flying for ten plus hours on a plane filled with oversized men that don’t like me.
On top of that, I have no clue if I’ve packed correctly because the farthest I’ve been from home is New York.
When the car rolls onto the airport tarmac, I see Ryan passing off his gear to a bag handler, micromanaging the poor guy on how to handle it, and another wave of dread hits me.
I open my phone to text Grace and Margot, only to see an email notification.
I see the words The Agnelli Agency in the sender line. My heart practically stops.
It plummets into my stomach when I flick my phone open.
I know what it says before I’ve finished reading. It’s a do not reply address. A thanks, but no thanks.
Thank you for your submission, but the Agnelli Agency is not accepting new clients at this time.
It’s a sucker punch to the gut. My last shot, and they’re not taking new clients. No mention of whether they even glanced at my reel. It’s cold and impersonal, no suggestion to submit again later or addendum to stay in touch. I wasn’t worth the time of day.
Fuck.
My eyes brim with tears, and I blink as they start to roll down my cheeks, hot and stinging.
How could such a succinct sentence be so devastating?
I shouldn’t have fucking looked. Not before this flight.
A shaky breath leaves me as I fight to regain control of myself, batting at my tears with the back of my hands even as I see Ryan glancing at me through the car window.
They’re waiting on me. The whole team is going to see me like this.
I brush an arm over my face, wiping my tears off on my sleeve.
“Miss?” The driver says.
“Sorry.” I shove the car door open, ignoring the look Ryan gives me as I stagger out. I snatch up my travel tote and make a beeline for the plane as the driver moves to unload my luggage. I just want to get this over with.
Coach Marshall is waiting when I board. When he sees me, he looks me over and jokes, “Was starting to worry you weren’t coming, Fred.
” Then, probably noticing the redness of my eyes, his features twist in concern.
Pulling me aside, he whispers, “I’ve got some drowsy medication in my bag.
Don’t tell him I told you, but Sokolov hates flying, too. Always pack a little extra for him.”
A snotty laugh escapes me at the image of a big, stoic Russian man like Sokolov white knuckling a flight.
“Thanks, Coach,” I say, sniffling. “I should be good with some wine.”
Coach Marshall gives me an unconvinced look, but nods. “You just let me know.”
Falkenberg is sitting in the first row of seats, looking casual in his usual black joggers, this time paired with a black knit sweater.
A large pair of headphones covers his ears.
He looks clean, a few strands of dirty blond hair curving elegantly away from his part.
His icy gaze briefly lifts to me as I board, probably drawn by my staring.
He frowns. My eyes linger on him for an extra second before I tear my attention away, making my way to the back of the jet.
It feels like a death. My work isn’t good enough.
I’m not good enough.
Two years on my own, and I have nothing to show for myself. I’m just daddy’s little girl, working the job he made for me, right under his thumb.
The pilot makes some barely discernible call over the intercom, but I turn on my noise-canceling headphones and shut out the world.
The jet door closes and a nauseating feeling takes over.
It’s going to be a long flight. I stare out the window as we start to roll, watching the desert fly by.
The plane tips up, and Los Angeles falls away. I let my tears fall, too.
Sadness weighs heavy on my eyelids and my body.
I’m able to sleep the first half of the flight, and I might have slept the whole thing if I wasn’t woken up by something pointy and sharp hitting my face halfway through.
Blinking awake, I look down to see a vomit-bag-turned-paper-airplane in my lap.
I rip my headphones off and look for the culprit.
The rookies—Thompson, Chapman, and Fontenot—are snickering amongst themselves, though the latter looks a little guilty about it.
“Fucking morons,” Poirier grumbles from my left where he’s trying to sleep.
I grab the plane, smooth out its edges to make sure they’re extra stiff, and throw it back. It nails Thompson in the cheek. Fontenot and Chapman erupt in laughter, and I shake my head. Dicks.
It’s dark outside. We’re somewhere over northern Canada.
I don’t think I’ll fall back asleep, so I bother the flight attendant for another mini bottle of wine.
She asks if I’d like two, and fuck it, I would.
That way, I won’t have to bother her again in ten minutes.
I’m in the process of unscrewing one of the caps when a shadow falls across my dimly lit seat.
“Nice aim.”
I immediately recognize Falkenberg’s sharp, baritone voice, and my head snaps up. The plane is rocking a bit, and my gaze lands on where his long, sturdy fingers grip the headrest next to me for balance.
“Maybe you have some athleticism after all,” he adds when I don’t reply.
“I’m a champion at drowning my sorrows,” I reply with a feigned smile, emptying one of the bottles into my plastic cup. A tinge of shame hits me but I swallow it down. I don’t know why I’m telling him this. I look up again to find him watching me with a stern look. “Can I help you?” I ask.
To my shock, he folds himself into the seat next to mine. “Give me one.”
I stare at him, my gaze shifting from him to my tray table, then back again. “Get your own.”
“I want this one.” He snatches one of the bottles and its corresponding cup, unscrewing the top and pouring it for himself.
“You’re taking up my seat.”
“No, that’s your seat.” He nods pointedly at my chair, then proceeds to check his watch. I can’t believe him. I attempt to snatch the bottle out of his hands, but he moves it high out of reach, holding it away from me. He clicks his tongue.
