Chapter 37
Freddie
“I like it,” my father says. I blink twice. I don’t think I’ve ever heard those words out of his mouth.
“Really, Mr. Hearst? You think the fans will like it?” Grace says in her most kiss-ass voice. I glare at her.
“I do.”
We’ve just shown him the rough cut of the holiday special and he liked it. Grace is a highly talented editor, but there’s something deflating about his praise when I know if I’d been the one to edit it, he’d have had a laundry list of critiques.
“Final cut by Thursday,” he says.
Grace gives me a nervous look. Even I know that’s a grueling timeline.
“I have another project I’m working on at the moment, Mr. Hearst. Is Friday okay?” Grace asks.
“Let’s call it Friday,” he agrees, then leaves the room.
My mouth opens, then closes, disbelieving. Not only did she negotiate with him, but he accepted it. Meanwhile, he’s spent my existence making the threats from I Know What You Did Last Summer look like love letters every time I’ve so much as dared to contradict him.
Grace must sense my mood, because she pulls me into a hug. “This timeline is batshit, but it’s gonna be so good, Freddie. Your ticket sales are gonna spike, and when you start your own studio you can hire me as an editor without involving your dad at all. We’ll be at the Oscars before we know it.”
“I know. Except we won’t be at the Oscars because they snub horror, but still. We’ll be somewhere. Somewhere that isn’t a hockey rink,” I reply—a sinking feeling overcoming me as the words leave my mouth.
Where will Mattias be, then? Coach Marshall? Ines?
“Then fuck the Oscars.”
“Fuck the Oscars,” I echo.
The words are an echo in my hollow chest.
The day the holiday special drops, I’m a bundle of nerves.
The thing has my name attached to it in big white letters at the top of the credit roll: Directed by Frederica Hearst. I used to dream of this day, but seeing my name just makes me feel empty.
I’m not proud of myself for this. Even still, imposter syndrome taunts me, my father’s words unraveling me like the Babadook in my head.
You should have stayed in marketing. Nobody is going to like this, there’s no artistic value.
Nobody is going to want you to make theatrical films with your name attached to a sports doc.
I wonder if Mattias plans to watch it. Not that it matters.
I grab a bag of overly buttered popcorn and spend the rest of the evening watching my comfort flick: John Carpenter’s Halloween. If only my life’s antagonist were a masked slasher, instead of a monster with a human face that’s starting to resemble my own.
There’s a palpable uptick in energy at the next home game. The buzz is electric, and I wonder just how many people the holiday special turned out. My phone vibrates as I find my mark along the boards.
Dad
Streamer says viewership is better than expected. Good.
It’s impressive how even his rare compliments feel conditional.
A few sharp bursts of feminine laughter erupt behind me, stopping me from my spiral, and I turn to see a group of 20-something women filter into the bench behind me.
Every single one of them is wearing a Monarchs jersey.
They settle into their seats like they’ve got season tickets.
I swear I’ve never seen them before. On another day I might have smiled, but today there’s a lead weight attached to my spirit.
It looks like the holiday special had the intended effect. More people invested in the team. More people for me to disappoint when it comes out that I was an accomplice to its demise.
The arena goes dark, bright spotlights falling on the cold ice as the music rises, and for a moment I don’t have to think about all the orange-and-black clad fans who love this team.
It’s showtime. Horns blare and the players pour out of the locker rooms, the arena erupting in a thunder of cheers.
The women behind me scream so loud, I worry my ear drums might blow out.
Mattias is one of the last ones out, but he hits the ice like a lightning bolt.
Sometimes I forget how fast he is. My eyes track him as he makes a few swift, pointed laps of the arena, and Ryan must notice the team captain’s uptick in energy, because he pans the camera as Falkenberg skates past the bench.
“That’s him, daddy!” comes the voice of a child from my left. I look and see a small boy sitting on his father’s lap. The child is practically drowning in his kids-sized Monarchs jersey and beanie, but I see an unmistakable number 24 on the child’s arm. My heart sinks. Will this child cry, too?
The puck drops and the Pioneers take possession, only for Mattias to intercept a pass.
He turns it over to Bell, who slips it to Fontenot, who sends it back to Mattias—who’s somehow already near the net.
He slapshots it past Lefebvre and the goal horn blares, sending the crowd into a frenzy.
When the period finishes, it’s 1-0, Monarchs.
The second period has barely begun when Poirier checks the Pioneers’ left wing into the boards with a resounding crack!
I watch through Ryan’s monitor as their wing, Marcus Russell, throws his gloves down and swings a hook at Poirier.
Poirier takes it on the chin, hardly fazed before he grabs Russell by the sweater and starts bashing the guy’s face with his fist. The crowd whoops and hollers and in the frenzy, some man behind me throws his empty beer cup, which nails Parker in the head.
“Watch it,” they snap at the man in question. For a second I wonder if the man’s gonna get his ass beat, too. I glance back at the ice, watching as two refs pull Russell and Poirier apart. Poirier goes straight to the penalty box, looking way too pleased with himself on the jumbotron.
Falkenberg scores another goal on the next play, only adding to the fiery energy in the arena.
Everyone jumps to their feet to cheer Mattias on, revealing how three of the women behind me are wearing his jersey.
It feels like they’re only here to ogle him, and it grinds my gears—which doesn’t make sense because this is what I wanted.
The whole point of the Christmas special and the documentary had been to encourage this exact outcome.
The arena is the fullest I’ve ever seen, and it’s in part thanks to me.
Women were the target audience. I should be happy about it.
The Monarchs manage to fend off the Pioneers for the remainder of the second period, and it becomes clear San Francisco’s losing steam. Mattias lands a third goal for a hat trick and everyone throws their hats onto the ice, sealing the Pioneers’ fate.
4-0, Monarchs. The team piles onto the ice and swarms Mattias, burying him in hugs.
He doesn’t so much as glance my way. I shouldn’t still be thinking about him like this.
Then, I think of Micke, watching at home in Sweden, and briefly wonder if his mother would ever turn on a game.
If she hasn’t just yet, but she might. I think of how I’ll be profiting off of their heartbreak, too.
It’s enough to make me sick.