Chapter 40
Mattias
I don’t like Christmas. I especially don’t like Christmas in LA, where it takes over the shelves starting in September, snow is an impossibility, and everyone is roped into a frenzy over whether the new car, diamonds, or plane tickets to Bora Bora they’ve just purchased are satisfactory enough.
Mostly, I don’t like Christmas because my father loved it.
I vividly remember him sitting in his armchair every December, Swedish Julmusik playing on the radio, his hand wrapped around a gin and tonic while the fireplace crackled and burned.
Every year, he’d take my brother and I to the neighborhood Julbord, where we’d play in the yard in five degrees below freezing, throwing snowballs, looking for the northern lights, and eating pickled herring until we were nauseous.
Then my father died, and Christmas was never the same.
Another year with the Monarchs, another Christmas Gala.
I adjust my bowtie in the bathroom mirror, scowling at a stretched bit of stitching along one of the lapels.
Not too noticeable, I hope. It’s a rental, so I’m not sure what I expected.
One of these days, I’ll spring for a tux of my own since I’m forced to attend all these formals, but the thought makes me want to knock my own teeth out.
They’re a waste of valuable time that could be spent training instead.
I give myself one last grimace and leave the restroom.
Christmas cynic that I am, I’m in a slightly better mood than normal when surrounded by Monarchs staffers, board members, and investors.
It definitely has nothing to do with the possibility of running into a certain off-limits film director.
I glance at my watch, then at the double doors on the other side of the ballroom.
No sign of her. I shove my hands in my pockets and set off to find Poirier.
A waiter approaches me with champagne, but I wave him away with a terse no, thank you. When I spot the defenseman in question, he’s standing next to Bell. In the corner, I see Fontenot and Thompson loading up their plates with an impolite amount of cheese and charcuterie.
“You’re missing a button.” Poirier points at my jacket.
“Where?” I examine my sleeves and jacket and find all my buttons accounted for. I look up and find Poirier snickering, which makes me want to kick his knees out from under him. “Shut up.”
“Some big wigs here tonight, man. What’s that about?”
“Who?”
Poirier nods toward several men in suits exchanging words near an ice sculpture. I haven’t seen any of them before. They’re older, but they don’t belong to the board of directors. I’d know, because I’ve memorized all of their faces.
“Dickhole Brigade, if I’ve ever seen one,” Poirier mutters.
Bell slides up to us, looking sharp in his burgundy tux. He glances at the three men. “Noticed the entourage, too?”
Whoever they are, they’re here on business. I don’t like it. I make a mental note to speak with Hearst about them. It’s possible she knows something.
“Sometimes I wish I could bodycheck our management.” Poirier sips his champagne. Then, his attention snags on something over my shoulder. “Brace yourself, buddy,” he says under his breath.
My entire body tenses. I know who’s caught his eye and I know I shouldn’t look, but I do anyway.
Big mistake.
Freddie enters the room on her father’s arm.
She’s dazzling in a green, velvet dress that drapes off her shoulders and shows off her throat.
It even flatters the delicate tattoos on her arms. Accentuating her waist, it fans out around her in a cascade.
Diamonds glitter on her neck and ears. She’s so pretty it’s painful.
My gaze slides to her father. His bright eyes are sharp and hawkish, his gray hair coiffed—the picture of decorum in his black tux. The crowd parts for them as they sweep across the floor, and I hardly realize I’m staring until Poirier jabs me in the side.
“At least try not to make it obvious,” he warns.
“Fuck me.” I drag a hand through my hair.
Suddenly the room feels too small, too warm.
Everyone else is looking at her, too, and I want to tell them to mind their own business, but it’s not my place.
She’s not mine. She’s destined for the son of some billionaire or real estate mogul, not a small-town guy from Sweden dressed up like his name means something in the world.
“Let’s go sit, boys,” Bell says. Poirier and I follow him to the banquet tables where name placards outline our seating arrangements.
The tables are set with green garlands and candles, and I take my place between H?kk?nen and Coach Marshall—the latter of whom sent me an earlier text threatening to twist my testicles into a knot if I failed to make an appearance this evening.
