Chapter 36
Mattias
“Have you seen Freddie much this week?” Poirier asks me in the locker room the morning of the Denver match. It still reeks of H?kk?nen’s sage. He always burns sage in away locker rooms before a match. Unfortunately, I don’t think it’s working, because I feel nothing but cursed lately.
“Seems like she hasn’t been around,” Poirier says when I don’t reply. He casts me a sidelong glance.
“I haven’t noticed,” I reply, leaving before he decides to test his investigative abilities.
I think she was jealous. She tried to frame it as a dig, but that woman can’t mask her emotions to save her life.
The thought that she might be jealous of an evening where I brushed off every woman who so much as looked my way makes me laugh.
We ended up at Birds of Paradise that night, and to Poirier and Westergren’s dismay, I found an excuse to leave that shitty club as quickly as I could.
Still, the thought of her lying awake, wondering who I’ve slept with gives me a smug sense of satisfaction.
I can’t believe that little witch had the nerve to scold me about keeping things professional, only to turn around and act like she has some claim over me.
Judging by the looks she kept shooting me on the shuttle when she thought I wasn’t paying attention, she’s not as over it as she wants to appear.
What she doesn’t realize is that I’m always paying attention to her.
Despite my best efforts, I’m still miserably aware of where she is and what she’s doing, wondering what she’s thinking about.
We lose against Denver, but hold our rank. There’s an energy in the air, something I haven’t felt since my first year with the Monarchs. This season feels different. When I leave the ice after practice before our matchup against the Vancouver Geese, my mood is uncharacteristically bright.
It dies the moment I enter the locker room.
“You guys see that viral post about Freddie the other day?” Thompson says.
I hate the way her name sounds coming out of his mouth, the way he’s cozied up to her despite the things he said about her, and it takes every bit of will I have to act unfazed.
I continue stripping my skates off like I don’t give a fuck, even though I’m pretty sure my blood is already nearing a boiling point.
“The one where she and some date caused a scene at some restaurant? Yeah,” Fontenot laughs. “That guy probably got what he deserved.”
My jaw clenches. Date?
“Who gives a shit what she does in her free time?” H?kk?nen says, taping up his stick.
“I just thought it was funny.” Thompson shrugs. “Freddie’s such a firecracker.”
“Pay attention to shit that actually matters,” I say.
Several pairs of eyes lift to me. Thompson looks dumbstruck, and I know I’m overreacting, but I don’t care.
I’m burning to pull out my phone for once and scroll until I find exactly what they’re talking about, but I know if I don’t shove all of these thoughts into an airtight mental box right now, I’m going to be useless for the match later.
I get up and head for the showers before I say anything else I’ll regret.
I have to stop caring about this. I have to stop caring about her.
I spend the next couple of weeks fighting my hardest to get out of her orbit.
It’s easier than I thought it would be with games to focus on, but I still catch her watching me.
At least I don’t really have to direct her anymore.
She knows the team now, knows how we play.
They all high five and fist bump her in the training center like she’s one of them now.
She’s a lot better at this than I ever thought she’d be, which is even more frustrating.
I think I’ve almost moved past my fixation when Poirier gets a text on Thanksgiving night.
What started out as a ritual of ours—a Canadian whose Thanksgiving falls in October, and a Swede who’s unfamiliar with the holiday—has become a tradition for the non-American guys on the team. They’ll be over anytime now.
He reads it, then settles back into the sofa with a smirk on his face.
“What is it?” I say.
“Freddie said the holiday special is gonna drop soon.”
“She texts you?” I balk. Worse, I’d almost forgotten about that thing. Soon there are going to be clips of me in a fucking Santa hat all over social media.
“Not confident in your cooking skills?” Poirier raises a brow.
“That’s not it,” I reply stiffly.
“Does it have something to do with the fact that I never see you and Hearst flirting before games anymore?”
My jaw clenches. “We were never flirting.”
“Uh-huh.”
“She understands the game now. I no longer need to waste my time lecturing her.”
“You know I can tell when you’re bullshitting, right?”
I scrub a hand over my face. “Please fuck off.”
Poirier cackles. “You fucked her, eh?”
“No,” I say firmly.
“Does her dad know?”
“H?lk?ften,” I say. He’s known me long enough to understand what that means. Shut the fuck up.
“It’s okay to like her, you know.”
I level him with a murderous look—only to feel my face fall. For once in his life, he looks sincere and it makes my stomach fold in on itself.
“No, it’s not,” I say.
“Why not?”
“Her father and Coach Marshall have both made it explicitly clear. Even if they hadn’t, the last thing I need this season is a break-up.”
He ignores the last part. “Who cares what they say? She’s a grown woman and she should be able to make her own choices about who she dates.”
“You know what the Cup means to me.” I don’t say it outright, but the weight of what I mean presses down on us. He knows about my father. How he died supporting a glimmer of a dream and left me holding the torch.
“Plenty of guys in the league have relationships.”
“And look at their stats.”
“Not all of them. Wallace is married, so is Baird. They’re two of the highest-scoring fuckers in the league.”
“And they’re on their way out.”
Poirier gives me a dark look, appearing hesitant before speaking. “You’re not that young anymore, either. Neither am I. We’ve got five years left if we’re lucky, maybe six or seven if the universe feels like granting us a miracle. Maybe you should start thinking about what comes after hockey.”
I swallow hard, trying not to appear like he’s just cracked my head against the boards. It’s something I haven’t let myself think about. Moving on with my life without a championship to my name, knowing I failed—it makes me sick.
“I’m sorry, dude. I’m just trying to be realistic.”
I force myself to swallow. “It’s fine. You’re right. I guess I just don’t like thinking about it. Most guys don’t have to think about retirement at thirty.”
“And most guys don’t have their name on a fifty-million-dollar contract.”
“Fine. But what the fuck am I supposed to do after this? Move back to Sweden and buy a farm? Tend to the sheep and goats?”
“Or you could stay here,” he shrugs.
“I don’t like it here,” I reply.
“Don’t sweat it, Mattias. You don’t have to worry about that shit today. It’s tomorrow’s problem. All I’m saying is, if something makes you happy, maybe you shouldn’t be so quick to write it off.”
The doorbell rings, saving me the misery of forming a reply. Poirier opens it, revealing Tremblay, Krej?í and Arsenault. Their arms are decked with bags of takeout.
“We brought Thai, just like you dickholes asked.” Tremblay saunters in. “Sokolov and Westergren should be along soon. Andersson's with his wife. H?kk?nen said he had a sauna appointment and LeBlanc’s probably jerking off.”
I’m happy for the reprieve, but still, smiling takes work. It’s tomorrow’s problem, I tell myself again as I head for the curry, for once eager for a night with the guys.