Page 16

ERIK

Alvik HK gives me a week to recover from jet lag, and the team is on the road for most of that time.

The day before my first game, I drive over to Alvik for some interviews and to get my picture taken for social media.

In preparation, I got a haircut and shaved because in my experience, teams like to recycle the first picture you take with them forever.

Last night, I sent a selfie to Luke for his thoughts, to which he replied, “Looking good but why’d you have to shave?”

I think being clean-shaven is sharper, but maybe I’ll try growing my scruff out a bit since I’ve always kept my facial hair in check. Who knows? I might end up liking it a little longer.

Not because Luke told me to, of course. That would be absurd.

Okay, maybe that factors in a little bit.

Then again, after I opened my last remaining razor blade this morning, I ordered a beard trimmer instead of blade refills.

Damnit, I’m no closer to my reluctant goal of getting over Luke.

Whatever.

After a smooth drive across Stockholm, I park at the Alvik Rink and head inside with the requested gear, my footsteps echoing along the hallway.

The team has the day off after coming back from Gothenburg yesterday, so the place is quiet except for a few muffled voices in an office at the end of the hall, which I make a beeline for.

As soon as I stick my head in, the team manager Anders Henriksson waves me over. “Erik! Welcome. Let’s get you started on the shoot.”

After he hands me a uniform, I duck into the deserted locker room to get changed before lacing up and sliding onto the ice.

A small entourage of the media team is waiting for me with a comically large light setup, and I settle into a plastic chair.

I know the drill: face the camera, tilt my chin down, and adopt a neutral expression with the faintest trace of a smile.

A couple of clicks and flashes later, the photographer reviews the shots with the media director.

They both give me a quick glance before putting the camera away, not saying anything else.

That means I either look good or ridiculous, and I hope it’s the former.

There’s no time to overthink, though, because a separate group of photographers is gesturing for me to skate over and take some action shots.

This whole routine is a far cry from the assembly-line intake that I went through with Toronto’s AHL team, but it’s all part of the role.

The next hour consists of me making repetitive, highly choreographed skates around a small section of the rink while someone throws ice shavings at my feet for “effect.” A short briefing from Anders comes next, then a tour of the facility and a lightning-speed review of the raw photos of me, where I’m able to confirm that my headshots thankfully aren’t awful.

Anders sends me off and I’m on my way, but right when I leave his office, I collide with something and stumble onto a bench.

“Oh shit, sorry,” someone says, and I tilt my head up. I ran headfirst into Nils Enlund, one of Alvik’s forwards. He stretches a hand out and I shake it.

“Hey, I’m Erik,” I say.

“I’m Nils, but let’s get you standing first.”

Right. He extended his hand to help me up, not to introduce himself. I’m an idiot.

Rising to my feet, I get a better look at Nils. He’s around my height with a solid build and perfectly scruffy brown hair—attractive, but he isn’t Luke, and he’s my teammate. That’s a line I’ll never cross.

“Again, sorry for crashing into you,” he says, sticking his hands in his pockets. “You’ll get to know that I’m clumsy as hell, at least off the ice.”

“Don’t worry about it, at least I didn’t lose any teeth from the impact.”

“You’re a left-winger, right?” Nils asks, chuckling and changing the subject. “We might end up on a line together.”

“Yeah, that’d be cool. What brings you to the rink today? There’s no game.”

Nils freezes for a moment before his cheekbones pinken, and I purse my lips together, not sure if I walked myself into a touchy topic.

“So, that’s a funny story,” Nils starts, “I’m picking up a new uniform so I can break it in before tomorrow’s game. I need it for a ritual.”

I stay silent. That doesn’t sound funny at all.

“Can you guess why I needed a new uniform?” he asks.

“Did it tear or something?”

Nils’s face lights up and he points at me, trying to hold back laughter.

“You’re right!” he says. “But it’s even better than that.

When I was changing for the game two days ago, I tore the pants along the damn crack!

” He proceeds to turn around, stick his ass out at me, and proudly point his thumbs at it, clearly expecting me to check out the cause of his clothing mishap.

“Shit, no way,” I say.

“Oh yeah. The team had to issue me a larger size because my ass got too big for my uniform!”

I’ve played hockey and dealt with locker rooms for most of my life—I can look at a guy’s behind with purpose and not have it be weird. “Yeah. That’ll… be good on the ice,” I comment in a deadpan. What do you even say to that?

“You bet, these are some game-winning glutes right here, Norre.”