He gives me an, oh good, you’re here look when I sit down.
I’ll swim from LA to Svalbard before I ever tell him part of me was looking forward to it.
My eyes find Hearst again. She’s standing near the end of my table next to her father while she converses with the Dickhole Brigade, smiling at something one of them is saying.
Once, I would have thought she was amused, but now I can tell she’s not really laughing.
She’s putting on airs to entertain these people, but she’s not actually enjoying herself.
It’s not until Freddie turns and meets my gaze that I realize I’ve looked too long.
We hold each other’s eyes for a heartbeat, and her plastered smile drops ever so slightly.
Then she breaks contact, taking her seat between her mother and father.
I force my attention back to my empty plate.
Then I do something rash. I take out my phone, and for the first time, I use the number she gave me.
Mattias
Is everything alright?
She doesn’t reply. She doesn’t even look at her phone.
Dinner is tedious. My appetite doesn’t return, and I barely touch my filet.
Occasionally, I glance at the three men at the far end of the table, but I’m too far away to overhear any of their conversation.
I’m sure they wouldn’t discuss anything sensitive at dinner, anyway. Still, their presence puts me on edge.
It’s so difficult to keep my eyes off Freddie.
I watch as she downs her entire wine glass in two swallows, before swiftly ordering another from the waiter.
Something’s upset her. Hugh Hearst gives a toast about the season, but I’m barely listening.
It’s clear he hardly knows what he’s talking about, and every player in the room knows the man couldn’t give two shits about hockey.
He should have let Freddie give the toast.
After dinner, I’m desperate for some fresh air and a break from socializing, so I seek out the patio garden, hoping the cold-by-LA’s-standards December air will keep everyone else inside.
Instead, as I push open the door into the clear-skied night, I’m met with the exact group of people I’m trying to avoid. A curse escapes me, but in Swedish.
“Falkenberg, come join us. Let me introduce you to some friends of mine.” Hugh Hearst signals me over. I don’t spare Freddie a glance as I approach, afraid her father will see whatever appears on my face. “This is Doug, Martin, and Derek,” Hugh says.
I catalogue their names away for later.
“Mattias.” I shake each of their hands.
“Big fan,” the one called Martin says. “I played college hockey. You boys are doing great this year.”
“Coach Marshall knows what he’s doing,” I reply, clipped.
“A Coach is only as good as his players,” Derek replies.
I purse my lips. “I would say it’s the other way around.”
“Don’t be modest, Falkenberg. Darius Marshall had his time, now it’s yours,” Martin replies.
“I like to think it’s the Monarchs’ time.” I reply, checking my watch.
“Freddie was saying the same thing, though I’m not sure that counts for as much.” Hugh chuckles, and the rest follow suit.
All of the fake charm slips out of me. “Meaning?”
Hugh gives me a patronizing smile. “She’s a filmmaker, not an athlete. Most of the sports expertise comes from her cameraman. Isn’t that right, Fred?”
I know it’s not wise, but I allow myself to look at her for the first time since dinner and I’m struck by the expression on her face. Up close, she looks wounded and exhausted in a way I’ve never seen before. Maybe it’s just the alcohol, but her eyes look a little too glassy.
“I have to disagree,” I interrupt. “Freddie knows more about the game than most people attending our matches, and she’s managed to acquire that knowledge in a very short period of time.”
I see her look at me, but I ignore her. Hugh regards me before taking a sip of his Scotch. I don’t know if he considers my repudiation disrespectful and I don’t care, either.
“Some things are best left for the boys,” the weaselly looking one named Doug chimes in, like it’s his place to have an opinion. I want to bash his face in, but I shove my hands deep into my trouser pockets to keep myself from doing so.
“You seem to be paying close attention, Falkenberg,” Hugh finally says.
The comment startles me, but I don’t show it. “That’s what I was assigned to do.”
Freddie downs the rest of her drink. She sets the empty glass in a nearby planter, then digs around in her purse for a moment before saying, “Excuse me, I’m going to use the restroom.”
I don’t miss how she bats at her eyes as she stalks off.