Chapter 24 #2
Another thick silence passes between us.
My mind is whirring so loudly, I wonder if he can hear it.
Is it possible Falkenberg’s attracted to me?
Surely not, not when he can have his pick of women between LA and Stockholm and probably everywhere in between.
I’m a troll in a human suit compared to the women in his league.
But then how do I explain whatever this is?
A flash of white on the water derails that train of thought. “Is that a swan?”
“Looks like it,” he says, disinterested.
“Holy shit. I need footage,” I say, starting off towards the water’s edge—only for him to grab me by the back of my collar and stop me in my tracks. His fingertips brush the base of my neck, making me shiver.
“Don’t run into the bicycle lane. You’ll get mauled,” he admonishes, dragging me back down onto the bench next to him.
Heat creeps up my cheeks. “Oh. Sorry.”
He scoffs. “Don’t apologize to me, Hearst.”
“Get a load of that fucker. It’s huge.” I point my camera towards the bird, watching it glide effortlessly over the water.
“Of course you like swans,” he mutters.
“They’re gorgeous,” I retort.
“They’re assholes. Have you ever been in a fight with one?” he asks.
I snort. “No. And you have?”
He raises a brow at me and I laugh.
“Did you know the term “swan song” came from a myth that swans sing when they die?”
He sighs. “Why do you know things like that, Hearst?”
I grin, lowering my camera. There’s something striking about him in his knee-length wool coat, his straw blond hair curving perfectly over his forehead. The autumn air has nipped the skin of his high cheekbones, turning them pink, and his eyes reflect the grayness of the sky.
“Because I’m determined to find the beauty in the horrors, Falkenberg. Otherwise, what’s the point of any of this?” I finally say.
His expression turns contemplative for a moment, his hands shoved deep in the pockets of his wool coat. He looks like he’s thinking about something, then hesitates before saying, “Why were you crying on the flight?” he asks, with all the tact and delicacy of Ash Williams in The Evil Dead.
“I wasn’t,” I say roughly, then lift my camera back to my eye.
I get up and walk to the water to shoot a few closer stills of the swans.
I don’t want him to think I’m weak and I don’t want to talk about this right now, or ever—not with him at least. Still, I’m so aware of him that I feel the moment he comes to stand beside me.
“You’re a bad liar,” he says, taking one of those asphalt-flavored candies out of his pocket and popping it between his lips.
I frown at that, because growing up with a dad like mine, I’ve unfortunately come to think of myself as a good one.
Good thing I don’t believe in Hell, 'cause I’d be waltzing through those gates.
I look at Falkenberg through my lens, snapping a few candid flicks of him. “And since when are you a shoulder to cry on?” I say.
He comforted me in his own way when he sat next to me on the flight—whether he realized it or not, though I’m not going to tell him that.
“Did the team do something?” He sounds genuinely concerned. I lower my camera, chewing the inside of my lip.
“No, it wasn’t them.”
“Sam, then? I could get him fired. I’ve thought about it.”
I almost laugh, but then I realize that for all I know, Sam might be part of that twenty percent being laid off anyway and my heart sinks. I try not to wince at the thought.
“It had nothing to do with the Monarchs,” I reply. He looks skeptical, and I realize if I don’t explain myself, I might incriminate the rest of the team.
“It was a rejection email,” I sigh. He looks at me strangely, so I explain. “From a directors’ agency. They rejected my request for representation, and they were kind of my last shot. Everybody else has rejected me, too.”
I scrub my hand over my face to disengage my tear ducts. Already, I can feel them stinging again.
“Do you think it’s not good enough?”
There’s a seriousness in his expression I haven’t seen before.
My first instinct is to say yes because I have a penchant for self-pity, but then I recall what he said just minutes ago—that I’m a bad liar, and I realize I don’t want to lie to him any more than I already have to. The truth is, I’m not sure anymore.
“I’d like to think that I could be good enough, but how can I really know when nobody will give me the chance to prove myself?”
“Your father won’t pull some strings for you?” To my surprise, I don’t hear any judgment in his tone.
I shudder. “He could, but I don’t want him to. He’d hold it over my head for the rest of his life. I don’t ever want to owe him anything else. I want to earn my own money, move out of his house, and never think about his opinion of me again.”
Falkenberg looks away, but he squints at the sky like he’s mulling something over. “I understand. My father has been dead for twenty years and I still feel like I owe him everything. I don’t know if that will ever change. I don’t know if it will for you, either.”
My mouth falls open at the revelation—at this deeply personal piece of information that I don’t feel I’ve earned at all.
“I’m sorry,” I manage, not knowing what else to say. Suddenly I feel like an insensitive twat for bitching about my father to someone whose father isn’t even here anymore.
“It’s okay. It was decades ago,” he replies with a shrug. “It was a car accident. He was taking me to hockey practice and the roads were icy. A lorry lost control going into a roundabout. I don’t remember the crash. When I woke up in the hospital, they told me he was gone.”
I recall the scar on his collar and the insensitive shit I said on the plane, about dying in fiery crashes and asking if his parents were coming to watch the game. God, I should really consider sewing my mouth shut, like that scene in Ouija.
“That’s partially why winning a Cup is so important to me. He died helping me chase my dreams. I want them to amount to something,” he adds, picking up a rock and skipping it over the water.
“Fuck. I’m so sorry about what I said on the flight. I feel like an asshole,” I mutter into my scarf, bunching it up to cover my face.
A cold hand wraps around my wrist, lowering my hand. Falkenberg is looking at me, the corners of his lips tilted up to my surprise.
“Don’t. You didn’t know.” His gaze flits over my face and he looks like he’s about to say something else, but then decides not to. What were you going to say? I want to ask him, but I never get the chance.
The sky opens and it starts pouring rain.