Chapter 39
Freddie
The next day, Ryan, Parker, and I travel with the team to Edmonton. Falkenberg is cordial and pleasant, and I guess I should be thankful that we’ve seemingly moved past our little error well enough to make eye contact again, but I can’t stop thinking about what he said last night.
I’m not sleeping with anyone, an accent I hardly notice anymore tinting his words.
It shouldn’t matter to me who he fucks or not, and I probably should have kept my stupid mouth shut about the puck bunny nonsense, jealousy isn't a good look, but I just keep remembering the earnestness in his eyes. Like he wanted it to be my business.
Maybe he feels guilty about hooking up with me and wanted to spare my feelings by making me feel like I wasn’t just one out of many, which was courteous, I guess.
I’ve never really been the kind to give a shit about a man’s sexual history, so long as he treats me well and doesn’t pass along diseases (or murderous stalking entities).
Or maybe he wanted to tell you he’s available, says a traitorous voice in my head.
I steal a glance at him across the hotel lobby, foolishly wondering if the man more committed to his career than anyone on this team could possibly have a genuine interest in me.
What would that be like, in a world where such a thing were possible to pursue?
He’s looking out the window, watching the snow fall while Coach Marshall checks us all in.
I wonder if it makes him miss home.
I shake my head. I can’t think about this. The team will sell next summer, and most likely relocate, meaning he’s got about another six months left in LA. I’m not going anywhere. I’ve never wanted to live anywhere else. My life, my work, is there.
It’s hard to focus with the sale date looming closer.
It’s the middle of December already. Soon it’ll be the new year.
Back in LA, I’m sitting in my office, looking up suits who have expressed interest in buying NHL teams, wondering if there’s someone I can pitch besides whoever my father has in mind, when there’s a knock at my door.
Poirier walks in, not waiting for me to open it.
“Hi,” I say, slamming my laptop shut.
“Bad time?” he says all too casually.
“What do you think I get up to in here?”
He shrugs. “I don’t know, Freddie. You’re kind of a weirdo.”
I roll my eyes. “Can I help you with something?”
He folds himself into one of my chairs. “Not really. I came to check on you.”
There’s a furrow in his brow, like something’s bothering him. “Check on me?”
“You haven’t been around as much lately.”
I blink several times. I have been avoidant, but I never thought Poirier of all people would be the one to notice.
I wonder if Mattias has discussed what happened between us with anyone—especially any of the players.
Surely, he wouldn’t kiss and tell, right?
My voice sounds rough as I say, “I’m just working on stuff.
Everything’s starting to come together with the documentary. ”
“Hm. Nobody’s said anything shitty to make you hide in here, eh? I don’t know if you’ve heard, but I like hitting people.”
I want to smile but I can’t, because if anyone deserves a punch in the face right now it’s me. Still, I manage to joke, “You do? I didn’t know.”
His smile fades, his eyes circling over my face in a way that makes me shift in my seat, like he’s searching for something.
Finally, he gets up and says, “Offer’s on the table.
Just let me know.” He pauses on his way out the door, drumming his fingers against the frame.
“Oh, and Freddie,” he hesitates, contemplating his next words. “It’s not often he lets someone in.”
I go still, my throat drying out. Opting to feign ignorance, I say, “Who?”
Poirier gives me a half-smile, then disappears.
“How are you doing, Mija? Staying off the dull skates?” Ines says when I run into her at the vending machine.
“Good,” I lie, barely able to look at her at all. “Hoping we make the playoffs.”
More than anything, I just want to delay the inevitable.
“Yes, it seems like we might have a real chance this year,” she says gleefully, keeping her tone low like she’s afraid of jinxing it. “I saw the holiday special. Tell Ricardo he needs to visit my office next time you see him. His tamales need work.” She winks.
I’m not one to judge. I never learned to cook, and I’m probably too old to keep blaming my parents for that.
I’m too old to keep blaming them for a lot of things, I think.
Like Candyman summoned by looking in the mirror, I get a text from my father on my way out, which stops me in my tracks in the parking lot.
Dad
Come see me when you get home. Have some developments I’d like to discuss with you.
Adrenaline hits my blood. Since when did my father bring me in on business deals?
Am I becoming the sort of person he respects?
And what does that say about me, if so? Not to mention this fucking Monarchs Christmas party coming up, where I’ll be expected to bump elbows with all the corporate staff and express how thrilled I am about a future for the team that doesn’t fucking exist. The stress is enough to make me dig into my bag for my emergency pack of cigarettes and I pull one out to light it.
A door creaks, followed by sturdy footsteps on the pavement behind me. I know who it is before I turn to look. Mattias stops when he reaches me.
“That’s a poor habit,” he says, eyeing me down the point of his nose. His skin and hair are bright in the sunlight.
