Chapter 52
Freddie
I’m up early the next morning, wasting no time getting to Grace’s to finalize the rough cut of the film.
I’m ready to close this horrible, depressing, shameful chapter of my life and move on.
The cut doesn’t have to be perfect—there will be time for polishing, color correction, that sort of thing later—I just have to get the streamers’ eyes on it before my father has a chance to close the deal.
I glance at my phone before getting dressed and find a text from Poirier.
Reeve
They’re keeping him sedated for a while to help with the swelling.
The text makes my heart sink, but I don’t have time to dwell on it now. I have a private equity firm to bury.
“Dude.” Grace opens the door on my second knock. She looks like she’s been awake all night.
“What?”
“You didn’t tell me you were making a bombshell.”
I blink at her. “If you’re not comfortable, I’m sure—”
“Shut up. I’m so here for it. I mean, if you are, obviously. It’s your family that’s gonna get their shit rocked.”
I purse my lips. I haven’t let myself dwell on what my sister and mother will think of me. I can only hope that when everything comes out, they’ll understand.
“I don’t see another way out. My name is all over this thing. If I want a chance at having a respectable career down the road, I have to own it.”
“You could ride it out, take the money, start your own production studio, and in five years, nobody is gonna remember any of this. You know these LA people have goldfish brains.” She leads me into her editing room.
“Just telling you, there are other options. I wanna make sure you’ve really thought this through. ”
It doesn’t feel like a choice at this point. Poirier’s accusations and something about the L-word surface in my brain. I slam that Ghoulie of a thought back in the mental toilet it came from.
I take a seat on the sofa behind her gameresque swivel chair. “Let’s just do this.”
Grace spins around, grinning like Annie Wilkes in Misery. “I was hoping you’d say that.”
She said she had a rough cut thrown together, but her version of a rough cut is pretty damn polished.
I knew Grace was talented, but I didn’t know how fast she was at editing.
I’ll have to keep that in mind for the future—if I have any kind of career after this, that is.
My stomach sinks lower and lower as we comb through every scene, voiceover and transition.
I still can’t believe I’m really going to do this, but I’m not going to turn back now.
It feels like I’m on autopilot as the frames fly by.
The season is almost over already. I’ve been here for all of this.
For a while, this was my life. It’s all surreal now.
My revision requests aren’t extensive, but some of them are tedious.
Grace tells me she thinks she can have a more polished cut for me in the next three days.
Micke’s asked me to call him, but I head downstairs the next morning to grab a quick bite before I ring. Taking a croissant, I close the pantry door—and nearly jump out of my skin when my mother is there waiting for me, looking as happy as the screaming head in Sinister.
“Is something on your mind, Freddie? You haven’t been around much lately,” my mother says.
“Busy wrapping up the documentary.” I stuff half the croissant into my mouth. Swallowing it, I add, “I’m scheduling a premiere for next weekend.”
“That’s wonderful.” My mother looks pensive, like she wants to say more. True to her character, she changes the subject instead. “How’s the team captain?”
Part of me wonders how she knows, because she certainly doesn’t read sports headlines and I don’t think my father is even aware, but Manhattan Beach is a gossip pit. She probably heard about it at the country club or her Pilates studio.
“He has a Grade 3 concussion. He’s going to be out for a few weeks,” I reply carefully like I don't care, not wanting to give her any crumbs to follow.
“That’s terrible. And right before the playoffs, too. Well, maybe next year,” my mother says, like that’s any bit comforting.
Suddenly I don’t feel like finishing my pastry.
“Yeah.” I check the time. It’s just after 5 p.m. in Sweden. Micke should be off work by now. “I’ve got a call to make. See you later.” I don’t know how much more I can take being around my family before this thing premieres.
“Hello?” Micke answers on the first ring. The worry in his voice guts me.
“Hey, Micke. No updates other than that he’s going to need some rest and recovery. They’re keeping him sedated for a while, as far as I know.”
“Oh.” His voice falls. “Have you seen him?”
“Not today.” I don’t think Mattias told Micke what happened between us, or he wouldn’t be asking me that so easily. “I’ll go check on him soon. I think some of the team are there this morning.”
“That’s good. Please keep me posted. I told our mother.”
I wince. “How’d it go?”
“I think she’s worried. She tried to play it off like it’s just part of the sport, but she keeps bringing it up.”
There’s a flutter of hope inside me. I wonder how Mattias would feel if he knew that.
“So, just keep me informed, okay?”
“Of course. But Micke, there’s one more thing.”
“Yes?”
“Given the circumstances, how would you and your mother feel about coming over here for his comeback game?”
A few days later, I pick up a flash drive from Grace on the way to the hospital.
I don’t really know what I’m doing, but I’ve managed to gather a get-well basket: a tray of the most icing-covered cinnamon rolls I could possibly find, several jars of pickled herring, and ten bags of that disgusting salted licorice from a foreign candy store at The Grove.
It’s a shitty attempt at an apology, and he’ll probably throw the whole thing in the trash, but it’s the best that I’ve got right now.
Freddie
Here. What floor are you guys on?
Reeve
Sorry Fred. Had to head out. Game this evening, but he’s on the 6th floor
I glance at the time and curse. Guess I’ll have to take it up myself.
I scoop the basket into my arms and head for the check-in desk.
Stopping briefly to count the hospital floors, my eyes linger on the windows of the sixth.
It’s a cold, soulless place, regardless of what the dinged-up nun statues in the lobby would have you think, and it makes me sad to know he’s here alone.
“Name and patient you’re here to see?” The receiving nurse on the sixth floor says when I step out of the elevator.
“Oh, I’m not staying. This is for Mattias Falkenberg. Could you make sure he gets it?” I offer her the basket.
Her face brightens. “Oh, Mattias. He’s in room 614. You can drop it off yourself, just be quiet. He’s sleeping.”
Is that what they’re calling medically-induced comas these days? Sounds like a line from a Ryan Murphy show. I don’t really want to see him, conscious or not, but the nurse is looking at me like I’m an angel for bringing him a basket.
“Thank you,” I say and head for his room.
I stop outside his door. It’s open, but the lights are off and there’s no sound except the occasional beep of medical equipment. With a grimace, I hold my breath and go inside.
He’s lying completely still in bed, breathing slowly, his eyes closed.
It’s a weirdly peaceful sight, considering the cables and patches attached to his head and chest. Without looking away from him, I set the basket down on the recliner in the corner and slowly move towards the bed.
His IV arm lays palm-up at his side, and it makes me ache to see him like this when he should be padding up for tonight’s game.
I reach out and take his hand, and it feels like his fingers twitch. I freeze, horrified, but then I remember he’s sedated. A reflex, probably.
“I’m so sorry, Mattias,” I whisper, tracing the sharp edge of his jaw with my eyes, up to where brown lashes fan out over high cheekbones and the relaxed slant of his mouth. Even like this, he’s handsome.
“I’m sure I’m the last person you want visiting you.
I get it. I wouldn’t want to see me, either, but I want to make things right.
” My eyes trace the shape of his hand encased in mine, wondering what it would be like to hold it for real.
I guess I'll never know. “I’m hosting a premier of the documentary at the rink at the end of next week and I’ve left a copy for you in the basket since I’m sure you’ll have no desire to attend.
I hope you’re out by then, at least. I can’t tell you how sorry I am, but I thought maybe I could show you. ”
I give his hand one final squeeze.
“You never have to talk to me again. Just watch it. Please. Oh, and just so you know, Poirier’s gonna beat the shit out of Armstrong for you,” I add.
With that, I slowly tear my fingers from his, stopping in the doorway to cast him one last glance before leaving the room.