Chapter 28
Freddie
Grace
Guys, the craziest shit happened
Margot
***
Grace
You know that girl on Flicks that’s always moaning about how romance books are corrupting women
Margot
Oh, Polly Puritan?
Freddie
I can’t with these people. Remember when she did a video on why Pennywise is problematic because she was mad people were thirsting over Bill Skarsg?rd? It’s a horror movie!!! Of course it’s problematic you fuckwit!!!
Grace
THAT’S WHAT I WAS GONNA TELL YOU. She ordered my evil clown edition dildo!!!
Freddie
SHE DID NOT. SCREAAMMMM
Margot
You have an evil clown edition dildo? Jail, Grace.
Grace
What??? Pennywise has rizz. He’s tall, Swedish, a little scary. Reminds me of someone…
Freddie
Bye
Flushing, I tuck my phone away and spend the rest of the flight home reviewing clips and putting together Flicks, pausing when I stumble upon the snaps I took of Falkenberg by the swans.
My thumb hovers over the delete button—there’s no reason to keep them—but for some reason, I do.
He looks handsome, with his dirty blond hair tousled by the wind and his cheeks cold-stung.
Candid like this, he almost looks relaxed.
Our documentary, I realize upon review, is shaping up to be uninspiring. It lacks personal connection. I’m going to have to make it more personal and less sporty if I really want to draw audiences. I need to make it more theatrical.
“Can I show you something?” someone interrupts me. I look up and see Thompson looming over me. He’s spoken in a low voice, like he doesn’t want anyone else to hear. He looks nervous for once.
“Sure.” I close my laptop and gesture for him to sit next to me.
“Is this better?” He shoves his phone in my face, which I take to find his revamped dating profile.
He’s replaced the gym selfie with a cute picture taken of him outside our Stockholm hotel, where he looks like he’s genuinely smiling.
I swipe through his profile, no longer finding any manosphere-adjacent rhetoric.
“Wow, Thompson. You almost look dateable,” I remark.
He gives me a victorious smile. “Not as good as your profile, of course, but I didn’t have any fake blood—”
I elbow him. “Run along now. I’m busy trying to make people buy tickets to your sorry games.”
Thompson flips me the bird and disappears.
My eyes seek out Falkenberg, wondering if he’s heard Thompson.
He’s seated up front and hasn’t come back here all flight.
Avoiding me, I think. My mind tracks back to meeting Micke, wondering what it was they discussed without me.
Micke's accent's thicker than his brother's, but conversation with him was way easier. He was so friendly and kind, the mere memory of his grin makes me smile. I wonder where their mother was. Their father’s passed, but Falkenberg didn’t say anything about their mom.
Why wasn’t she at the game?
“The fuck is this?” I hear Ryan say halfway through the flight back. He’s skewered a dripping piece of smoked salmon on his fork.
Something I learned from our brief jaunt to Scandinavia is that Ryan loathes fish. From the looks of it, somebody dropped it in his wine while he wasn’t looking. From the way Westergren and Poirier are giggling like schoolboys, I have a strong suspicion who’s to blame.
“Dickheads,” Ryan says, flinging the piece of salmon over the seat at Poirier’s cheek. It lands with a splat, making Poirier and Westergren erupt with laughter. They laugh even harder when it becomes apparent Ryan is actually mad.
Parker glances up from the book they’re reading two seats over. “Don’t play with your dinner, Ryan. It’s upsetting enough that you only eat baby food, I don’t need to see it flying through the air, too.”
“I don’t eat baby food.” Ryan looks incensed, like he’s never been more insulted in his life.
I stifle a laugh.
“You only eat chicken strips or mac and cheese, or occasionally a slutty little PB&J on a Friday night when you’re feeling naughty,” Parker retorts, adjusting their trucker hat.
I can’t help it—I cackle. It earns me an ugly look from Ryan, which only makes me laugh harder.
“Well fucking sorry I don’t like cold, slimy food,” he says.
“You’re so butthurt,” Parker remarks.
“What’s PB&J?” H?kk?nen interjects in that deep voice of his. I think I might actually cry.
“Good food.” Ryan sits up in his chair. “Something you European fuckwits wouldn’t know anything about.”
“It’s not good. It’s something you feed to third graders,” Parker replies.
“My wife makes it for the kids,” Andersson adds.
Parker gives Ryan a victorious look.
Just then, Poirier twists around in his seat, the piece of salmon resting on a spoon. He holds it towards Ryan’s mouth, like a parent feeding a toddler. “Open up, sweet cheeks.”
Ryan twists his head away. “Fuck off, Poirier.”
“How much?” Poirier says.
“What?”
“How much do I have to pay you to eat it?”
“I’ll eat it for free,” H?kk?nen shrugs.
“Fuck off, H?kk?nen, I’m trying to have some fun here,” Poirier says.
H?kk?nen raises a brow and opens his mouth. “Give it to me, I’m hungry.”
