Page 14

ERIK

After a night of the deepest, most comfortable sleep I think I’ve ever had in my life, I wake up to sun pouring through the parted curtains in Luke’s bedroom. I blink, disoriented, before realizing that Luke has his arms around me.

My stomach battles itself, torn between fuzzy bliss and pure dread. Today’s the day.

I turn to face Luke and sigh heavily. The movement wakes him up, and he blinks those gorgeous brown eyes at me before smiling.

And somehow, I manage to splinter even more.

“Morning,” he says with a deep rasp. He nudges a strand of hair out of my face, and as usual, my skin buzzes with excitement at the slightest touch.

“How’d you sleep?” I ask.

“Like the dead.”

That draws a laugh out of me. “Same here.”

“When’s your flight again?”

“It leaves at ten-thirty tonight.” I force myself to not look at his shirt riding up as he stretches. “I’m connecting in Paris.”

“Do you want a ride to the airport?”

I shake my head. “No. That’s too much.”

“Erik, you’re my friend. Of course I’ll drive you to the airport.”

Friend . That fucking stings, but that’s all we can be. I do my best to not let my emotions show. If Luke feels the same way I do, I shouldn’t make it harder for him.

“Are you sure?”

Luke gives me a gentle punch to the shoulder. “Yes, I’m sure. I’ll pick you up at seven so you can get to the airport in time.”

“Thank you. I really appreciate it,” I say.

“Don’t even worry about it. Need any breakfast?”

I’m not strong enough to stop myself from breaking down in the middle of Luke’s kitchen after eating whatever heaven-sent food he cooks up. “I have to go back to my place and clear out my fridge.”

“Okay, makes sense. See you at seven.”

And with that, Luke makes some coffee and I slink out of the door, leaning against the hallway wall as I wait for the lift, lacking the necessary strength or motivation to keep myself upright.

Once I’m home, I clear my fridge out as promised and make myself a strange breakfast of protein oats, chocolate milk, and random cheese on the side, all of which are wholly inadequate foods with which to eat my feelings.

It’s unfair how goddamn easy it is to like Luke. I know I’m riding the high of a new person, but even when I take a step back and think, my brain isn’t glossing over any problems, other than the fact that I’m leaving.

I curl up on the sofa that came with the apartment and sigh. Today is going to be a long-ass day.

And it is. I end up grabbing takeout for lunch, and then I stare at the ceiling, alone with my swirling thoughts. Once my alarm goes off at six-thirty, I gather up all of my stuff, give the apartment a once-over, and place my keys on the counter.

Then I’m off. I head downstairs ten minutes early because I know that Luke would offer to park and help me with my bags. Not five minutes later, Luke pulls up and refuses to let me load anything into his car, insisting that I settle into his passenger seat.

And what’s waiting for me does me in.

He brought me a fucking sandwich.

I take a bite, and it’s the best damn sandwich I’ve ever eaten in my life. It’s stupidly good like every other thing Luke has made for me since I met him.

My eyes burn, my throat tightens, and I blame the sandwich, not Luke. Or at least I try.

During the drive, Luke somehow manages to put a positive spin on my departure, nudging the conversation toward what I missed about Sweden, what I’m excited to do when I get back, and the stats of my new team.

Nothing about us or what happens after I walk into the terminal.

I shouldn’t complain, given that Luke is doing all the heavy lifting to make sure that this is as clean of a break as we can manage.

If only it didn’t hurt this much to see him letting go in real-time.

As usual, he makes it easy to talk, and I only notice that we’ve arrived at the airport when the car comes to a stop.

And I didn’t even tell him what terminal I’m leaving from, so Luke had to have looked it up.

Maybe he does care?—

No. He can't.

Luke fishes something out of the center console. “I wanted you to have this,” he says, holding a white cardboard box in his hands. “I did some research, and I read that every year, the best hockey player in Sweden is awarded a gold puck.”

“Yup, Guldpucken.”

“I might be way out of line with this, but you’re my Swedish hockey player of the year.”

I open the box, pulling out a silver hockey puck. Turning it over, I run my fingers over the shaky engraving that Luke made of a maple leaf and my initials.

“I know hockey players are superstitious as hell, so I didn’t want to jinx it and get you a fake gold puck. Silver was the next best thing,” he says.

What the hell?

