Chapter 54
Freddie
I’m a nervous mess. The last week has been a study in masochism getting everything ready for tomorrow’s premiere.
I’ve invited all the streamers, the Hollywood trades, the LA sports news networks and of course, the players, the staffers, and their families.
Everyone who has even the slightest investment in this organization has been invited. Including my father.
His presence is the most nerve-wracking of all.
A voice in my head tells me it’s not too late to turn back, that I could just show the other cut of the film, but I know there’s no turning back now.
Grace and Margot have put too much work into helping me do this.
I don’t expect Mattias to show, but I wonder if he watched the cut.
Given the way things are between us, I’ll probably never know.
“This is the start of your career,” my father tells me in our box the day before the premiere. His private equity partners are there again as well, like sharks circling a kill. They’ve all seen and approved the decoy cut Grace made. None of them have any idea what’s coming.
“Yeah,” I say, rolling my lips together as trepidation creeps down my spine.
“Goal, Monarchs!” an announcer booms. The horn blares. We’re on a four-game winning streak at home.
“Gloves are off! You know you’re in trouble when Poirier’s in the mood,” one of the investors chortles while he sips his beer like he’s some sort of fan, as if he isn’t about to dismantle the entire team. Poirier’s about to be the most in the mood he’s ever been.
Down on the ice, the defenseman slugs a player a head shorter than him. Devault takes two hooks to the jaw, then they’re at each other’s throats. The referee’s whistle screeches as their fists fly. Poirier’s escorted to the box.
That’s when I see him.
Helmetless, Mattias’s straw-colored hair catches my attention, a flash of gold among black helmets on the bench.
He’s down there with them, wearing his jersey and slacks, one leg crossed over the other.
My breath catches. I didn’t expect to see him before he was fully recovered.
He’s smiling a crooked smile at something Westergren’s said and my heart practically stops.
Then, he turns and his eyes lift to mine. His smile fades. I raise a hand and wave at him slowly, unsure of what to do. He doesn’t wave back. He just holds my stare for a stuttering heartbeat, before turning back to the game.
I deflate. Really, Freddie? A fucking wave?
I wish I could kick myself.
“Who was that?” My father asks.
“Nobody,” I murmur, though my eyes linger on the back of Mattias’s head. I wonder what he’ll do if I fail. Who he’ll play for next. In what city. What women he’ll meet.
That way lies ruin.
“You look ready to murder,” Grace says the afternoon of the premiere.
I’m standing in front of her full-length mirror, turning profiles in the slender black dress I’ve chosen.
It’s sleeveless with a halter tie that spills down my back.
A little sexy for the rink, but technically this is my directorial debut.
Grace, Margot, Ryan, Parker and I are all crammed into Grace’s bedroom. Margot even brought a bottle of champagne, and I take a sip from my flute to settle my nerves.
“If anyone bothers you, let me know. I have lawyers for my lawyers,” Margot adds.
“You scare me,” Ryan says flatly.
“Good.” Margot winks.
“Not me,” Parker drawls, leaning against the doorframe with their scrappy arms crossed over their chest, looking at Margot with raised brows. Margot opens her mouth, then closes it—seeming suspiciously intrigued. I’ll have to ask her about that one later.
“I couldn’t have done this without all of you,” I say, raising my glass to them all. Taking another sip, I realize my hands are shaking.
Parker pulls me into a one-armed embrace.
“You should have told me we were fixin’ to take down a PE firm, Fred. I woulda done this for free,” they say, making me laugh.
“I don’t know about free, but this is going to put my cinematography on the map.
Plus, I got front row seats to a hockey season out of it.
Although the Bears fan in me will deny I enjoyed any of it.
Can’t complain too much,” Ryan adds, standing there awkwardly, like he’s not sure if he should hug me or not.
“Shut up, ya douche,” Parker replies, pulling him into our hug as well. The three of us share a tight squeeze. I swore I wasn’t going to cry, but my eyes sting.
“You’re doing the right thing, Fred. Not just for yourself, but for everyone,” Grace says.
Margot nods. “The community deserves to know it’s being strip-mined.”
I draw a shaky breath and nod, pulling away from Parker and Ryan. Grace offers me a refill, but I decline. I want to remember tonight in perfect detail.
“Car’s almost here. Any last words?” Grace says.
“No.” I take one last look at myself before my life changes forever. “Roll sound,” I say, like we’re setting up a take.
“Sound speed,” Parker replies, grinning.
“Camera rolling,” Ryan adds.
“Action,” I say. They all follow me out.
