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It’s the first time all morning that the big guy meets my eyes and the corner of his mouth twitches as if he wants to smile.

“You gotta help me on this one. I can think of champagne, which has nine letters but is definitely French—otherwise it would be called sparkling wine—and moonshine, which is just illegally distilled, clear whisky, but I’m pretty sure it’s American. ”

His eyes drift back to the laces of his oversized sneakers, blunt-tipped fingers going white as he tugs.

“Help me, Thor, god of thunder, you’re my only hope.”

“ AEgir .” Pink tinges the tips of his ears, his eyes darting up and then away.

“I don’t think that has nine letters,” I make a show of frowning down at the crossword in my lap, twirling my pen between my fingers the same way Katie Olsen showed me back in the second grade. “Please don’t make me spell it on my own. I will for sure mess up and insult your ancestors.”

“AEgir is the g-g-god of d-drinking. N-not Thor.”

There we go. Got him.

His voice is low, rumbly. He always sounds like it’s been millennia since he last spoke, and it will be another thousand years before he does again. I grin at him, holding out my pen.

He drops his chin back to his chest, copper orange beard making a soft swish against the athletic shirt hugging his upper body.

I wait, letting my eyes slip over the lines of muscle along the back of his neck and shoulders.

Selenius capitis, splenius cervicis, rhomboids minor, rhomboides major, trapezius .

Those damn names almost made me fail right out of my first anatomy classes.

They just wouldn’t stick in my brain. Every time I thought I had them situated, they’d squirm away like wriggly worms. Gone forever before I even knew they’d moved.

I’m shit at memorizing things. Always have been and probably always will be.

Well, actually, that’s not entirely true.

There are some inexplicable things that don’t leave my brain.

Ever. My childhood phone number, the jingle for that lawyer duo—although if I ever actually get into a car accident it will probably vanish into the ether too—every single lyric from the musical Wicked.

Honestly, this is probably a bad sign for my chosen career.

Oh well. I’m already over halfway through my master’s degree.

It’s a little late to have second thoughts.

It’s not like I actually chose it, anyway.

Both my parents are doctors, and while I knew I wasn’t cut out for medical school, I also didn’t want to disappoint them.

Sports therapy, sports training, seemed like the best compromise.

Especially since it’s not like I had any better ideas about what I wanted to do or study.

“If you say you feel good, then that’s good enough for me” Greg steps out of the back office, eyes glued on the heavy black tablet in his hands.

He taps a few things on the screen. Lazy, unhurried, like he’s scrolling social media instead of studying the goalie’s medical chart.

“I’m not surprised. Your recovery has been phenomenal, but it’s good to know first practice back was pretty much what we thought it would be. ”

For a moment, endless blue eyes meet mine.

I hide my smile behind my crossword, winking as he smiles, too.

This might have been his first practice back, but it’s not like he’s been sitting at home all off-season.

I would know. I’m the one who met him here every afternoon for the past two months, running him through stretches, supervising basic drills, working on range of motion, strength, tone.

“We can meet after practice again tomorrow, but I think we’re good to wait until the end of the week unless there’s a more pressing concern.

” Greg finally looks up from the tablet in time to see Rags drop his chin to his chest in agreement.

“Great. It’s a gorgeous day today. Go enjoy the rest of it. ”

Rags nods again as Greg plugs the device into the bank of chargers and wipes his palms on his thighs.

Once the door closes behind the head trainer, I rustle the newspaper at Ragnar ólaffson.

He usually stays after our stretches, finishes a puzzle with me, lets me chat his ear off.

There’s something comforting about spending solo time with Ragnar ólaffson.

I can’t explain it, but being one-on-one with this man makes me feel special.

Important. Not a mess or a disappointment. I hope he hangs around today, too.

“Please? You can’t let me lose my streak.” I bat my eyelashes at him as his face flushes, but he holds his hand out and I slide my pen into it. I close the distance between us, scooching closer on the bench. His muscles tense and I slow down.

Ragnar ólaffson is skittish. I don’t take it personally—he’s quiet, reserved, with everyone—but over the last few months working together, he’s been getting more comfortable with me.

It’s the whole reason I started bringing crosswords.