“Terrible times call for terrible decisions,” I reply defensively. I don’t want him to see me dipping my toes into rock bottom, and I wish he’d just go away.
“What’s terrible?”
“Everything, honestly. Nothing you can help me with.” He doesn’t deserve my current ire, but it’s not exactly shit I can discuss with him. Being around him is only going to make this harder.
He doesn’t leave. Instead, he snatches my cigarette out of my fingers, tosses it to the ground and stomps it out. I gape at him.
The look he gives me sharpens. “Has something happened?”
“No.” Not yet, but it’s going to.
He looks like he doesn’t believe me and I glance away, not trusting my own face.
“Alright then,” he says curtly. “See you around.”
“Yeah.”
When I get in my car, I lay my head on the wheel and let the sobs I’ve been holding back wrack me.
I try to slip through the front door without notice, hoping I can at least make it upstairs for a preemptively calming hot shower before my father’s lecture, but he intercepts me the moment I set foot in the entry. “Freddie, let’s chat.”
It’s not a suggestion.
I swallow my reluctance and nod, following him.
Settling into one of his chairs, I let my gaze trail over the photographs sitting on the shelf behind the desk—stopping on a photo of him and my uncle at an LA Divers baseball game ten or fifteen years ago.
They really are two peas in a pod, in all the worst ways.
“Congratulations on the holiday special. The studio is officially calling it a hit.”
Of course, he’d never be proud of me on his own. Only when outside merit warrants it.
“Thank you,” I force out.
“The consulting firm has estimated a seven percent increase in team value so far this season—thanks to a combination of factors, of course. The team is doing well, the scandal reminded LA they have a hockey team, and your work has been beneficial. No official contract has been inked yet, but I’ve connected with a few potential buyers. ”
Beneficial. That’s all he has to say.
“Who?” I ask. Please, be someone worthwhile, I think. The thought of Mattias ending up somewhere he hates has started to tear at my insides.
“Eros Capital Management.”
I frown, my lingering business instincts immediately telling me I won’t like where this is going. I was expecting one of the names I looked up. “That’s a company.”
“Correct. A private equity firm.”
My stomach plummets. Private equity firms are notorious for one thing: buying up profitable entities, cutting everything that makes the business function in the name of maximizing profit, and then selling them off as a husk of what they were.
They’re going to gut the Monarchs. There’s no other way this goes.
This is worse than new ownership or relocation. We’re looking at total liquidation. Horror dawns on me.
“Wasn’t—wasn’t there someone else? Some businessman or ultra-wealthy hockey fan?”
“Eros is offering me the highest return on investment.”
“PE firms are allowed to buy into the league?” That sounds illegal.
“The rules have recently changed in our favor. The NHL started permitting it two years ago.” He raises his brows at me like he’s just won the lottery.
I’m overcome with complete and utter disgust. “The Monarchs Christmas Gala is next week,” he continues, as if he’s only just mentioned the weather.
“I’ve invited Eros Capital’s C-suite. I suggest you get to know them and show them a good time, considering they’ll be the ones stuffing your pockets and putting you back into the class bracket you came from. ”
He wants me to bump elbows with a private equity firm that’s no doubt planning to rob this franchise and the people who love it for everything they’re worth.
I’d rather eat glass. People say that power corrupts, but as someone who grew up close to power, I think it’s the other way around.
Power attracts corrupt people. Real power is an ugly, vulgar thing, and I’m starkly reminded why I fled this house as soon as I was able.
“I’ll make sure they have the time of their lives,” I force myself to say. “Nothing like a few glasses of champagne to wash down the destruction of an entire franchise.”
“Oh, don’t be so dramatic.” He gives me a reproachful look. “On the topic of earnings, I’ve had my advisor prepare an account for you at the investment bank. He’ll maximize your portfolio for passive income which will give you time to focus on school.”
“School?” I echo.
“It’s in the terms of your hiring agreement, remember? Your cut of the sale will be deferred until you’ve completed your business degree and have been reinstated in the family trust.”
My jaw falls open. I gape at him. I don’t—I can’t—
Deferred pay? Contingent on school?
How could I be so ignorant? I was so desperate for a lifeline, I didn’t even think to check the contract’s fine print. I was naive enough to assume he wouldn’t complete and totally fuck me over like this!
I can’t believe myself. I actually feel like I’m going to throw up and look around for a trash can. Luckily, there’s one at my feet.
“This is all tentative of course, but there are some NDAs for you to sign before we can discuss it further. I’ll email those over to you, along with the tentative sale documents later this evening.”
“Sounds good, Dad,” I choke out, feeling like I’m going to faint.
I can’t go through with this. One way or another, I have to find a way out.