This guy is certainly a character. He reactivated my old Swedish hockey nickname and spilled about his ass problems within two minutes of meeting me, but it’s funny.

“That’s enough about me, where’d you get signed from?” Nils asks.

“Toronto. AHL.” That’s all I manage to say as my mind tries to keep up with his.

“Nice, that must have been quite the move.”

Please don’t remind me.

I put on a polite smile and keep walking toward the exit with him. “Yeah, for sure, but I’m happy to be back home.”

We walk out of the building into the wet cold. Stockholm is like Toronto—the summers rule, but depending on your outlook, things go downhill in October. I shiver as I struggle to unlock my car, and Nils speaks up.

“Hey, I’m grabbing lunch with my girlfriend down the street. You should join us.”

I cock my head. “I wouldn’t be intruding, would I?”

Nils waves me off. “Nah, I invited you. Besides, I know what it’s like to sign in a city where I don’t know too many people. I’ll adopt you.”

My mouth curves into a small grin. “You’ll adopt me?”

Nils claps me on the shoulder. “You bet.”

“Thanks, I appreciate it.”

After I put my gear in the back, Nils leads me away from the rink to a small café down the street, and we walk in. It’s rather late, so all of the tables are empty except for one, and Nils speed walks right over to it and gives its occupant a warm hug.

That must be his girlfriend. She’s striking—long dark hair, sharp face, and her outfit might as well be professionally curated, given how coordinated it appears to my untrained opinion.

Once she sees me walking over, she turns toward me and extends her hand.

I didn’t just fall on my ass, so I’m certain that she means to shake my hand, not help me up.

“Hi, I’m Silja, you must be one of Nils’s teammates,” she says.

“Yup, I just got signed to Alvik and Nils invited me here. I’m Erik. Nice to meet you.”

“Oh, Nils invited you?” Silja turns to Nils. “You owe me a hundred kronor.”

Nils raises a cheeky eyebrow. “What for?”

“You know. We had a bet on whether you’d find a poor unsuspecting teammate and drag him along with you.”

Nils pulls his phone out to make the transfer. “That’s not all, I told Norre here all about my ass incident.”

Silja blinks a few times and parts her lips in disbelief. “Stop. You did not.” She huffs out a curt laugh before turning to me. “Sorry if he traumatized you this early on. He means well.”

“Oh yeah, I can be a lot,” Nils adds, smiling. “I’m gonna blame hockey for that.”

I smile. “Nah, it’s all good. I appreciate having the ice broken for me right from the beginning.”

“Yeah, he’s really good at that,” Silja says.

Nils cocks his head. “Nobody can resist me, especially not this one.” To that, Silja rolls her eyes.

“How long have you guys been together?” I ask.

“A little over two years,” Silja replies.

Nils pipes up as he puts an arm around his girlfriend. “What about you? Bring anyone back when you got signed here?”

Ouch . I mean, he asked, so I might as well use this as a chance to come out.

“Nah, I had a thing going on with a guy before I left Canada, but that ended when I moved.”

Nils doesn’t even blink. “Shoot, that sucks, sorry to hear that.”

“It’s whatever. His name is Luke and we’re still kind of friends.” I mentally kick myself because I didn’t need to add those last details.

A server comes over to take our orders, cutting off our conversation that was about to kick-start a mental spiral about Luke.

After ordering the first sandwich on the menu because I neglected to give the thing a proper read, the three of us sit back, chat, and not once do I feel like I’m in ice-breaking hell.

We part ways about an hour later and I head back to the rink, and when I climb into my car, I get a notification telling me that Alvik posted my headshots to social media and tagged me.

It’s mid-morning in Toronto, so I tell Luke because he might find my awkward, forced expression to be funny or something.

Maybe it’ll make him break into one of those cute smiles.

God, I fucking miss him.

My headshot is up on the team’s accounts lol

Still doesn’t feel real

Nice!

Your first game is tomorrow, right?

Yup! So pumped

Awesome, you’re gonna do great!

My heart jumps at his simple encouragement before settling into emptiness again.

Christ, I can’t hold my own when I’m alone, can I?

The next day, we’re facing off against Skellefte?, and I keep my head down as I head for the bench, clearing my mind. Nils and I are on the third line alongside another new guy, Axel, and I lean against the glass, watching and waiting for the puck to drop.

“Let’s do this,” Nils says, giving me a fist bump. The game begins and Skellefte? takes possession, racing straight for our end of the ice, but our defense holds their own and wrestles it back, passing it to our forwards.