My dad does one every day and I’m not sure when he started comparing answers with me, but I can’t skip a puzzle and disappoint him.

After a week of barely speaking to one another this summer, I thought it could be the perfect way to break the ice between me and the goalie.

And Rags surprised me with just how good he was at picking out clues. Really good. Miles better than me.

His shoulders shift as he takes a deep breath.

I try not to let my smile be obnoxious. We’re close enough our thighs are practically kissing-close.

I wonder if he’s as focused on that almost-contact as I am.

Ragnar avoids most situations that involve sharing physical space with others.

I know I’m pushing the limits here, but he can’t ignore me when I’m in his space and, for reasons I don’t fully understand, I can’t let him ignore me.

I hold out the paper, waiting for him to have a firm grasp before I let go.

“Great,” I grin at him. “It’s your problem now.”

I shift my weight, putting another few inches between us, and I can see him relax as the space widens.

“It’s moonshine, isn’t it?” I pull my knees up, trying to get comfortable on this stupid wooden bench.

Seriously. Who decided this should be the seating option in the trainers’ wing?

It’s a park bench. Literally. And sure, there’s a name engraved on the back, someone important to the organization, but I maintain that this monstrosity would fuck up anyone’s back.

No matter how many bronze plaques they mount on it.

Maybe it’s job security? Fix the players up, have them take a seat, fix them up again…

I hear a whisper of sound I’m ninety percent sure is Ragnar ólaffson trying not to laugh andclose my eyes so I don’t stare. If I make this uncomfortable, I bet he’ll never laugh in my presence ever again.

“… Brennivín …”

I smile even at the pause. A month ago, he wouldn’t have said the answer out loud.

He’d have written it into the tiny boxes, his handwriting slanted and spiky, but dark.

Confident. A line of capital letters. I know it drives him insane when I mix upper and lowercase letters in a puzzle.

Or when I randomly throw in a cursive loop.

Not that he says so—I think he’d rather gag himself with a pair of Spags’ hockey socks than say something negative about someone else—but I can recognize the way he takes a deep breath, presses his eyes closed.

The same look he gave me over my blatant attempt to get him involved today. I love it.

I resist the urge to ask what the drink is, instead whipping out my phone and typing the name into google.

I spell it wrong—there’s an accent over the second letter i—but I find a tourist-guide website explaining the history of the drink.

And no, it’s not cheating. He literally already told me the answer.

“Flavored with caraway and dill,” I read from my phone. “Have you ever tried it?”

A nod.

“It says the best way to drink it is in a frozen shot glass. That’s like the best drink for a professional hockey player. Ever.”

Another nod.

“I-it is b-best with n-non-alcoholic b-beer.”

I smile, turning my face toward his.

“That seems incredibly counter-intuitive. Isn’t it called ‘Black Death’ because the alcohol content is so high?” I wave my phone at him.

“Iceland—” he leans into the first syllable, turning the country name into something beautiful, foreign, eee-sland. I sink down onto the bench, eyes closed, ready for whatever fun fact he’s going to give me next. “H-had a p-prohibition.”

“Oh my god.” I clap a hand over my mouth to stop my snort, “Brevvinín—”

“ Brennivín ,” he corrects.

“—Is literally Icelandic moonshine.”

He shakes his head, but he’s fighting the smile at the corners of his wide mouth. “The ban d-d-didn’t last for long, but…but… beer was still not l-legal until more recent t-times.”

“So, it’s less about the moonshine illegality of your Black Death, and more about the availability of non-alcoholic beer?”

He nods, eyes flickering from me back down to the paper in his hands. His brows tip together as he reads more of the clues.

“I can’t figure out number seven, either.”

I could. The phone is right there in my hand, but this is more fun.

Not to mention I’m no cheater. Phoning a friend to finish a crossword is acceptable, googling the answers feels less so.

And okay, fine, yes, I google them frequently, but that’s a deep dark secret we keep close to the vest and never admit to my dad. Not unless he admits it first.

“The s-second most popular l-language in Iceland?” He frowns, and I shiver slightly at his words. Even with the stutter, with the hint of an accent, this man could narrate erotic audio. His voice melts over me, warming me up from the inside out.