“Why are you tormenting me? You have your own perfectly comfortable row on the other side of the plane.”
“The lavatory’s occupied.” He points at the glowing red lavatory sign. “Tremblay knows how to take his time. I might as well enjoy a glass of wine in the meantime.”
My lip curls in disgust. “Thank you for that very solicited information on Tremblay’s regularity.”
Falkenberg gives me a sardonic smile, and even though it’s not particularly warm or genuine, it makes my stomach somersault. “You’re welcome. Like his gameplay, he’s consistent.”
My upper lip curls. Hoping maybe he’ll just go away if I ignore him, I lift the window shade and peek out, seeing only darkness and a blanket of stars overhead.
“Five more hours,” he says from over my shoulder.
No such luck.
“I hate flying,” I mutter.
“It doesn’t bother me anymore.”
I look back at him. Disclosure of a fear of flying is hardly a scandalous secret, but I think that’s the first personal detail he’s ever shared with me willingly.
“It used to?”
“Before I started playing professionally, the farthest I ever traveled was Finland, and that was by boat. I was never actually afraid of the flying part, but there’s nothing fun about being trapped in a closed tube traveling six hundred kilometers per hour.
It still bothers me if I let myself think about it too much. ”
“You seem like the type,” I remark.
His eyes narrow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing,” I shrug. “Only that control freaks are usually pretty claustrophobic, if I had to armchair psychologize.”
“I see. And from my armchair, I’d say your life could use a little control. You’ve probably never looked at a calendar or planner.”
“Oh, you couldn’t pay me.”
“You’re probably late to every appointment.”
“By at least ten minutes.”
“How disturbing. Your floorboards are probably buried under a decimeter of dust.”
“I don’t know what a decimeter looks like, but I’m sure it’s true,” I reply.
“I don’t even want to think about your refrigerator. I can practically see the old produce and condiment bottles that expired three years ago. Year-old spills clinging to the drawer bottoms.”
“You need to live a little, Falkenberg. Where’s the fun in life without expired salad dressing? Anyway, claustrophobia never bothered me. I’ve never been someone who needs to be in control,” I say.
I’m thinking more about my wild partying days a few years back, but the lingering look Falkenberg gives me makes me realize how the comment sounded. He looks away, and suddenly I’m all too aware of his nearness—the way his thigh almost brushes mine.
“Dying in a fiery crash would beat cancer any day, though,” I say quickly.
For whatever reason, it’s the wrong thing to say. He frowns, examining his cuticles.
“Yeah,” he says after a moment, then glances between his watch and the lavatory sign. Still occupied. I don’t know why, but something about what I’ve said has upset him. Even more surprising is the concern and inkling of regret I feel.
“Are you excited to go home?” I change the subject.
“Stockholm isn’t home.” He rolls his eyes.
“Close enough.”
He snorts, some of the tension slipping away. “There are a lot of Swedes who would berate you for saying that.”
Then he takes a packet of what looks like candy out of his pocket and pulls out a black, sugar-coated disk.
It smells like licorice. He eats one. Then he offers the bag to me.
I’m not the biggest fan of licorice, but I never say no to sweets, so I try one—and almost immediately spit it back into my napkin.
My eyes start to water. It wasn’t sweet. It was salty.
“Are you trying to poison me?” I rasp.
“They’re good,” he glowers at me.
“Yeah, if you like chewing on asphalt.”
He shrugs and eats another one.
“So is your family going to come to the games?” I ask.
He pauses with the candy—candy being a loose term—in his cheek, as if considering how to answer. “No,” is all he says.
“Oh.” I get the sense I’ve said the wrong thing again, but he doesn’t leave. Desperate for something to break the thickening silence, I say, “So do you watch movies, or how do you kill the time on these flights?”
“I usually just study game clips,” he replies.
He still hasn’t touched the bottle of wine he stole from me. I’m starting to wonder if he took it just so I wouldn’t drink it.
“That sounds riveting,” I say.
“One mistake can end a career. Especially this year.”
At that, my guilt threatens to crawl its way out of the Hannibal Lecter prison cell I’ve locked it in. I swallow it back down.
“You still have to live your life,” I reply, not looking at him.
“I’ll live my life when I retire.”
“That’s only like three years away.”
“Ten,” he corrects.
“Thirty-seven? That’s grandpa-aged in hockey years.”
He gives me a contemptuous look. “Then I guess I’d better work hard to impress your father. So he thinks I’m worth keeping on the payroll.”
There won’t be a payroll, I think, nausea twisting my insides. Maybe I should take Coach up on one of those drowsy meds after all.
“Good luck. Nobody impresses him,” I say.
“In general, or is that a you specific problem?”
“You don’t know the half of it, Falkenberg.” I throw back the rest of my wine.
Falkenberg looks like he’s about to respond, but then the glowing red lavatory light switches to green.
“Fucking finally.” He practically shoots out of his chair. Is he so relieved to be rid of me?
“It’s a warzone in there,” Tremblay says as he slips through the door and scoots past, looking traumatized. Falkenberg gives him a dirty look. When the team captain passes me without another word on the way back to his seat a moment later, I’m not disappointed, I swear.