Page 22 of The Unexpected Lineup (Lost in Translation #2)

SEEMS LIKE MISSING NOTES IS BECOMING OUR THING

RASMUS

O ur first night at the cabin was peaceful.

If you don’t count the hours Haisley spent curled over the toilet in the bathroom while I sat outside the door, frantically googling everything I could about morning sickness.

Only to discover the “morning” part is a lie for some. It can last all damn day.

Poor Haisley. I hated seeing her miserable and exhausted, her face pale. I wish I could do something, but there’s no specific cure. The long list of suggestions might help if we are lucky.

The first thing in the morning, after making sure Haisley is comfortable, I drive into the nearest town to do grocery shopping.

The store is small, the kind of place where the shelves are stocked to cover the basics.

The kind you’d run to for milk and bread when you’re too lazy or busy to do a big shopping trip.

As I scan the aisles, I look down at the list on my phone: crackers, ginger ale, peppermint tea, and plain toast. All these should bring her the comfort she needs right now .

When I reach the fruits, I consider the bananas. Google did mention that they’d be easy on the stomach.

At the shelf with ginger candies, an older man steps up beside me. He chuckles when he peers into my basket. “Ah, those early morning sickness days,” he shakes his head knowingly. “Brings back memories.”

“Yeah?”

“My wife had it real bad with our first. She could barely keep anything down. Ginger ale is definitely a good choice.” He points to the items in my basket and adds, “The peppermint tea is a hit or miss, but worth a try.”

“She was sick all night,” I admit.

The kind stranger pats my shoulder. “Welcome to the club, son. It’s rough in the beginning, but it gets better. Eventually.”

“I wish I could do more to make this comfortable for her.”

The man nods in understanding. “Being there, taking care of her, making sure she’s not going through it alone…that means more than you realize.”

His words calm and ease the tension slowly building inside me. I’m not used to feeling this helpless. It’s much easier to control things while I’m on ice. But here with Haisley? All I can do is watch and try to make things easier where I can.

I glance down at my basket and then back at him. “What else worked for your wife other than all of this?”

He scratches his jaw. “It was mostly trial and error. But my wife swore by cold apple slices and chicken noodle soup.”

“Apples and chicken noodle soup. Got it. ”

“Good luck, son,” he gives my shoulder a fatherly squeeze. “You’re doing better than you think.”

As he walks off, I stand there, letting his words settle. Then I turn, grab a bag of apples, and head toward the other section for soup ingredients.

Maybe none of this will help, or maybe one thing will make a difference.

Either way, I’ll keep trying. Because that’s all I can do.

I’m in the grocery store parking lot, ready to head back to cabin with bags of supplies in the backseat, when my phone buzzes. Haisley’s name lights up the screen, along with the photo I snapped of her yesterday.

I swipe to answer and put her on speaker. “Hey, everything okay?”

“Where did you go?” Her groggy voice comes through.

“Just ran to the store to stock up. Didn’t you see the note I left?”

She lets out a tired sound that is caught between a laugh and a sigh. “Seems like missing notes is becoming our thing.”

“I’ll use a neon highlighter next time,” I offer, trying to keep the conversation light. “Or maybe tattoo it to your arm.”

That earns me the softest hum of amusement. Not quite a laugh, but close.

“You hanging in there?” I ask, my tone softening.

“I could be better. But it’s not as bad as last night. ”

“Good. Not great, but good. I picked up a few things that might help.”

“You didn’t have to go through all that trouble.”

“It’s not trouble looking after you,” I tell her earnestly. “I hated seeing you like that. I didn’t know what the hell to do. I felt so fucking useless. So, if anything I bought helps, that’s a win in my book.”

“You were anything but useless, Rasmus.”

“Are you kidding me? I sat outside the door like a glorified search engine,” I say with a dry laugh. “I was trying my best to figure out what helps and what doesn’t. Half the sites contradicted each other, so it didn’t help.”

“Still,” she murmurs, her voice laced with sleep. “You were there.”

I close my eyes for a second. “You want me to head back now? I can be there in under fifteen minutes.”

“No, take your time. I think I’ll try to sleep a bit more. Hopefully the nausea eases up, so I can enjoy food later.”

“Alright. I’ll sneak in quiet as a church mouse.”

My choice of words makes her chuckle. “You’re being really sweet.”

“I want you to feel better, so I don’t have to worry about you or our little Meatball.”

“You being there already helps more than you know.”

Her voice has gone faint, heavy with exhaustion.

“I’ll see you soon,” I whisper. “Rest now, Haisley. ”

There’s a quiet beat before she answers, soft and sure. “I’ll be here waiting for you.”

The road back to the cabin winds through snow-covered trees, the afternoon sky all clear and bright. My hands grip the steering wheel, but my mind is still stuck on Haisley. Especially on how she tries to downplay how sick she is.