Not hesitating an instant, Poirier plops the salmon directly into the goaltender’s mouth. Ryan makes a retching sound as H?kk?nen swallows it. I gag, too.
“Should have clipped that for my next horror flick,” I say.
“Only if you want an NC-17 rating,” Parker replies.
The rest of the flight home is rowdy and full of laughter. Turns out, hanging around a hockey team isn’t always so bad.
We lose the first two official games of the season.
Coach Marshall sulks around the rink over the next week, disappointment written all over his face.
Morning skates are tense, not helped by the fact that a few of my father’s suited consultants are poking around the sports center, putting everyone on edge.
I’m sure it’s hard for them to put the team’s uncertain future out of mind when strange men are looming in the corners, clipboards and tablets in their hands.
“What are they doing?” Ines pokes her head out of her office, frowning at two of the men skulking in the shadows, like the Gentlemen in the silent episode of Buffy the Vampire Slayer.
Everybody’s on edge after twenty percent of the franchise staff were laid off with no notice last week. Now that I’m back in LA, the grim knowledge that these layoffs are only the start returns to me. I’d been able to put it out of mind for a while.
“I don’t know,” I say honestly, wishing I had an answer for her. Whatever it is, I know it’s nothing good.
“I don’t like them. They better not fire anyone else,” she says sternly, peering at me over her glasses. Her words are a wrecking ball of shame, hitting me right in the gut. All I can do is nod along.
By the time the third home game rolls around, I notice a visible drop off in crowd attendance.
The team isn’t performing well, but I suspect all the fresh hit pieces on my father’s company detailing the layoffs haven’t helped.
I can practically feel my pay-out slipping away.
If things continue like this, though, soon I might not be able to show my face in public.
What have I gotten myself into?
More marketing will help. It’s last minute, but when my father calls me into his office to talk production progress on a Tuesday night in October, a panicked idea hits me.
“Hi, Dad.” My voice is strained as I take a seat across from him.
“Freddie. I’m sure you’ve heard the news about ticket sales.”
Of course I have. Sam from the media office, who still has his job, won’t stop using it as an excuse to text me, mansplaining about what corners of the rink to film from to make it look the most full.
“I know,” I say. “I have an idea I wanted to discuss with you.”
I brace myself to be struck down, to feel Ghostface’s knife in my back.
“I’m listening,” he says instead.
I wasn’t expecting that response. Clearing my throat, I say, “It’s going to be hard to film a documentary hyping up the team if there’s no hype in the arena.”
“You don’t gotta tell me that, Fred. I wasn’t born yesterday.
” He folds his hands over his stomach. His graying hair looks extra thin today—or maybe he just looks wearier than usual.
Suddenly I feel ashamed and sad to notice his aging, but then I think of Falkenberg, and remind myself that aging is a gift.
“This is par for the course for the Monarchs, but the networks aren’t happy as you can imagine,” my father adds, unaware of my existential train of thought.
God forbid network CEOs don’t make forty million dollars a year.
“I think I might know one way to boost ticket sales,” I say cautiously, fully expecting to be torn down. “What about a holiday special?”
He laughs, like he thinks it’s the most ridiculous idea in the world. “This is a hockey team, Fred, not a kid’s cartoon.”
“LA’s an entertainment town. If you want people to get involved in the sports team, you’re going to have to make it more entertaining than just sports.
Half of this town has never owned a sports jersey in their lives.
It’s full of overgrown theater kids and musicians, living on their parents’ money.
If you want to get those people into sports, you’re going to have to make it theatrical. Or at least like reality TV.”
His brow furrows, but he doesn’t say anything.
Slowly, he tilts his head, and for a moment I’m eight years old again, asking my father if we can get gelato after dinner.
While he thinks, my mind wanders to one team captain, who’d probably strangle me himself if he heard the words coming out of my mouth.
I imagine what he’d look like in a Santa hat and apron, forced to bake Christmas cookies and smile for my camera.
“Not a bad idea,” my father says after a long, tense moment.
“Really?” I’m shocked.
He shrugs. “I’m open to trying it.”
I guess he’s in an amicable mood. “There’s one other thing,” I start.
He raises a brow, and for a fleeting moment it feels like we could have a real relationship if we tried—that he could be a father I want to spend time with.
“I’d like to hire Grace for post-production.”
He shrugs again. “Sure.”
It’s a reminder that artists are as interchangeable to him as they are dispensable. Still, my heart lifts at the prospect that I might be able to throw Grace a bone—a thanks for all the ways she’s helped me out the last few years. Plus, she’s just really fucking good at editing.
“I have my plate full as is.” My father stands from his desk.
“This consulting firm is running me ragged with the restructuring, and you don’t even wanna hear about the legal fees.
Do whatever you think is necessary. Just make sure you stay within the allotted budget and don’t make a fool of us. You don’t want me to regret this.”
I wonder if he’s threatening me personally or professionally. Either way, I don’t want to find out. Six more months, I tell myself. Six more months until I’m paid enough money to never have to speak to him again if I don’t want to. I can do this.
My future depends on it.