One second I think he’s cutting me loose, and then he cuts me deep by doing something sweet. Luke might have handed the puck to me with gentle, caring hands, but his parting gift still hit like a slapshot to my bruised heart.

And he shrugs like it’s no big deal. It’s a huge deal. I can’t convince myself that he doesn’t care, not after this.

“Thank you,” I whisper, my voice cracking. “I’m gonna miss you so much.”

“Me too. You’re a great guy, Erik.”

There’s no use dragging this out, but I can’t bring myself to leave the car yet, so I lean over and kiss him like a goddamn idiot.

His mouth accepts mine immediately and our lips brush, slow and deliberate.

It isn’t deep, but my god, it still sends a rush right through me.

My tongue grazes the inside of Luke’s lips with the gentlest pressure I can manage, and the sigh he lets out makes me pull back.

If I keep this up, we’ll get carried away.

Neither of us says anything, so I compose myself, smooth my jacket uselessly, and purse my lips into a weak smile before leaving the car. I grab my bags and load them onto a nearby cart, pausing before turning back.

Luke rolls down the window, and I bend down to say goodbye one last time.

“Thanks for the ride,” I say. “Thanks for everything.”

“Bye, Erik. See you.”

Fuck, why did he have to say that last part? My fingers white-knuckle the cart as I contemplate missing my flight.

Instead, I give Luke a sad, pathetically weak wave before spinning around and running into the terminal.

I join the check-in line for the Paris flight and hold back tears, doing square breathing to calm myself down, and I manage not to freak anyone out with a sad outburst the entire way to Stockholm.

But appearances can be deceiving because Luke crosses my mind whenever the tiniest thing reminds me of him.

At the gate where I see someone wearing the same color sweater that he always wears.

On the flight to Paris because his name is French.

During my layover, where it seems like every other traveler is Canadian.

And even when I land in Stockholm, the baggage claim area is plastered wall-to-wall in “Visit Toronto” ads because the national airline is launching a direct flight next month. If I wasn’t so numb inside, I’d take it as a sign.

Instead, I send Luke a sad text because I promised I’d update him.

Just landed

Right as I’m debating adding on a “miss you already,” my well-worn hockey bag flops out onto the carousel, and I amble over to collect it. The rest of my bags follow soon after, and I walk out to meet my parents, guilty at not feeling more excited to see them.

“Welcome back, Erik,” Mom says as she pulls me into a hug.

“Thanks, it’s good to be home,” I lie, my words falling flat even to me. Dad claps a hand on my shoulder as we head for their car, chatting about the flight and if I want to move closer to Alvik.

The drive to the house in Lidingo is quiet, and when we pull into the driveway, I’m not relieved. Instead, there’s a tangled knot in my stomach, and Luke isn’t here to help me make it go away like last time.

Mom puts on a pot of coffee when we get inside, and Dad disappears into his office for a while, leaving the two of us alone in the kitchen.

“You’re not yourself, Erik,” she says. “What’s bothering you?”

“I’m tired.” I try to brush it off. “Couldn’t sleep on the plane.”

She isn’t buying it, and I don’t blame her.

“This is different. Last summer, you came back after two layovers and a five-hour delay, and you were still overjoyed when you landed. What’s going on?”

Before I can respond, Dad returns to the kitchen and sits down across from me, his expression serious. They’re both waiting for me to speak, but I don’t know how to start.

After a long silence, I find my voice. “I met someone in Toronto.”

Mom’s eyebrows raise slightly. “And you care about him.”

I nod. “He’s a great guy. Loved every second I spent with him.”

Dad exhales slowly, rubbing his chin. “How long were you together?”

I nod again, unable to think of any words. When I do, it comes out in a rush. “We met in September, and I was going to make things official with him the same day I got the damn call that brought me back here.”

Both of my parents glance at each other, surprised. There’s a pause, and then Dad speaks up. “That’s… really tough. I’m sorry. It might not feel like it now, but it’ll pass.”

“I liked him so much,” I murmur.

Mom jumps in, placing a gentle hand on my shoulder that doesn’t do anything to dissolve the churning in my core. “I wish I could say something to make this better,” she says. “But what you need is time.”

I manage a weak nod and then sip my coffee. Hopefully, time will be enough to set me right.

Who am I kidding? There’s no way that’s gonna happen.