Page 34

The door closes behind us with a heavy thunk, sealing off the noise, the lights, the eyes. I should feel relieved, but all I feel is hollow.

My heels click across the concrete of the loading bay like they’re echoing off my bones.

My dress feels too tight, my skin too thin.

The cold air hits my arms and I wrap them around myself, more out of habit than anything.

I can’t stop replaying it. Christian’s smirk, his voice like syrup, turned sour, the way he leaned in like he still had the right.

He didn’t touch me.

Not really.

Not the way that counts. I’m overreacting. Making a scene. Again. God, I’m such a mess.

Ragnar’s car beeps as he unlocks it. He opens the passenger door for me and waits, patient and solid and entirely too kind. I hesitate. If he were smart, he’d leave me here. Let me spiral on my own. I don’t even know what I am right now, clingy, broken, too much.

But he doesn’t.

He holds the door with steady patience, eyes soft on my face.

I slide in, and he crouches beside me.

Not hovering.

Not saying anything. Then he reaches for the seatbelt. His fingers brush the side of my ribs and I flinch, just slightly—out of reflex. His hands still immediately. He meets my eyes, a silent question in his.

I nod.

He finishes buckling me in with such care, like I’m made of something precious instead of the jagged, pathetic pieces rattling around my chest.

I can’t look at him. Not really. I’m too ashamed. Too aware of how much I must be repelling him. I’m the girl who fell apart in public because her ex whispered something slimy near a fucking ficus.

He shuts my door, walks around to the driver’s side, and gets in.

I brace for awkwardness. For a soft, well-meaning, ‘let’s talk about it.’ For him to ask if I’m okay or if I want to explain or if I realize I made a scene in front of some of the most important people in my life.

Instead, he just takes my hand in his. Ragnar’s palm is warm and wide and calloused. Solid. Grounding. The fate of the team rests in these hands. This is the hand that steals goals right out from under the opposition. Well, the other one is, he’s holding my hand with his right one.

I wait for a squeeze, for his thumb to brush over the top of my knuckles. Then he brings my hand to his mouth and presses a kiss—slow, deliberate—to the center of my palm.

It knocks the breath out of me.

Not because it’s dramatic, because it’s not. It’s reverent. Like I’m something, someone, to be cherished, not pitied.I stare at our hands as he rests them gently on the curve of his thigh. Now his thumb traces slow circles on my skin.

He kissed me once tonight already. On my shoulder. I needed someone to tether me back to my own body, and he was there. I’m not even sure if he knows he did it.

And now this.

A kiss on my hand, like I’m someone worth calming. Someone worth staying for. I shouldn’t want more, but I do. I want his kiss on my mouth. I want to taste him. I want him to ruin me. Hungry, soft, I want a kiss that says you’re safe and you’re wanted and you’re not too much all at once.

Ragnar starts the car, and the engine hums to life like the moment never broke.

We drive in silence, our fingers still tangled. He doesn’t let go. He doesn’t ask questions. He doesn’t push. And for once, I don’t feel like I have to fill the quiet.

It’s only when we pull into the rink’s empty lot, the building dark and comforting, like some enormous sleeping creature, that I finally exhale.

I don’t know why he brought me here. But I’m glad. Home isn’t an option right now. And neither is pretending I’m okay. Not with him. Ragnar sees right through me.

The evening is a blur.

Spags grabbing us. Ragnar’s hand at my back. The air shifting around me like it’s too thick, too tight. My heels clicking across marble as we bolted through some service exit, out into night and quiet and cold.

And then the car.

And now this.

The rink.

It’s dark except for the row of security lights overhead, casting long shadows across the concrete and the rubber mats leading toward the ice. I sit on the bench in the locker room, hands in my lap, still wearing my gala dress and trying not to breathe too loudly.

Ragnar’s in front of me, squatting to pull open a gear trunk in the practice room. His hands are gentle as he sorts through the contents, but his jaw is tight. Focused. His tie is gone, sleeves rolled up. He’s quiet. Too quiet. I clear my throat.

“Are you mad at me?”

He glances up, brow furrowed. “What? No.”

“You haven’t said anything since we got here.”

Technically, since we left the gala.

“I’m getting your size.”

My size?

Before I can ask, he pulls a set of shoulder pads out of the box. He unstraps it, adjusts something, grabs the next piece. His movements are deliberate. Kind. Still quiet. I blink hard and stare at my knees.

