Page 135 of Pucking Around

I’ve never liked talking, but it feels easier with her. It definitely feels easier in Finnish. Using her ignorance as a shield, I let myself gaze at the bold features of her face and say the words I feel. “Oot kaunis, Rakas.” I let my gaze drop to the bow of her lips, wanting to trace them with my fingers, my tongue. “Mun leijona…Mä kuulun sulle.”

She blushes, biting the inside corner of her lip like she does sometimes. Her hand with the hearts tattoo lifts as she tucks her hair behind her ear. “And…what does that mean?” she murmurs, all but breathless. Some things don’t need to be translated.

I look back out the window, avoiding her gaze. “It means ‘you’re beautiful,’” I reply, giving her at least part of the truth.

“Thank you,” she says softly. After a minute she adds, “I think you’re beautiful too, Mars…for whatever that’s worth to you.”

What is it worth to me?

Everything.

We arriveoutside the clinic and Rachel has transformed before my eyes. As the taxi drove, she changed her shoes to something more professional with a closed toe and a heel. Then she slipped out of her zipped, hooded sweatshirt and tugged on a sheer, silky white blouse with a collar and buttons. It fits her loose, cuffed at the wrists to expose some gold bracelets on both wrists.

I watch her shimmy in the seat, tucking her shirt into the front of her black leggings. Lastly, she pulls her hair down out of its bun. Adding a flick of red color to her lips, she looks like a different person as we pull up.

“Right, so we’ll do the physical exam first, and then the scans. The team here is great, so you don’t need to worry about that,” she says, going into full doctor mode.

I get out of the taxi, taking both our bags from the driver, as Rachel waits on the curb. The sounds of the city echo all around us. It’s an overcast day, much cooler from the tropical climate in Florida. I don’t mind it. In fact, I prefer the cold.

“I just texted Doctor Halla, so he knows we’ve arrived,” she goes on, her heels clicking on the sidewalk as she leads me over to the front door and pulls it open.

I’m distracted, watching the gentle sway of her hips as she walks. I’m passing through the door when I register her words. A sinking feeling settles in my chest, and I pause just inside the doorway of a bright clinic waiting room. “Wait—Rachel—what name did you say?”

“I said—ah—Doctor Halla!” She hurries forward, thrusting out a hand to greet a tall man wearing a set of navy-blue scrubs. “Thank you so much for agreeing to do this,” she says, shaking his hand with both of her own. “You have no idea how grateful we both are, sir.”

But he’s not looking at Rachel. I’m not looking at Rachel either. I’m looking at him. This has to be a joke. A cruel, cosmic joke. Is she in on it? Does she know? How the hell would she know?

Rachel drops his hand and turns, one brow raised in confusion. She doesn’t understand my coldness. “Doctor Halla, this is my friend, Ilmari Kinnunen, goalie for the Jacksonville Rays. Mars, this is Doctor Benjamin Halla.”

I don’t move. This can’t happen. Not here. Not now.

Slowly, he sighs, clearly sensing the war I’m waging with myself. “Hello, son,” he says in Finnish. “It’s good to see you again.”

61

Something’s wrong. It’s written all over Ilmari’s face. He’s white as a sheet. It only lasts a moment before he’s burying himself so deep behind his thick walls. It’s like I watch him disappear, his whole body icing over. And then he’s gone, his face a blank mask.

Doctor Halla is speaking. It takes me a moment to realize why I’m confused. He’s not speaking English. Ilmari answers him in what I can only assume is Finnish, his voice low, his words clipped.

I knew Doctor Halla was European, but I never knew from where. Honestly, I never thought to ask. It’s not like we swapped life stories. If we weren’t talking about patient care, we weren’t really talking. I doubt he knows a thing about me other than that I like cheesy bagels and require a coffee IV drip to make it through a night shift.

“You two know each other?” I say, glancing between them.

And that’s when my heart drops from my chest. Doctor Halla is a tall man, broad-shouldered. He has short blond hair, peppered with grey at his temples, and deep blue eyes. My gaze darts from Ilmari to Doctor Halla and back. It’s the bridge of their noses that seals my suspicions. The slight downturned crease in the outside corner of their eyes. The thin set of their lips as they exchange clipped sentences in Finnish. “Are you two related?” I say over them, knowing I’m right.

“No,” Ilmari replies at the same time Doctor Halla says, “Yes.”

Ilmari is hard as stone, giving nothing away.

“I’m his father,” Halla explains.

“You are not my father,” Ilmari snaps. “You are nothing to me and never have been.”

As the men stare each other down, my brain is still mid-seizure. “I don’t understand,” I manage to say, looking at Mars. “I thought you said your father was a hockey player. Isn’t that the point in all of this?” I add, gesturing around. “You said the Olympics was your family’s legacy—”

“It’s the Kinnunen legacy,” says Halla with a decided frown. “Ilmari is not a Kinnunen.”

“Yes, I am,” Ilmari counters. He steps forward, his eyes blazing with heat. “My father is Juhani Kinnunen. What else do you call the man who raised me? You are nothing to me, Halla—”