Chapter 35
Freddie
Freddie
Which dating app is the least bleak? I need a distraction
Grace
It depends on your preferred flavor of bleak
Freddie
Let me rephrase: on which platform will I see the fewest pictures of men holding dead fish or bragging about their cryptocurrency holdings?
Margot
Easy fix: change your preferred matches to women.
Freddie
If only I could.
Grace
They’re all bad, but I find Crushed has the least NPCs. By the way, this holiday special footage is hilarious. I feel like I kind of have to edit it. Who knew Falkenberg could pull off an apron like that? I can’t believe that made you jump him, you demon.
With the files in Grace’s hands, I can finally forget about The Dinner Table Incident and try to focus on the season.
It’s getting harder to look the Monarchs in the eyes, but to Grace’s point, I don’t have to take any actions just yet.
Fortunately, the season is shaping up to be a good distraction.
We’re presently ranked five out of eight in the western conference.
Riding a two game win streak, Coach Marshall seems uncharacteristically optimistic.
Not that I’m letting myself get invested.
I can’t.
Still, I find myself wishing my interest was in acting rather than filmmaking as Falkenberg approaches me before the game the following afternoon.
I hate that I’m dying to know if he slept alone last night.
If some other woman made herself at home in his kitchen this morning, sipping a mimosa out of the same glass I used.
“Falkenberg,” I say cordially. He’s wearing his skates, adding considerably to his height.
“Hearst.”
Succinct. Professional. He looks down at me, and for a moment, I think I see a hint of resignation in his eyes, but then he’s all business. Not a hint of I recently gave you the best orgasm of your life on my kitchen table to be seen.
“Ticket sales have picked up, though I’m not sure if that’s because you guys are doing better or because all the Mallards fans are driving in,” I say in an attempt to re-establish our relationship as boring, and above board, and not one where I swoon over how tall he is in his skates.
“Mallards fans never leave their couch.” He rolls his eyes.
Was that a joke? An attempt to make me laugh?
“How was your Halloween?” It sounds more jealous than intended coming out, and I cringe.
“Wouldn’t you like to know,” is all he says as he turns and leaves me. Whatever rapport we’d had for a moment there dissipates.
I stare after him as he strides back to the locker room, then begrudgingly head to my place behind the bench.
The game gets off to a breakneck start. Morales scoops the puck off the drop, sending it flying past the Mallards’ goalie within the first thirty seconds of the game.
The victory is short-lived, because Lorenzo Tribuzio, the Mallards’ left wing, slapshots the puck past H?kk?nen a minute later.
The crowd erupts in boos, which means they’re actually paying attention. That’s new.
A smile tugs at the corner of my mouth—followed by a fresh sense of guilt.
I’ve considered the unfairness of pulling the rug out from underneath these players and the organization, but the city?
I haven’t really thought about that. I guess it never occurred to me that we could really convince this town to love hockey, but if we do, only to sell the team…
it would be a dump truck of salt in an already gaping wound.
Focusing proves impossible. Mattias’s shift ends, but then he’s back on the ice to assist Sokolov in another goal for the Monarchs. I barely have time to register it before Falkenberg makes a goal of his own. Two, back to back. The goal horn blares and the crowd erupts in a standing ovation.
“Fuck yeah!” Ryan shouts next to me, punching the air.
I swallow, watching the team captain as he sails past the bench, high fiving his team. He doesn’t spare a glance my way. Nor should he. So why does it hurt?
We beat the Mallards six to two, and even Ryan and Parker seem caught up in the hype of the moment, but I can’t help feeling like I’ve lost something despite the season moving in the direction I need it to.
I should be thinking about the business model for the production company I’m going to build when I have a fresh twenty-five million in hand, but instead I’m just thinking about hockey.
I spend the next few days swiping on a dating app.
Putting my profile together was more brutal than Eli Roth’s Hostel.
Worse, swiping is even more agonizing than building a profile.
Instead of fish, these LA men are showing off their sports cars and Emmy awards.
In the end, I do end up matching with a good-looking photographer named Grant whose style I like and whose politics don’t seem threatening, so when he asks me out to a wine bar in Echo Park the following Friday, I say yes.
I haven’t gotten dressed up since the Puck-Drop Banquet, and it’s nice to feel pretty in my slip minidress, oversized trench and vintage slingbacks.
The bar he’s chosen off Sunset Boulevard is a total hole, with a killer wine and cheese list. It’s the kind of place where young Hollywood hangs out, where you might run into the series lead of the latest teen drama in the bathroom.
“Freddie?” I hear a moment after I step inside.
My head turns and I see Grant in a booth along the wall.
He stands when I start towards him. He’s well-dressed in a bowler shirt, pleated pants and loafers, his dark hair curling behind his ears, and I don’t mind it when he gives me a loose hug.
