Chapter 30
Freddie
I check my phone as we reset for different coverage.
Grace
I can’t believe your father’s trusting me with post-production. You know this is going to turn out to be more of a fancam than a documentary, right? Make sure to get some clips of them stretching. You know what I’m talking about.
I snort. Even without the cheeky texts from Grace, staying professional while filming the holiday special is a challenge.
Once we’re rolling again, I break at least three takes because I laugh before Mattias can get past his introduction.
On the fourth take, Parker stomps on my foot, resulting in an ow that also ruins the take.
Finally on the fifth take, he’s able to move on.
I printed out the recipe for Mattias, both in Swedish and in English just in case he’s not used to our measurements, but he doesn’t even glance at it.
He talks us through his process as he seasons and forms the ground beef, prepping his cast iron as if he’s done this a million times.
I don’t know why, but he never struck me as the cooking type.
His kitchen is immaculate, to the point I subconsciously assumed he’d never actually used it.
Falkenberg’s apartment barely looks lived-in, either.
Though the wood floors and high ceilings are nice, the floorplan seems small for a professional athlete, and I smirk when I remember what Margot said about her mother missing out on her commission.
It could use a few plants to liven up the space, but the furniture is nice, with earth-toned upholstery and bronze and wooden accents.
I only caught a peek at his living room, but the foyer looked as though it’d never seen a footprint. Maybe he is more Patrick than Norman.
I swallow, watching him while he’s distracted with peeling potatoes, observing his meticulous fingers.
I can’t lie, I’m proud of myself for the getup.
If even I find watching the notoriously standoffish team captain dressed in a Santa apron and hat entertaining, I can only imagine how much the fans are going to eat it up.
Plus, there’s something weirdly alluring about seeing him in his own space.
My thoughts wander to the polished wooden staircase adjacent to the entry hall, briefly wondering what his bedroom looks like. I blink and shake my head.
“All good?” Ryan murmurs. He must think I was shaking my head at the video feed.
Falkenberg’s eyes snap up to mine and he pauses, midway through mashing a potato.
“Yeah, keep rolling,” I say. The team captain watches me for a lingering moment before returning his focus to cooking.
The whole process takes longer than I thought it would.
By the time I’m staring at a full plate of meatballs, mashed potatoes, lingonberry jam, and brown sauce, nearly two hours have passed.
The kitchen smells like warm spices and gravy, and my stomach makes a loud noise, reminding me I haven’t eaten since breakfast.
“And cut! I think we’re good here,” I say.
The team captain’s agony switches to visible relief. He rips the hat and apron off and tosses them aside.
“Those are too photogenic,” Ryan says from behind me as he dislodges the rig from his shoulder. “The plate looks like you pulled it out of a magazine.”
Mattias shoots him a caustic look. “Is that a problem?”
“Relax, dickhead. I’m trying to give you a compliment.”
Ryan’s right—the plate looks perfect, and Falkenberg didn’t glance at the recipe once.
“I think they look like a moose took a shit, but that’s just me,” Parker says.
“Don’t listen to Parker, they’re Texan,” Ryan says, clapping Mattias on the shoulder. The team captain moves away from his touch, resulting in a petulant look from Ryan.
“Only bad meat needs sauce,” Parker drawls, fishing around in their pocket for a cigarette. They tuck one behind their ear.
“You can all leave now,” Falkenberg says. I glance at the oven clock, seeing it’s almost nine—just as Falkenberg snatches the plate and crosses the kitchen like he means to toss them.
“You aren’t going to eat them?” I blurt.
He stops, his hand hovering above the trash can. “They’re not in my regimen.”
“Well, they’re in mine.” I march over to him and grab the plate out of his hands. “Give me those.”
I can’t believe he was about to waste good food like that. I take a seat at his kitchen table and look at him expectantly. He looks like a deer in headlights.
“Y’all have fun with that. I’m hitting the taco truck.
Ryan, if your white bread taste buds aren’t gonna combust, you’re welcome to join,” Parker says over their shoulder.
Ryan shakes his head and finishes packing up his gear.
Mattias gives me a sharp look like he’s not sure what to do with me, then follows to let them out.
Suddenly my heart jumps into my throat. My appetite nearly disappears at the prospect of being alone with him. I hear the door open and close a moment later.
I didn’t plan for this.
It’s just meatballs, Freddie. I’m just going to eat them and be on my way—assuming he doesn’t break out a tarp and chainsaw and filet me on his dining room table.
Falkenberg reappears in the kitchen, pulls out a fork and knife from a drawer, and brings them to me, a wary expression on his face.
“Thank you,” I say, hoping he doesn’t hear the waver in my voice.
He watches me as I take a stab at a meatball. “Your knife is there for a reason.”
