Chapter 25
Mattias
I can’t focus. Maybe it’s the fact that I’m home and I keep wondering if there might be someone I know sitting out there in those stands.
My mind is anywhere but the puck as we shift into our starting line on the outdoor Stockholm city arena.
It’s hard not to look at Hearst. I know she’s watching, probably filming, too, and it puts my teeth on edge.
Ever since yesterday, I’ve been plagued with a disgusting sense of guilt.
I shouldn’t have fantasized about her. I should have just stuck to watching porn like a normal, mindless idiot instead of fantasizing about people I know. People I work for.
When did I become such a pervert? And why her?
I could barely look her in the eye during the first half of our outing yesterday.
I was so caught up that I couldn’t even refrain from teasing her about The Incident when she’d indirectly brought it up, if only so I could gauge her reaction.
The masochist in me wants to know if this inconvenient little attraction isn’t entirely one-sided.
I’m still not sure.
Even so, I would be a complete and utter fool to do anything about it. She’s not worth my career, something I keep reiterating to myself—even if thinking of her as nothing but an obstacle to overcome feels increasingly cruel.
I was happy when the rain cut our afternoon short so I could go back to my room and resume studying game clips, but of course she hadn’t brought an umbrella. She was so distraught at the possibility of ruining her camera that I had no choice but to give her mine, ruining my coat instead.
There are few things that smell worse than wet wool.
Our goodbye was awkward—all out-of-breath thank yous from her, the cold reddening her throat and cheeks, while I stood there wordlessly, skin hot, my hands shoved deep in my soaking wet pockets. Our oddly intimate conversation lingered between us before I finally nodded and returned to my room.
Now I’m supposed to play a hockey match, when I’ve hardly had time to prepare.
An autumn wind barrels through the trees as the puck hits the ice, demanding my attention.
Maybe it’s the cold weather, but I’m slower than usual, and Hornstull Ishockey Klubb, a.k.a.
HIK—the current highest-scoring team in Sweden—snags the puck and barrels towards H?kk?nen.
I rush after them, my lungs burning as I try to intercept a pass, but their forwards have too much of a lead on me.
Their sly wing tips the puck into the net, right behind H?kk?nen’s back, and it catches in the netting with a soft thwap.
Goal, HIK. H?kk?nen lets out a string of curses and I don’t have to speak Finnish to know they would earn him a slap from his mother.
On the next play, Bell manages a breakaway but I’m not where I need to be when he tries to pass to me and HIK snags possession again.
Fuck. My heart rate must surpass 200 bpm as I chase their center down the ice, but he weasels his way past me, smirking at me beneath his visor.
He swivels his hips into position to shoot, and I reach my stick out in a last-ditch effort to intercept, but it lands too high and a whistle blows. Slashing. Into the penalty box I go.
I’m breathing hard as I take a seat, pulse pounding in my ears while sweat drips down my face.
My gaze wanders over the stands, looking for anyone familiar.
I don’t spot anyone I know, but that doesn’t mean nobody is here.
It’s been a few years, but I’ve played with some of these guys before—back when we were younger.
A lot of them are trying for the NHL but haven’t made it yet and probably never will.
It makes me ill to think that if this season ends poorly, it’s highly likely I’ll end up back here—vying for a spot with HIK, playing in Stockholm.
Might as well shovel my own grave at that point.
I catch sight of Hearst. Bundled in a downy coat, she’s sandwiched between her crew.
The short, grumpy one is wearing a full parka, the taller one holding their boom with a lit cigarette hanging out of their mouth.
Hearst’s lips move as she instructs her cameraman to make an adjustment, and from this angle, it almost looks like she knows what she’s talking about.
Like she cares about the game. I tear my gaze away.
My timeout ends and I’m back on the ice.
We’re on to the second period and down by two to a team who doesn’t even compete in our league.
Determined to claw back those goals, I manage to snatch the puck from one of their wings, powering up the slapshot Coach has been having me work on. I swing and—fuck!
Their defenseman slams me into the boards so hard my knees nearly buckle. The impact and his weight knock the wind out of me, and I gasp for air as the taste of copper fills my mouth.
“Watch your stick,” he says to me in Swedish. I do my best to shake it off, but my entire body feels rung like a bell. The referee ignores the check and the game moves on.
My shift ends and I’m back on the bench, my bones thoroughly rattled.
A few of the guys give me odd looks. I know they can tell my head isn’t in it, but I won’t acknowledge it to them.
For the rest of the match, I refuse to let my eyes or thoughts wander from the game.
When we scrape out three more goals to win, I don’t so much as glance her way.
I can’t. Too much is at stake, for me and the team.
“Got a stick you need me to dig out of your ass, Captain?” Poirier says under his breath on the locker room bench. Coach has just finished ripping us a new one and the mood is tense. We won but it was sloppy, and against an amateur team. Far from satisfactory.
“Not really,” I grit out as I pull my jersey over my head and start unstrapping my pads. I don’t discuss my feelings in general, and definitely not within listening distance of the team.
“Uh-huh.” Poirier bends to unlace his skates. “I get it. Going home blows. That’s why I don’t do it.”
I hum in response.
“Thank fuck Saskatchewan doesn’t have a team.
I don’t know what I’d do if we had to play up there.
Even Alberta’s too close for comfort, though I don’t think my old man would make the trek.
His wife never lets him stray far from the trailer park.
If I’m lucky, I’ll find some hot American girl to adopt me into her family one of these days. ”
“Careful what you wish for, Poirier,” I grimace.
“What, you don’t think I could do it?”
“I don’t think you’d like it.”
“That’s rich, coming from Captain Celibate himself. Or have you finally made a move on Little Hearst?”
My eyes fly up, looking around to make sure nobody’s heard him. Luckily nobody seems to be paying attention to us.
“Are you trying to get me fired? I have no interest in making a move on her,” I hiss.
I do want to keep my job, even if I happen to have experienced some passing fantasies. I guess that’s what avoiding sex for months on end does to a man. I should really consider doing something about that.
“Don’t lie to me, Falkenberg. I might be an idiot, but I’m not stupid. I see the way you look at her.”
“I don’t look at her any particular way,” I snap back, but even as I say it, I know it’s a lie.
“I just hope you’re not blue-balling yourself too hard. Need you in prime condition if we’re gonna make a comeback this season.”
“Believe me, I’m painfully aware,” I say flatly.
“I don’t blame you. She’s hot. And cool.” Poirier looks up at me slowly. “But are you sure she’s not just schmoozing you to get on your good side?”
I bristle, not liking that thought at all. Hearst seems genuine. It’s not like she’s made things easy for me. You never know what people are hiding, though. It doesn’t matter. I won’t allow her to get any closer to me.
“I’m out,” I say, heading for the showers. I don’t want to hear or think about any of this. Poirier knows me better than most, but if he’s noticed something, it’s possible the others have, too.
Not good.