Page 10

“Okay,” I say, dipping my fry into my ocean of ketchup. “Let’s start over.”

Ragnar stares at me from across the sticky diner table, but he drops his chin to his chest in a brief nod. I figured we needed a change of scenery to actually discuss his proposition. Anywhere but the gym where we both work.

“I just need to understand what you would be getting out of this.” I push my plate toward him, offering a bite.

I wouldn’t have ordered more than a drink if I’d know he wasn’t going to eat anything.

A second passes. Two. Then he snags one golden French fry from the plate, and I see the corner of his mouth tip up.

He can’t fool me. I literally work for the team.

Pro-athletes or not, these guys need a lot of fuel.

I’ve seen several players wipe out a pound of fries in under thirty seconds.

It’s not a meal plan that stopped him from ordering something, but I feel better if he’s sharing.

Maybe because I’m no longer worried that he’ll feel like he needs to hang around just because I’m not done eating.

Or worse, that he’d leave me here to finish by myself.

Teach me to be friendly.

That’s what he said back in the gym. In hindsight, I don’t know if I find it hilarious that we both ended up on the sticky rubber floor, staring at each other as we both tried to claw our way back from miscommunication central, or if there’s something wrong with the two of us.

A round of prophylactic antibiotics might be in order too, judging by what’s probably on that floor.

He’s barely said a word since we sat down. A simple “no thank you,” to the waitress might have been it. Come to think of it, he doesn’t say a lot in public. Ever. It took ages to get him to open up to me. Ages, and patience, and a million word puzzles dangled in front of his beautiful face.

“Would you prefer that I ask yes/no questions? That we text? Or do you just want to break down what you need from me?”

He frowns across the table, fingers shredding his paper napkin.

“I’m saying yes,” I clarify, “but I need some more specifics. I want to make sure that I can actually be useful.” Feeling not useful might be right up there with brain freeze, or a nasty Charlie horse.

The lines on his forehead deepen, as if he disagrees I might ever be un-useful. His faith in me is flattering. Cute. But probably also misplaced.

One big hand disappears under the table and reappears with his phone.

He taps at the screen, texting with his thumb, glancing between the screen and my face over and over.

I know he’s sending me a message, even before my phone buzzes against the tabletop.

I smile and reach for it, holding his gaze even as he tries to drop my eyes.

ólaffson:

Ask whatever you want to know.

I can text my responses. Make things easier.

This time I frown. It almost sounds like he means easier for me. I don’t need that. I want this to be comfortable for him. I shake my head.

“I’ll ask, but you answer however you want to.

It doesn’t bother me.” His throat bobs as he swallows, his head turned to look out the dirty window across the asphalt of the parking lot.

“I like talking with you, Ragnar.” When he whips around to pin me in place, I shrug and my smile widens. “In whatever form it takes.”

“I n-need you to h-help m-m-me be m-more comfortable a-around other people. In p-p-public.”

I nod.

“Right, so you’ll help me with statistics—that’s the class I’m struggling with—and I’ll help you be in public?” I shake my head. “I’m not sure that’s a fair trade for you.”

His head tips to the side like a puppy.

“It will be obvious if your help works. My grades will go up.” If my skin was lighter, I’m sure I’d be tomato-red right now. I bite my lower lip, scraping the soft skin with my teeth. The sting is grounding. I do it again. “Being social, or comfortable in crowds, is a less… tangible thing.”

He nods once, like he understands, and then lifts his phone, waving it at me.

This time he holds the phone in both hands, using his thumbs to type out the words.

His hands are big, his fingers long. I pop another fry into my mouth and watch the sinews flex under his pale skin.

There is a smattering of freckles along the tops of his knuckles, but they don’t extend down his fingers.

His nails are short and neat. I curve my own hands under so he won’t see my ravaged cuticles.

I can’t seem to stop myself from chewing on them. No matter how hard I try.

He puts his phone face-down on the table as mine buzzes, watching me as I open his message.

ólaffson:

Being in the spotlight is uncomfortable for me.

I don’t know what to say or how to act. It doesn’t come naturally to me, and by the time I figure out the correct response, it’s too late. Everyone has moved on.

Instinct has me reaching across the table, gripping the fingers of his left hand with my own. Instinct and something more than that. Kinship. Understanding. I keep reading.