My father’s rented an actual red carpet for the event. It’s like watching him prepare his own funeral and he doesn’t even know it. There are a few photographers outside, but I don’t stop for them. With my head held high, I go in.
The rink’s transformation steals my breath.
The ice has been converted into a theater with a large silver projector screen standing in the center.
The stands have been alphabetized and numericized for ease of seating.
There’s even a small concession stand offering wine, beer, and candy.
I’m early, and the seats are only about twenty percent full.
I don’t see any of the streamer reps I’ve invited, and I shift nervously at the prospect they won’t come.
Well, at least KDLA Sports is here. If nothing else, they’ll be enough to get the word out.
A few minutes later, a string of curses to my left tells me the players have started arriving, and my heart falters. I’ve been so wrapped up in planning the premiere that I’ve hardly had time to think about their reactions.
There’s Moreau, Fontenot, Chapman, and Thomas, followed by H?kk?nen, Sokolov and LeBlanc.
Bell arrives with Poirier and Tremblay a few minutes later.
I’m straining my neck so hard it might break, but I see no sign of Mattias.
My heart sinks, even though I knew it was naive to hope he might come. Grace slips her hand into mine.
“You’re going to be okay,” she whispers in my ear. “Ride the lightning.”
I don’t feel like I’m going to be okay, but that’s fine. This isn’t for me. This is for them.
I look around one last time, but Mattias is nowhere to be seen.
Instead, I see my father, my mother, and even my sister, who my mother made fly home for the weekend from Yale just for this.
Next, the investors arrive, and they look smug—the way I’d imagine them looking the moment they pulled the plug on someone’s grandma.
I can’t wait to wipe those grins off their faces.
The press begins to arrive, poised to take notes.
Finally, a few streaming executives trickle in, looking bored, though I suspect they won’t be for long.
I take a deep breath and turn around, just as the lights dim.
The documentary opens the way I know it will, with an interview with my father.
A man unknowingly about to be throttled by his own daughter, Heavenly Creatures-style.
I never planned on owning a hockey team, he says, the screen cutting briefly to black before panning out for a view of Los Angeles, backdropped by the snowy San Gabriel Mountains.
Cut again to skates scraping across the ice, LeBlanc sinking a goal into the net in one of the more impressive shots of the season.
The sound of the goal horn trumpets through the dark rink, and I steal one more glance at my audience.
They’re already captivated, soft smiles on their lips, pride in the season we’ve built glowing across their faces.
Losing them is going to rip my heart out.
Grace squeezes my hand, as if she feels the tension radiating from me, just as Margot leans in to whisper in my ear. “Relax.”
It’s impossible. I spend the next few scenes staring at my feet as the documentary wheels through the early season.
Training camp, the preseason, the exhibition matches in Sweden.
It all feels like a lifetime ago. I don’t look up when I hear Mattias speaking in an early interview, but the sound of his voice makes my heart ache.
We’ve been building this team for a while.
I think this is the year it could really pay off.
I clench my jaw, knowing what happens next.
The documentary cuts to footage of my uncle, of the news segments that played back then, condemning his scandal.
I’d bet my money on Hugh Hearst being the man to turn this ship around, one anchor says, just before the camera cuts to an exterior shot of Eros Capital Management’s office building.
The rules have recently changed in our favor, comes my father’s voice, referring to the league’s decision to allow private equity firms to own minority stakes in NHL franchises.
A few murmurs rumble through the audience. I force myself to keep watching.
The next segment is an intercut between the season’s early highlights, their locker room post-games, players in the press box, and secretly recorded audio.
On the books, it’ll be my personal decision to sell.
Real estate’s worth a lot in this town, and this practice rink isn’t worth the price to build here. We’ll knock it all down.
Someone gasps to my right. To my left, a reporter whispers into a recording device. One of the players says my name—I think it’s Fontenot. I ignore him.
“Something’s wrong,” my father’s voice cuts through the murmurs. “Can we shut it off?”
I’ve locked the projector room. The film keeps playing, panning through a whirlwind of emails and tentative agreements fully exposing my father for the fraud he is.
“Turn this off!” his voice booms, but he’s the only one shouting. Everyone else is enraptured. Nobody pays him any mind. When he shouts my name, I wince, but I don’t look his way.
It’s too personal now, like watching my father be slowly dissected in front of me. I can’t watch, so I release Grace’s hand and head for the exit. Several voices call after me, but I don’t listen. I burst through the rink doors and sprint up the stairs before anyone has the chance to follow.