by Petrova, Em
Then she saw him. When he stepped onto the ice, the cheers of the crowd around her grew, and she felt her heart pound harder. She, who had dragged herself to sporting events for four years of college wondering why the people around her had paid to come, now found herself gripping her camera in anticipation.
The Swedish team circled her side of the ice, passing pucks back and forth and shooting at the goalie. Niklas wove in and out between the other players with a puck gliding at the end of his stick. As he swerved around towards center ice, Caroline lowered her camera, and his head turned away from the action for a moment. Over past the boards. Over to where she was standing. Niklas looked straight at her, though it happened so quickly that Caroline wasn’t completely sure he had seen her. But she had seen the look on his face before—this much she was certain of. His blue eyes were filled with intensity, the same hunger she had seen just before he had lifted her up and carried her into the bedroom. But this time, there was something else there, something that made her turn away. And she didn’t know what to do with that idea.
It didn’t take long for the game to get underway. The rink in front of her was a mesh of red players and yellow players racing by her, first in one direction and then in another. Despite all the hockey games Caroline had been to in college, she had never bothered actually learning any of the rules beyond the most obvious ones. She paid attention to the referee’s whistle only because it often indicated a moment of emotion, possibly one she could capture on camera.
But now, suddenly, she wanted to know how the game worked. As the clock counted down the minutes of the first period, she turned to Ludvig with her questions: Why was the Swiss team offside? Why did the referee call a penalty for checking this time when only seconds before, another player got hit with an even harder blow, and the referee ignored it? Why would anyone not wear better face protection in a game as rough as this one? She no longer cared if these questions made her sound ignorant; she just wanted to know.
Ludvig’s face flushed as he took her through the game, pointing at each set of lines on the ice, lines Caroline had mistaken as decorative. Ludvig’s face grew increasingly animated as he went through different teams’ strategies. As much as he looked down on the players in front of them, he clearly loved this game.
“Do you mind if I take a couple photos of you while you talk?” she interrupted him suddenly, mid-sentence.
He stopped and looked at her, confused.
“If you’d like, I suppose,” he said in his proper British accent and then continued where he had left off.
The next period had begun and the tempo on the rink pulsed through her as clumps of players skated by. Caroline kept her eyes on Niklas as he pursued the hulking red figures, weaving his stick around the offensive players to steal the puck before shoving them into the boards. What surprised her most was just how fast he could skate. It was something she had missed in other games, but now, following Niklas around the rink, her mouth hung open as the final seconds on the scoreboard ticked away. The first period ended, and the score was still tied, 0-0.
Caroline watched as the players skated off the ice and into the narrow tunnels. When the last of them had disappeared, she turned back to Ludvig, who she found was staring at her with an expression that she couldn’t quite read.
“You’re watching him,” said Ludvig. His face was guarded, but there was a hint of accusation in his voice. “You’re staring at him. First he was in your apartment, and now you can’t take your eyes off him.”
Even if she had wanted to respond, Caroline had no idea what she would say. Why Ludvig thought that her personal life was any of his business was beyond her, she thought, though in truth, she knew the answer. His presumption made her feel all the more uncomfortable: Ludvig asked her to join his team in Spain because he wanted to be with her. He just didn’t have the nerve to say it.
Realizing that he wasn’t getting a response, Ludvig finally took his eyes off her and said, “Let’s see what you got this period.” He took her camera out of her hand and slowly began scrolling through her photos. He squinted down at the tiny screen, looking for something—a photo that revealed some truth about Niklas and her? Apparently, it wasn’t there. Finally, he gave her camera back.
Then he turned on his own camera and found the photo he was looking for.
“You should have taken one of these,” he said, handing it over.
It was Niklas, checking a Swiss player onto the boards.
“It happened right next to us,” he said with another hint of bitterness. “You had a good shot. And everyone else wants to see him like this, even if you don’t.”
Caroline remained silent, looking at the photo, until Ludvig took his camera back from her.
“I’m getting something to eat,” he said and walked away without bothering to wait for her.
THE SECOND PERIOD was rougher than the first. The players knocked each other against the boards over and over again skidding across the ice. Caroline watched as Niklas’s line filed off the rink and fell back onto the benches. They were getting tired, and the Swiss team didn’t look any better. The score was still tied with no goals, and only a few shots had found their way to the goalies. Packs of players circled around in front of her, grunting, eyes flashing, fighting for the puck.
Niklas’s line was back on the rink now. They spread out and shot forward against the Swiss line, passing the puck back and forth. Niklas stayed on the outside, passing it in and then taking it back over the line as the offensive players repositioned themselves, looking for a hole in the Swiss defense. The Swiss missed their opportunity to switch lines, and now they were wearing down, stuck on the defensive, fending off the shots and tips the Swedish team bombarded them with. Someone in yellow passed the puck back to Niklas, but this time, instead of looking for someone closer, he drew back his stick and lifted the puck into the air, straight at the goal. A mess of yellow and red jerseys swarmed around the net, blocking the goalies line of sight. By the time the goalie saw Niklas’s shot, it was too late. The puck floated into the top corner of the net. Niklas had scored.