He thinks I’m upset about Christian. Maybe I am. Maybe I’m just—

“Are you sure you’re not mad?”

Ragnar sets the gear down and crosses to me. He kneels, rests one hand on my ankle. “Why do you think I’m mad?”

“I don’t know,” I whisper. “People usually are. When I… do something wrong.”

“You didn’t.”

I want to believe him. But my chest is tight and my skin feels too small. The panic is rising—bubbling just under the surface. I hate this feeling. The pressure. The expectation. The fear that if I don’t smooth it all over fast enough, I’ll lose something important. Someone.

“It’s just,” I start, “my parents are going to be furious. And he works with them. And I shouldn’t have dragged you into it. I just—God, I hate when people are mad at me.”

I press my hands against my thighs and dig my nails in.

“It’s like… an itch I can’t scratch. It’s in my ribs. My stomach. My spine. Like I’m supposed to fix it, and I don’t even know how.”

Ragnar doesn’t speak for a second. Then he says, softly, “Is that why you smiled at him all night?”

I look away. Shame flooding me.

“I am not judging you for protecting your peace.”

Great, he’s not, but I might be.

“It’s easier,” I murmur. “To give people the answer they want. To behave. To be what they expect. Otherwise they… they might leave.”

He slides his hand up to cup the curve of my kneecap.

“You know you don’t have to be anything with me,” he says.

The ache in my throat sharpens.

“I know,” I say. But I don’t.

Not yet.

I don’t argue when he leads me into the locker room and sets down a pair of skates.

Tristan’s. I recognize the small white boots. Vic was not amused having to buy figure skates, but his need to make his wife happy won out.

I wonder if Ragnar texted her. Or if she routinely loans out her skates to the girls players want to impress here on the ice.

He helps me out of my shoes—the skyscraper stilettos I borrowed from my mother—and pulls a pair of wool socks from somewhere like a damn magician.

Ragnar carefully eases the skates onto my feet.

His hands are steady, threading the laces with quiet focus.

He props the skate blade against his thigh as he pulls the laces tight.

It reminds me of those old movies where the girls had to get their corsets tightened until they passed out.

“This okay?” he asks, tugging them snug.

I nod. I’m not sure I can speak.

He helps me up—just a little awkward in the borrowed skates—and leads me out onto the ice.

The surface glows under the overhead lights, pale and perfect and empty. The boards rise around us like a silent cathedral. The cold seeps in through my satin dress and I shiver, but I don’t want to leave.

Ragnar wheels out a net and gestures for me to follow.

He straps one pad around my left leg, then the other around my right.

They’re miles too big. Loose, basically propped on the top of my skates.

Then the chest protector. The gloves. It all smells like him—sweat and soap and something warm underneath.

When I look at myself in the glass of the boards, I laugh.

“I look like a turtle in a dress.”

“You look like a goalie,” he says.

I glance back. “You’re not going to shoot pucks at me, right?”

He frowns. “Why would you think that?”

“I don’t know. You’re mad.”

“Not even a little.” His voice is soft but firm. “I just want you to feel safe.”

My throat tightens again. Tears sting the back of my eyes. Ragnar helps me shuffle into the crease. The gear is stiff and heavy and I can barely move, but I feel cocooned. Protected. He keeps a firm grip on my waist as he glided me across the rink towards the red net.

“Okay,” he says, voice lighter now. “Look out across the rink. Tell me what you see. I-spy style.”

“I-spy?”

“Yeah.”

I swallow. “Um… I spy something orange.”

He smiles. “The Gatorade bottle on the bench.”

“Yes.”

He nods. “Good.”

We go back and forth a few times. A piece of black tape on the glass. A rogue puck near the blue line. A towel someone left behind after last practice.

“This was home for me. For a long time,” Ragnar says.

I look at him.

He’s not smiling anymore.

“I came to the States when I was eleven. Already showing promise in goal. My parents wanted me in better programs. Better competition. Not a lot of kids play back home. So they sent me here.”

He’s being modest. He was scouted as a kid. That’s incredible. And difficult.

“To live with a host family?”

He nods. “They were kind. Mostly. But they weren’t my family.”

He glances at the boards. “I missed them. My Amma. My little sister. I missed their voices. But I didn’t call. Not enough. Not when I should’ve.”

He swallows.

“I was eighteen when they had another baby. Newly drafted. I was angry, hurt. Thought they were replacing me.”

My heart aches for him.