Rolling my shoulders, I try to shake the tension clinging to me. I need something to clear my head. Something fun that makes me feel anything else than this constant worry I carry around these days.

And like the universe heard my plea, my gaze lands on the perfect distraction. Well, look at that.

A group of kids in mismatched gear are playing hockey on a frozen pond by the road. It’s not an organized game or anything fancy; piles of snow mark the goals with no other lines on the ice. Still, they’re lost in the enjoyment of the game, calling out to each other and laughing as they play.

Before I can overthink it, I pull over to the side of the road and kill the engine. I grab my jacket from the passenger seat as I hop out.

The kids notice me right away. A couple of them slow down, watching me with cautious curiosity. A lanky kid with a worn-out beanie sticking out from under his helmet says, “How can we help you, sir?”

“I was wondering if you needed one more player.”

I always keep a bag of my gear in the truck so I can play whenever it suits my mood .

“ You wanna play?” he skeptically asks.

“That okay with you?”

The kids exchange looks. “Sure, I guess,” their leader says. “We could use another guy. Are you any good?”

“I can keep up.”

“Let’s see it then.”

I sit on the snowy bank and lace up my skates while they keep playing. The ice is rough in spots and a little wonky, but that’s part of the charm of pond hockey. There’s no Zambonis or boards, only the game in its purest form.

When I step onto the ice, my body responds instinctively. My muscles remember the feeling of playing outdoor hockey. It’s different from an indoor rink, colder and wilder, but still has that homey feeling as any ice does.

“Here,” one of the kids calls as she flips the puck toward me. I catch it on my stick and take off.

And the game is on.

It’s fast and messy, but that makes it fun. The kids are scrappy and determined, some better than others, but all have that very innocent love for the sport that reminds me of myself at their age. This is exactly what I needed: a familiar environment calming the restlessness inside me.

After I score my first goal, the same lanky kid skates beside me. He studies me, his breath visible in the frigid air. “You play somewhere?”

“Something like that.”

The smallest of the boys with freckles mumbles something. Even if I didn’t hear what was said, I can see the moment the recognition clicks on the lanky kid’s face.

“Are you sure?”

Freckles rolls his eyes. “Pretty sure. I saw him on TV the other day.”

Another kid with blonde hair skates over, squinting at me. Then his jaw drops. “Holy shit. You're Rasmus Westerholm of the Peacocks.”

The others turn, their heads snapping toward me.

“No way.”

“Are you serious?”

“Why would he be here?”

“But he kinda sucks, right?”

Lifting my hands in surrender, I admit, “Don’t be mad. I needed a distraction, and you looked like you were having fun.”

One of the girls huffs. “I knew you looked familiar. You got traded recently, right?”

“Yeah, this season.”

“That’s wild,” another one mutters. “You’re in the League, and you were driving past us and stopped to play for fun?”

I shrug. “This is where it starts, right? Playing outside, freezing our asses off, loving every second of it.”

Some of them still stare at me, afraid I might disappear if they dare to blink. But others are nodding, agreeing with what I’m saying .

“So,” the lanky kid starts hesitantly. “How does one even make it to the professional level?”

It’s a question I’ve heard a thousand times before. The answer is never as simple as people want it to be.

“A lot of things have to line up. You need talent, yeah, but you also need to work harder than everyone else. And I mean everyone. Even when you’re tired, even when you don’t feel like playing. You keep showing up.”

“And you have to love it,” I add. “You have to love the game more than other things in life because that’s the only way you get through the shitty parts. The injuries, the slumps, the times you wonder if you’re good enough.”

One of the younger kids shifts on his skates. “Were there times you thought you weren’t good enough?”

I let out a breath. “Yeah. Plenty.”

Based on their reactions, they didn’t expect that.

“But I kept going,” I put it simply. “Because I couldn’t imagine doing anything else. Hockey has always been my first love.”

“That’s sick,” the blonde kid comments.

“You’re good players. Keep playing, pushing each other, and who knows?” I tell the group. “The sky is the limit.”

They all straighten at my words, as if I told them they had a shot. Maybe some of them do. Maybe they won’t make it past high school or juniors, but if they love the game, that’s enough. That’s what really matters.

Freckles clears his throat. “Uh, can we take a picture? To prove this actually happened?”

“Yeah, of course. ”

They pull out their phones, and we take a few selfies, some of the kids posing with grins wider than Cup winners have. After that, we play a little longer until I finally tap my stick against the ice.

“Alright, kiddos, I gotta get going.”

They groan in protest, but don’t argue. The lanky kid moves forward, extending his fist. “Thanks for playing with us, man. This was unreal.”

I bump his fist with mine. “Thanks for letting me.”

As I take off my skates and head back to my car, my head is clearer, and my body relaxed. I needed this. And now, I’m ready to go home to Haisley.