The spotlights flashed back on, and the sound of the crowd exploded in Caroline’s ears. Niklas’s teammates buried him in a giant swarm, and when they finally released him, she caught a glimpse of the open joy across his face she thought she had seen before. Happiness. At that moment, he looked as if nothing else mattered to him.
The crowd was still on its feet when the puck dropped again. The Swiss passed back and forth but couldn’t get the puck far enough down the ice. And the more they lost possession of the puck, the harder they seemed to check the Swedish players.
Down at the Swedish goal, Niklas curved his stick around to steal the puck, but before he could skate away, the Swiss player hooked his stick around Niklas’s leg, bringing him to the ice. Ludvig had explained enough for Caroline to understand that this was illegal, but the referee was momentarily distracted by two other players, yellow and red, shoving each other behind the goal. He didn’t see the hook.
Niklas stood up, but instead of heading for the puck, which was already on his teammate’s stick, he turned back to the Swiss player and skated toward him, much too fast. The Swiss player came at Niklas as well, and they crashed into each other. Niklas dropped his stick and grabbed a hold of the red jersey in front of him. The Swiss player pointed and yelled back. From somewhere beyond, the whistle blew, but before the referee could intervene, the Swiss player’s glove was off. He drew back his fist and punched Niklas in the face.
Both teams swarmed around the two players, pulling them apart and yelling at each other. Niklas’s back was to her, and he was bending over, holding his face. Blood dripped onto the ice, leaving a trail behind him as he slowly glided over to the long tunnel and off the rink.
“Nice,” said Ludvig. “We’re in a great position to get all this.”
Caroline turned her head away from the tunnel and looked back to Ludvig. He lowered his camera and revealed the glow of unab
ashed triumph on his face.
Chapter Sixteen
Caroline was dreading the ride home from the game. The last thing she needed right now was more time alone with Ludvig, but she was too exhausted to lug her camera and herself over to the subway station right now. Reluctantly, she climbed into his car and shut the door.
“That was the best game I’ve been to in a long time,” said Ludvig, seemingly oblivious to her dampened mood.
Caroline raised her eyebrow. “Aren’t you supposed to be upset that Sweden lost?”
“Sure,” he laughed. “A win would have been nice, too. But the intensity of those fights is what everyone came for. And that’s what makes the news. No one wants to look at photos of smiling hockey players making polite passes to each other. They want to see blood. And Almquist definitely gave it to us. You can count on that from him.”
His mouth turned down at the corners as he spoke Niklas’s name aloud.
But Caroline had to admit that there was some truth in what Ludvig said. She, too, had felt the rush of the game as she watched Niklas weave around the rink and, yes, when he shoved the Swiss players against the boards and skated away with the puck. Ludvig was right about that. But the trail of blood that followed Niklas out of the arena was too much.
When she didn’t respond, Ludvig turned, and finally he registered the grim look on her face. His face tightened as well, and when he spoke again, his eyes bore into hers, as if to make sure she didn’t miss his message.
“Those guys out there play the game and fight with each other because they love it. To be a hockey player, you have to care about the sport more than anything else, every single day of your life. All those guys out there on the rink? Nothing in their lives will ever come before hockey. And they have to practice their ruthlessness every day, on and off the ice. That’s what makes them good.”
Ludvig turned on the engine, but before he pulled out of the parking space, he turned to look at her one more time.
“The players chose that life, just like you and I chose this one.”
THE CAR RIDE home was silent. Caroline kept her head turned toward the window, silently wishing what he had said wasn’t true. Ludvig’s car was small and stuffy, and she needed to get out. She had to extricate herself from the mess she had gotten herself into. Ludvig stopped at the curb in front of her building, his face still hard and angry. He didn’t say anything.
Caroline let out a heavy sigh. Her relationship with Ludvig was supposed to be professional. If he was angry at her because she was clearly more interested in Niklas, despite his very public faults, well, he’d just have to get in line. She was just as frustrated with herself about it.
“Thanks for the ride,” she managed to say before she closed his car door.
Caroline opened the heavy door of her apartment building and walked in, listening to her steps echo through the quiet stone hallway. After all this, how could she still be thinking about whether or not Niklas was home? Niklas, who was the subject of a photo far worse than she imagined it could be. But he had said it wasn’t true. And nothing in the headlines suggested he was arrested, only that the circumstances looked bad. Really bad, as he had so bluntly told her. Should she give him a chance to explain? But what could he possibly say that could make her see that photo differently?
The night they had spent together, the way he had looked at her, held her, touched her, whispered her name, were all so different, so far from this mess. When they were alone, it was as if none of these other things—hockey, Ludvig, her future, the photo—mattered. But that feeling didn’t last. It couldn’t. Even that next morning after he had spent the night, he had left early, the pull of hockey too great. And besides, she was leaving. How many times had she been through this debate in her mind?
Caroline stopped at the bottom of the spiral stone staircase, knowing she wouldn’t be able to stop herself from seeking him out. Besides, nothing Niklas could say about the photo would make this situation worse.