“What’s a knife?” I say. I’ve spent enough time with the team by now to know how it irks him when people don’t use one. He gives me a reproachful look.
“Since you’re making yourself at home, would you like a glass of wine as well?”
“Are you drinking with me this time?”
“I have early practice tomorrow.”
I shrug. “More for me.”
“You’re driving,” he scolds as he disappears.
“So bossy,” I say when he reappears with a bottle of red and one glass.
I’m really trying not to drink alone anymore, but damn, my heart is practically beating out of my chest so I’m not going to say no.
He twists it open with a pop. I bite into a meatball while he pours me a glass, and it’s delicious—so savory, with seasonal spices.
The lingonberry sauce adds the perfect amount of tartness. “Where did you learn to cook?”
“You’ve met Micke. Goaltenders eat at least eight meals a day.” He takes a seat across from me, crossing his arms.
“Your mom didn’t cook?” I say slowly, knowing it’s a risky question. His hand stills.
“She was never much help after my father passed. She tried for a while, but once we were old enough to feed ourselves and take the bus to school and hockey practice, she gave up.”
“Do you have other siblings?”
“No, just Micke.”
My brows lift. I have a hard enough time taking care of myself. I can’t imagine what it would be like if I’d had to raise Elle, too.
“Is your mom in Stockholm?”
“In Rimbo,” he corrects. “She still lives in our childhood home, but I haven’t spoken to her in years at this point. Micke checks on her regularly to make sure she’s feeding herself.”
“Does she work?”
He examines his cuticles, like they’re the most interesting thing he’s ever seen. “She doesn’t have to anymore.”
So, he supports her. I take a large gulp of wine—which is probably inappropriate, given the bottle looks half-decent, something he’s saved for an occasion, but I don’t really care. It’s earthy and smooth. Mattias’s gaze flickers up to me, lingering on my throat as I swallow.
“I’m really sorry to hear that,” I say. “It sounds like you had to grow up too fast.”
“Don’t pity me, Hearst. It wasn’t so bad, and Micke takes care of himself now.
Besides, I make enough now to ensure my mother’s taken care of for the rest of her life, and I can look after Micke’s family, too, if he needs it when that time comes.
There’s nothing to worry about anymore.” When I don’t have a response to that, he adds, “So then what’s your tragedy?
How does a sweet girl like you end up cut out of the family trust? ”
I laugh at the way he says sweet girl, clearly mocking in that Swedish lilt of his. It’s kind of funny when he puts it like that. I finish my glass and skewer another meatball on my fork.
“I dropped out of business school two years ago. My father won’t release my inheritance without me earning a business degree, which is never going to happen. I don’t want all the pressure and surveillance that comes with that money anyway.”
“A business degree? Why do you need that?” His upper lip curls. “Doesn’t he know you want to be a filmmaker?”
“Yes, and he disapproves. I don’t think it’s really about my career. It’s about keeping me under control.”
“So, he doesn’t care what makes you happy.” It’s a statement, not a question.
It almost sounds like he cares what makes me happy—or like he can relate.
“Happiness isn’t the goal,” I sigh. “The goal is making sure the family stays richer than god.”
“So, you don’t have any money?” His icy eyes are razor sharp.
I flush. I don’t normally tie wealth to worth, but for some reason, his comment makes me feel unworthy.
I don’t want him to think I’m a failure, I realize.
Clearing my throat, I say, “I get by. I’ve got enough to keep me afloat for a while, and like I said, I don’t want to be part of the trust, anyway.
That’s why I took this job. Do I look like the kind of girl who’d make a hockey documentary by choice?
” It’s an attempt at steering the conversation away from my flaws.
“You look like the kind of girl who can’t tell a stick from a puck—or at least you did at first. Admittedly, your game intuition has improved substantially.”
I look at him incredulously. “No way you just complimented me, Falkenberg.”
He stands and crosses to me, leaning over me to grab the plate. In doing so, he leans down close to my face and whispers, “I would never.”
His lingering proximity and the way he continues to hold my gaze sends a rush of heat straight to my core. This close, I can see the darker ring of blue around his irises, the way his pupils are beginning to eclipse it.
“Good,” I whisper back. “You wouldn’t want me to get the wrong idea.”
His gaze darkens and I clench around nothing, my breath turning shallow.
I hardly believe what’s happening when he snatches my chin between his fingers and drags my mouth open with the pad of his thumb. My pulse pounds, his eyes boring into mine.
“Don’t push me, Hearst,” he says, a threat in my ear as the pad of his thumb swipes over my lower lip to remove a smear of berry.
It’s unfair, the way three little words can make me so miserably wet.
I’m done dancing around each other, playing this little game. I grab a fistful of his shirt, and pull his mouth to mine.