He smells warm, like orange and spice, and the shy, dimpled smile he gives me is endearing.
“Thanks for saving me a seat.” I slide in across from him.
“Fashionably late. I like it.”
I glance at my watch and see that I’m twelve minutes late. Falkenberg would have scolded me. You’re probably late to every appointment. I can hear the low drone of his voice in my head, and it makes something ache in my chest. I blink the thought away.
“Traffic,” I say lamely.
“Well since you’re late, I get to pick the wine.”
“A man who asserts himself,” I remark. Potential Red Flag number one.
His brows lift. “You have to be, these days.”
Not entirely sure what he means by these days.
Potential Red Flag number two. He orders us a bottle of Italian red and a cheese plate, and when the latter lands in front of us I remind myself to take it slowly and not annihilate the brie.
That would be considered uncouth and unattractive and everything else I got slapped on the wrist for in etiquette lessons.
“I can’t believe they have this bottle. It’s one of my favorites. I discovered it at a small trattoria in Montalcino last summer. I think it only cost eight euros.” He chuckles, giving me a conspiratorial look. “Gotta love Tuscany. Have you been?”
“Thrice, actually,” I lie, because I have a feeling he’s going to talk my ear off about it if I say no. I’ve never been to Italy, but I’ve eaten enough pappardelle to know where Tuscany is on a map. Sort of.
He plucks an olive off the spread and eats it, giving me a look of approval. “Then you know.”
“I prefer Napa,” I say.
He looks aghast. “Criminal.”
I smile at him. He’s handsome in a conventional way, with dark eyes, tan skin and a demeanor that says he sleeps with anyone of his choosing. I can’t help wondering why he’s out with me. I haven’t gotten the sense that he’s recognized me, but I can’t be sure.
Falkenberg’s voice teases in my head. Which one is he? Cheating husband? Podcast host?
Podcast host for sure, I want to reply.
“So what do you do, Freddie?”
Straight to the networking, then. This is why I dropped out of business school. On the bright side, I guess he has no idea who I am.
“I’m a filmmaker. My passion’s horror but I’m currently working on a documentary.”
“I love documentaries. What kind?”
“Sports,” I reply vaguely. His excitement visibly dampens, reminding me exactly what the art world thinks about my current undertaking.
“Cool,” Grant replies. It’s obvious he doesn’t think it.
I can feel myself getting defensive. Being a pretentious art kid myself, I know exactly how it must look, but it actually is cool. I don’t hate hockey anymore. I actually like it, and if this guy took two seconds to pull his nose out of his own ass, maybe he would, too.
“What kind of photos do you take?” I take a piece of cheese between my fingers, throwing my manners to the wind.
“I think of them as subtly thought-provoking and emotive. Would you like to see some?”
“Sure.”
He’s already got his phone out, and it takes him no less than two seconds to boastfully shove it in my face.
Scrolling slowly with his thumb, he gives me a front row seat to his portfolio—which I can only describe as porn for sad alt boys.
It’s picture after picture of naked twenty-something women, smoking cigarettes and looking doe-eyed at the camera while they read magazines in bed.
Their tits and asses are on full display, their other parts barely concealed by the sets in which he’s posed them—sunflower fields, vintage chaise lounges, outdoor showers in some countryside villa.
“I took that one in Sicily,” he says, confirming my exact thoughts.
“Wow.” I hand his phone back to him.
I know his type. He’s not much better than the jocks he likes to shit on, but he hides his womanizing behind a facade of artistic intent. Exactly the kind of man I loathe. If I had a choice between encountering a self-proclaimed artistic man or a slasher in the woods, I’d choose the slasher.
Mattias could probably crush this dickhead’s skull, and he’d probably lecture the guy about boasting and bragging while he did it.
My train of thought is a glaring reminder of why I came here. Unfortunately, putting my lips on this man has about as much appeal as re-frying a cigarette from the ashbin outside.
“Shit,” I say suddenly, interrupting his ramble about the time some fashion house paid him to shoot an editorial in the Dolomites.
“What?”
“I forgot to take my Lactaid. I need to leave.”
“Are you alright?” He stands, reaching for me.
“Send me a picture of the receipt,” I say as I grab my bag. Only, I grab it too fast and it swings over the table, knocking his wine glass on the floor. It shatters, and I’m horrified to see a few dark red droplets soaking into his bowler shirt. The couples around us look startled.
“Shit. I’m so, so sorry,” I add. “Send me a request for the shirt, too. Gotta go.”
With that, I make a beeline for the exit without another glance his way. When I step back outside into the fresh air, it feels like taking my first breath in an hour.
Later, I come apart on my hand, picturing Falkenberg’s face.