“And then…” he pauses. “They died. A car accident. All three of them. Only Kat survived. It took hours for rescue workers to even find the car. She was strapped in with our parents’ corpses, Sadie.”

My breath catches.

“My host family didn’t tell me right away. There was a big tournament, and they thought… well, I missed the funeral.”

“Ragnar,” I whisper.

“I was furious. At everyone. At myself. At the whole damn world. But I knew if I said the wrong thing, if I blew up or melted down, I could lose it all. My visa. My place in the program. Everything.”

He exhales.

“It was selfish. I was worried about my future, not Kat’s. Not Amma’s. I should have been on the first plane back to Reykjavik, but I didn’t. I kept going. Because even with all that pain… I love hockey. It’s the only thing that’s ever made sense.”

I reach for his glove and squeeze it.

This time he squeezes back.

“I’m so sorry,” I say.

He nods. “Yeah. Me too.”

The silence stretches between us.

Then I say, “I used to think if I was bad, my parents would send me back.”

He blinks. “They told you that?”

“No. Never. But they didn’t have to. I was always… aware. That I didn’t match. That I didn’t belong to them the same way they belonged to each other.”

“Sadie—”

“I just… I was afraid to ask.”

He steps forward.

“I told my preschool class I was adopted. For show and tell. When I was four. A couple of the other kids told me it wasn’t cool, it wasn’t a fun fact. It meant my parents didn’t want me.”

Wraps his arms around me in all the bulky gear. I collapse into it.

“ Saet stelpa mín, ” he presses the words to the top of my head. “Please tell me you know that’s not true.”

I nod against his chest. “My dad told me to go back to school and tell those punks they chose me. His parents got stuck with him.”

His pads are bulky, cutting into the soft skin of my neck and arms. I don’t care. I breathe him in—his clean scent, the chill of the rink, the warmth of his kindness.

And then my head tips back.

And our mouths meet.

It’s not planned. Not careful. It just happens. His lips are warm and sure. His breath hitches. He starts to pull back.

“Wait,” I whisper. “Please.”

“Sadie—”

“Don’t go.”

He hesitates and I lean in again. Ready for his mouth on mine, his lips coaxing mine open.

He moves. I almost take it for rejection, the way he ducks my mouth, except then I’m moving too.

He lifts me gently—so gently—onto the top bar of the net.

The metal crossbar is cold against the backs of my thighs.

And I don’t know if I should let go of his shirt so I can grip it for balance, or hold on tighter to Ragnar.

Ragnar who pushes my thighs wide and steps between my legs. Cradles my face in one hand, the other cupping my hip. And kisses me like it’s the only language he’s ever spoken.

And I let go of the fear. Just for tonight.

His mouth brushes mine like he’s asking permission, not taking it. Soft. Careful. Full of something I don’t have words for. And I think—I could cry from the gentleness of it.

It’s not hungry or rough or urgent. Not like before. It’s slow. Reverent. Like he’s memorizing me. Like he’s afraid I’ll vanish if he moves too fast.

My fingers are on the lapels of his jacket—he still hasn’t taken it off—gripping the fabric like I’m anchoring myself.

I slide them up the sides of his throat, looping them around the back of his neck.

Anything to bring him closer. My chest is doing that strange, expanding stretch.

Like it’s too much. Like it’s finally enough.

We stop to suck in air and his thumb traces the corner of my mouth. I shiver.

He kisses me again, a little deeper this time, and I lean into it. Into him.

The weight of his hands on my thighs. The press of his chest between my knees. The sigh he lets out like kissing me is something he’s been holding in for months.

I don’t know how long we stay like that.

Lost in the give and take. I’ve kissed plenty of people before. Usually it’s fun, tongues fighting for dominance as we pass oxygen back and forth between our parched lungs. This isn’t like that. It’s not a battle, or a war. It’s a dance. I arch my back, trying to press even closer.

He pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against mine. We’re both panting a little, and the cold air makes my lips tingle.

I open my eyes. His are still closed. His hands are still on me, too. Steady and warm, grounding me like I might float away.

“You don’t have to hold me like I’ll break.”

His voice comes back low. “I’m not afraid you’ll break.”

I wait.

He opens his eyes.

“I’m afraid I might.”

Something inside me twists and softens all at once.

I lift my hand to his cheek. His beard is rough, but warm. Real. And for the first time in what feels like forever, I let myself be still. Just a girl in goalie pads. And a boy who makes her feel like she’s worth holding onto.