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“I don’t want to sound all obnoxiously self-centeredly American, but English didn’t fit. Neither did Swedish, Finnish, Dutch doesn’t end in -ish, neither does Norwegian so…”

I hear the scratch of the pen first as he fills letters into the boxes.

“No way,” I grin. “Do you speak Polish?”

“No.”

I stick my lower lip out and furrow my brows.

I don’t really care if he speaks a third language; I do care that he keeps chatting with me.

He’s always so quiet, so stoically on his own, and yet we’re back to one-word answers and writing out clues.

The team adores him—I’m ninety-six percent sure that one of the Rush players left the ice with a broken nose after what happened to Rags at the end of last season—but he still seems…

lonely. Like there’s a wall of plexiglass standing between him and everyone else.

It was something I noticed even before we spent the off-season working together.

“Katrín knows a… a bit. From f-friends.”

His face softens the way it always does when he mentions his little sister. His arctic eyes go warm, little crinkles appear around the edges and the corners of his mouth. The tension he normally carries through his shoulders and neck… gone.

“Was it hard not going home this summer?”

He swings his head to look at me, as if he’s surprised I knew he spent almost every off-season in his home country. He shrugs, but his eyes shutter in a way I know means yes. It was.

“I haven’t c-c-called Reykjavik my h-home since I was a b-boy.

” His throat bobs as he swallows, and even under the layer of copper beard, I can tell he’s clenching his jaw.

“Wh-when I t-told her I was s-staying in the states, she c-c-called me a chujowy samochód .” His gaze darts to me and then away again, his ears flaming magenta. “Like a car that c-c-cannot d-drive.”

I laugh. “A lemon?”

He nods. “But…dick-like.”

This time I snort. “In polish?”

“It is the-the-the second m-most popular language.”

I tap a finger on the edge of the newspaper; it crinkles under my touch and Rags tightens his grip.

“This is why I needed your help. I was out of my depth with moonshine.”

He looks down again, eyes moving over the list of clues. Dark copper—almost orange—brows knit together.

“D-did you know the t-term moon-moonshine c-comes from England?” His lashes sweep down over his cheeks as his chest rises and falls with a sharp inhale.

“Yeah?” This bench really is hell. I cannot find a way to get comfy and if I keep fidgeting, he might stop talking altogether. I’m loathe to put any sort of damper on this conversation. “I thought it was named for the practice of being brewed at night. Avoid the brass and all that jazz.”

I let my body slide off the hard bench until I’m seated on the floor, which feels marginally better.

It’s gross—the testosterone funk is inescapable at The Stand—but I really don’t care.

I am infinitely more comfortable on the floor, my legs pulled up and under me.

I can practically hear my mother screaming, “Sadie, posture,” as I spin myself around.

Ragnar watches me like I’m the opposition or a hockey puck careening toward him.

I can’t tell if that’s good or bad. I loop my feet up over the seat of the bench and lie back flat on the cool floor.

Yes, it’s nasty, but I feel less restless on the ground and this is what washing machines are for.

“Scottish and-and-and Irish immigrants brought it h-here. But the term has b-b-been around since the late s-seventeen-hun-hundreds.”

I pat his thigh, feeling the muscles jump under my palm. “Aren’t you just a fount of knowledge?”

“I like t-t-to r-read.” His blush deepens. I think it’s adorable how red he gets when given a compliment, but for now, I take pity on him and change the subject.It’s not like I take compliments any better than he does.

“How old is your sister now?” She’s younger than I remember. I know that much.A lot younger. Still a kid.

He holds up one finger on his left hand, then two on his right. He was comfortable with me before, with talking, now we’re back to hand-gestures. I close my eyes and feel the chill from the floor seep through the cotton of my hoodie and into the marrow of my bones.I wonder what I did.

“A preteen,” I say, “My sympathies.”

“W-why?”

I frown, pursing my lips. “It can be a tough age.”

At least that’s what everyone says. My parents, for example. To their friends, colleagues, to me. Teenagers are a headache. They say with a sympathetic smile and rueful laugh. You just have to survive them.

I never snuck out or lied about my whereabouts.

I got decent grades and played three varsity sports, but I’m sure that I was also the stereotypical sullen and angsty teen.

Even if I knew how good my life was, how different the alternative might have gone.

Ragnar’s sister lives with their grandma.

I don’t know the full story, but his parents aren’t around.

That can’t be easy on any kid, let alone one bursting at the seams with a hormone cocktail powerful enough to fell an elephant.

Or a blue whale. Or an oversized hockey goalie.

“She must miss you terribly.”

I can feel the shake of his head even with my eyes screwed shut. I squint my left one, peering at him from under the shadow of my lashes. His mouth is pursed, white lines of tension bracketing the soft pink of his lips before disappearing into the copper beard he keeps trimmed short.

“I always wanted an older brother.” I tell him. This time, he sighs.“I bet you’re her favorite person.”

“Sh-she c-can’t miss me.” He says, the paper crunching as he fists his hands. He relaxes them as soon as the sound cuts through the quiet. “We n-never lived u-under the same r-roof.”

I bite down on my tongue hard enough that I almost draw blood because dammit; I knew that.

I did. Ragnar has been living in the US since before she was born.

And given the way he talks about her…well, the guilt drips off him like water droplets down the side of a chilled glass. I know a little something about that.

“You don’t need to live with someone to miss them.” I shrug, the balls of my shoulders rolling over the hard floor. I close my eyes, mostly because I’ve always gotten the feeling that Ragnar is someone who values privacy, but also because I’m getting dangerously close to my own insecurities.

Not today, Satan.

This isn’t about me.

His smile is sad. One side of his mouth curved higher than the other, brows pulled together and up toward his hairline.

“Anyway,” I pat the top of one over-sized sneaker. “You aren’t getting out of this crossword. I need help, Ragnar. My reputation is at stake.”

It isn’t. Not really, but dad will ask about it when I go home.

He’ll want to compare answers, and I hate the squirmy feeling in my gut when I have to tell him I didn’t finish.

Ridiculous, yes, but given everything else they went through for me…

with me…the least I can do is share this one hobby with him.

Even if filling each tiny square makes me feel like my brain is a sluggish mass of jello.

“I-is this p-puzzle all…” I bite down on my lip and shut my eyes, trying not to laugh at the suspicion in his voice. “About Iceland?”

I hear the paper crinkle again.

“Oh my god Ragnar.” Even through his team-issued blues, he’s warm. I move closer, not quite touching, but letting his body heat seep into my bloodstream. “Not everything is about you.” I look up at him, grin wide.

The smile he sends back floods through me like honey,pooling in my veins.

“But this time it is.” I wink. “So please help. My brain is full of grad school stuff, not gorgeous Scandinavian countries I’ve never visited in my life.”

He shakes his head, but his smile remains as he looks back down at the paper. The pen scratches as he fills in more answers.

“I… I could t-take you. Someday. I-if y-you’d like.”

“Perfect.” I close my eyes again, nestling into his shoe. “I’m just gonna take a little nappy nap. You finish that and we can plan a vacation.”

My heart races inside my chest. My stomach flips.

Because the idea of traveling with Ragnar? Seeing his hometown? Belonging somewhere? Even just for a moment? It sounds… nice.