ólaffson:

I’ve never cared what people thought of me or my actions. I like my own company. I’m here to play hockey, and I do it well. But it’s been brought to my attention that if I was more approachable, if I could better connect with fans, it would open more doors for myself which would help my family.

There’s more to the text, but I need to ask now, “What do you mean, brought to your attention?” If the anger in my voice is obvious, it’s because I’m angry for him. How can anyone even imply that he isn’t… that he needs to…. I don’t even know. I’m just frustrated. Annoyed. Something.

“I l-lost a s-s-sponsorship,”

His words are quiet, a barely there rumble, but I hear what he isn’t saying too.

He used the word “lost,” implying it’s a company he’d been working with previously.

That means they’d know him, his personality, what he’s like.

That also means the quiet exterior wasn’t a problem before now.

I swallow past a painful lump at the base of my throat.

It wasn’t an issue until he was hurt. Until they doubted he’d perform at the level they expected.

My eyes burn. My nose tingles. I think I need to sneeze or scream. What the hell is wrong with people? When did money and profit become more important than human beings?

Strong fingers squeeze mine this time. Rags is smiling at me, and I sniff hard, willing my emotions to take a backseat.

“I-it’s o-okay.”

It’s not. But I give him a watery smile, anyway.

This is not my pity party. I’ve been told I make everything about myself.

Especially when my big feelings take over.

That’s the last thing Ragnar needs right now.

I turn my attention back to the rest of his message, flipping my hand to intertwine our fingers and give one brief squeeze. I hope he reads my silent apology.

ólaffson:

It’s not ideal, but I saw someone online suggest studying and imitating people who are comfortable with social interactions.

While I can people-watch on my own, it would be easier with a designated someone.

That way, I can just ask what is expected of me, or they can guide me through it. Less chance to fail.

“Like a coach,” I say aloud. Ragnar snorts and. I look back down at his novel of a message.

ólaffson:

Like a social coach.

Oops. I jumped the gun. Again.

“Great minds,” I say with a chuckle, relieved when he smiles, too. “I want to help, I do…”

But here’s the delicate part. I think this man has a minuscule crush on me.

I don’t want to sound conceited, but I notice patterns.

I read people’s emotions. Body language.

And Ragnar isn’t subtle. His eyes follow me when we’re in the same space.

He swallows more, his breathing picks up.

Red stains the pale skin of his cheeks and throat.

The most damning evidence? His pupils blow wide, eclipsing the piercing blue of his irises.

Seriously, the most blue. I swear they match the team jerseys.

“I don’t want to cross any boundaries here.”

I don’t want to hurt him. Not this gentle sweetheart of a man.

I don’t want to ever accidentally lead him on, and I also don’t want to lose my job.

Tristan and Vic are happy and accepted now, but I remember the shockwave their marriage sent through the team.

We were all convinced she was going to need to dust off her resume and find a new employer.

The organization takes their non-fraternization clauses seriously.

My parents’ friendship with Bill might be the reason Greg hired me, but it won’t save me if the boss doesn’t want his underlings dating his players.

Fuck, we wouldn’t even have to be dating.

Tristan got a stern warning even before the fateful trip to Vegas.

Ragnar studies my face. He opens his mouth once, twice, then shakes his head as he reaches for his phone.

Mine’s already in my hand when the message comes through, but still the vibration surprises me.

ólaffson:

I would never ask you to put yourself or your job in harm’s way. There’s nothing inappropriate about you answering questions for me. If anyone asks, it’s a crash course in extrovert culture.

Ragnar ólaffson is absolutely adorable.

ólaffson:

Please, Sadie.

My sister wants a pony.

I can’t stop the snort of laughter as I read his last message.

Of course, this giant teddy bear of a man is thinking of his family first. I know he subsidizes them, too.

An NHL salary is arguably more than I make.

More than most people could ever hope to bring home, but I doubt it stretches to cover ponies when he’s already keeping himself and his grandma and his sister afloat.

When I wanted a pony as a child, my parents signed me up for riding lessons. But that’s only possible with money. And yeah, okay, Ragnar’s family is most likely doing fine, but a sudden change in sponsorship would cause anyone distress.