As she listened to her shoes tap on the marble floor, Niklas’s apartment only a flight away, the idea of knocking on his door suddenly felt both ill-conceived and ill-timed. Her footsteps slowed as she continued up the empty stairs until she came to her landing. Their landing. Caroline took a deep breath.
She stopped in front of Niklas’s door and listened. Nothing. She knocked. First, there was nothing, but then she heard what sounded like a door closing. Was it from his apartment? Did he hear her knock and retreat further away? Caroline stood still, her resolve continuing to crumble. She knocked again, but this time she heard nothing but the pounding of her own heart in her ears.
The sound of the elevator came from behind her. She listened to the motor until the tiny box appeared through the stained-glass window of the elevator doors. The gate opened, and Niklas stepped out.
He was freshly showered and wearing a button-up shirt and jeans. Across his left cheekbone was a long red cut, sealed shut with surgical tape. Niklas looked up at her, and what Caroline saw in his eyes made her catch her breath. His face opened for only a moment, full of unguarded lust and anger and passion as he took in her unexpected presence. Then it all disappeared. He drew in his emotions, and in their place, Caroline saw the same steely look that she had seen when Ludvig appeared at her door, interrupting their last conversation.
“You’re back late,” he said, looking down at the camera bag she had dropped at her feet. Caroline looked at her watch. It was 7:22 pm, which her empty stomach confirmed.
“How’s your cheek?” she said, walking over to get a closer look.
“It hurts like hell, now that the anesthesia’s wearing off.”
“I saw it happen,” she said quietly.
“I know,” he answered. A glimmer of emotion broke through his hard blue eyes.
“Can I come in?” she said. “I want to talk.”
He didn’t speak for a long time. Instead, he looked over towards the stairwell and out the windows until she was almost sure he wasn’t going to answer. But then he nodded. He brushed against her as he walked over to unlock his door, and his touch sent a familiar shiver through her body. Caroline watched him. It felt like she were making some sort of decision, though what this decision was still remained unclear. She followed him in, and the door slammed shut behind her.
Boxes lined the hallway and were scattered around the first room she could see, the living room, as if another moving truck had just arrived. The kitchen looked a little better. At least the boxes were opened, and a small stack of plates and glasses sat on the open shelves above the counter. Niklas took down a glass and poured himself a shot of whiskey.
“You want one?” he asked, looking across the room to where she was still standing.
Caroline shook her head.
“Suit yourself,” he said and drank down the amber liquid in one gulp.
He looked back up at her. “Your boyfriend’s busy tonight? I guess I gave him something to write about.”
His voice was low and rough, and Caroline could see the red rising in his cheeks. His hand clenched the glass. He had an edge to him that she had seen a glimpse of when he came to her door the other day, confronting her with the photos she had taken of him. But this time, he didn’t bother to hide his frustration.
“I’m not going to answer that,” she said, feeling her own cheeks getting hot, too. “I already told you that Ludvig is a colleague, nothing else to me.”
Caroline could see Niklas’s jaw unclench a little. He took a deep breath and walked across the room until he was standing only inches away from her. She could feel the pull of the heat from his body. He still clutched the empty glass in his hand, his knuckles white around it.
“Why did you come to the game?” he said. “I told you not to.”
“And you want me to do what you tell me to do?” Caroline’s eyes narrowed, daring him to answer yes.
“I wanted you to listen to me.” He spoke with icy deliberateness, his blue eyes now dark and fixed on her. “I to
ld you I can’t mix hockey with something—something like this.”
His head bent toward hers, and Caroline found herself staring at his full lips, her entire body wanting to taste them again. This was hardly the tone of their conversation, and, yet, she felt it as much as she felt anything else. She wanted to reach up and trace the cut across his cheekbone and the remaining line of the scar above his eye.
She had decided to give Niklas a chance to explain. But in truth, there was a part of her that had come over because the pleasure of a night together, even just one more, was too great to resist. And standing so close to him now, the pull between them was even stronger than before. Ludvig’s words nagged at her again: Nothing would ever come before hockey for him. The person on the ice would always come first. That truth lay behind Niklas’s success on the rink, and she couldn’t let go of it.
Did he let her into his apartment out of some misplaced chivalric duty, because they had slept together? Did he change his mind about wanting something more? It was so easy to believe she was just one in a long line of women that he spent the night with, only to move on after the next game. Or did he also feel this same physically consuming desire that was pulsing through her? She stepped back, hoping that separating her body from his would help her think, but she felt the kitchen wall behind her, holding her in.
Finally, Caroline drew in a breath and answered him.
“I barely even know you, and you want to tell me what I should do?” The evenness in her voice surprised her.
She watched her words hit Niklas, and a mix of anger and hunger exploded on his face.
“No,” he growled. “I’m telling you I can’t handle this.”
It took a moment for Caroline to register what happened next. She watched his arm suddenly move across his body, and then there was the sound of something shattering against the far kitchen wall. Something had flown across the room. The empty glass he had been holding, she realized. Now it lay in shards on the kitchen floor. She looked from his glass to his now-empty hand and then back again, trying to make sense of it. He had thrown his glass across the room.