Stockholm Diaries, Caroline

by Rebecca Hunter

  “Do you want to move to the front?” Ludvig asked, leaning over and whispering in her ear as they sat down.

  She shook her head.

  His aftershave, noticeable at a distance, was overwhelming at close range. Again she asked herself what this afternoon was to him—an extended favor? A date? His nearness suggested the latter, and she wasn’t sure what to do with that idea. It wasn’t that Ludvig was unattractive, she thought as she glanced over at him. His blond hair was again waxed into a careful mess in the front, hanging over a tanned face—surprisingly tanned, considering the fact that summers were rumored to be short and cold in Sweden. In fact, he was quite good looking, and there was no reason she shouldn’t feel attracted to him. Maybe attraction would grow if they spent more time together? He would certainly be a more sensible choice, she thought with a sigh.

  So why was it Niklas she couldn’t stop thinking about? Niklas, with his unpredictable moods and his scarred hands and the kisses that kept her awake long into the night. Niklas, who ignored her as she called after him like an idiot. Professional athletes had a reputation even she knew about—lots of sex with as many women as possible, women who never seemed to be in short supply, if she remembered correctly the entourages that followed the University of Michigan basketball players around. Is this what Niklas thought she was?

  Caroline could feel the mix of anger and humiliation building. Maybe it was better that Niklas would see her here at the press conference. If she was just one in a long line of women Niklas kissed and then forgot about, it was a good thing they hadn’t moved farther than that. She’d rather him think she was a photojournalist pursuing him for a good shot than a woman throwing herself at him in hopes for an encounter with the excitement and virility elite sports were supposed to produce.

  More journalists filed through the door, filling up the seats and lining up along the sides, chattering in different languages. Ludvig had been talking to her for a while, something about the different brackets and the odds of Sweden facing the U.S. team. Caroline knew she should be paying attention. Connor had passed along her photos with this message: “Faster turn-around, more action/fights. This isn’t the Michigan Daily anymore.” Caroline clearly didn’t know how the world of professional sports photography worked, and Ludvig, in the seat next to her, wanted to explain it all to her. Right next to her was the door to the career break she had hoped for, the opportunity to earn enough money to hold her over while she traveled and built up a portfolio, but she was having a hard time mustering the enthusiasm for it.

  Caroline heard the door open again. Conversations stopped around her, and the press, almost exclusively male and, she guessed, mostly Swedish, began to clap. Caroline turned and watched the players along with another, older man—the coach, she guessed—walk up behind the row of tables at the front of the room and sit down. Niklas was seated at the far end from her and was looking down the row at his teammates. He had on a dress shirt and tie, and his face seemed to have mostly recovered from the brawl. His smile was somehow different. In a word, he looked professional. Like a distant relative to the man she had seen yesterday on the ice.

  As far as she could tell, he hadn’t seen her yet. As Ludvig had predicted, the English portion of the press conference wasn’t until the end, so Caroline tuned out the foreign melody of words around her and studied the players instead. Caroline took the lens cap off and moved her camera down the line of men, trying not to stop too long at Niklas. This was difficult.

  It was clear why the coach chose Niklas to speak, despite his reported reluctance to meet the press these days. He was engaging to watch. While the other players stumbled over their words or muttered one-word replies, Niklas looked at ease in front of the crowd. He made the press laugh more than once. In fact, this clean-shaven version of him looked more like someone in a boardroom meeting than on the hockey rink. Of course, it also helped that, unlike the guy sitting next to him, he wasn’t missing any teeth.

  Caroline saw out of the corner of her eye that Ludvig was just as captivated by Niklas as she was. She looked back and forth at the two men. What did Ludvig see when he looked at Niklas? The same sky-blue eyes and determined jaw she found herself staring at? Or did he just see the player that was on the ice yesterday. “The animal,” as Ludvig had put it.

  It also occurred to Caroline that if Niklas hadn’t spotted her yet, it was possible he’d leave the room without seeing her at all. At this point there were a lot of people packed into the little room, after all. Even that idea didn’t provide the kind of relief that she thought it would.

  The press conference finally switched over to English, and Caroline lowered her camera to listen. After a few questions for the coach, one of the journalists near her turned to Niklas.

  “The Russian press sees Sweden as one of the tournament favorites,” he began in what she guessed was a Russian accent, “as long as you can keep your temper under control. After the game against Finland, can you comment on this?”

  When Caroline looked back to Niklas for his response, she caught her breath. He was staring straight at her, not at the journalist a few seats down. The room was silent, waiting for his answer, but he continued to look at her with a mixture of surprise and something else on his face. Not quite anger, but something close.

  Earlier that morning, Caroline had prepared herself for the moment he saw her, and yet she still was caught off guard. Immersed in the press conference around her, she had somehow begun to doubt that it would really happen.

  Now he was staring at her across the room, and the calm, professional look was gone. Instead, his face was filled with emotion. This was the man she had seen in her hallway. Everyone else seemed to be staring at her as well, including Ludvig. It was too late to hide behind her camera or leave the room or do anything except meet the eyes that burned into her.

  But the look on his face lasted only a moment. The Niklas she knew was gone as his gaze moved back to the man sitting just a few seats from her.

  “I’ll do whatever it takes for our team to win,” Niklas answered and stood up, signaling that the press conference was over. The people surrounding her stood up, too, shouting questions and snapping photos as the team filed out, but Caroline stayed seated, not wanting to see Niklas again. Nothing she had done to him was intentionally deceitful, but she felt the weight of his eyes on her. Betrayal. That was what she had seen on his face when he stared at her.

  He slammed the door in my face when I tried to tell him, she thought angrily, though the thought of their encounter of yesterday only added to her frustration.

  “Do you know Almquist?”

  Ludvig’s voice interrupted her thoughts. Caroline unclenched her hands from around Niklas’s camera. She looked up at Ludvig and was met with yet another pair of accusing eyes.

  “A little,” she sighed. “He lives across the hall from where I’m staying, and he probably didn’t expect to see me here. I didn’t know he was a hockey player until the game yesterday.”

  Now it was Ludvig’s turn to stare at her with a look she didn’t bother trying to decipher. She had told him the truth, or at least all Ludvig needed to know of it, but the doubt on his face was clear. The rest of the room was emptying, leaving only the two of them to pack up their bags. But neither of them moved.

  “I told you yesterday he’s a brute,” Ludvig snapped in a low voice. “Back when he was on the Red Wings, he got into a lot of trouble. Assault. Do yourself the favor of looking it up. It was all over the papers. You’d be smart to stay away from him.”

  Caroline was silent. This was the first time she had seen a break in Ludvig’s careful exterior, and she wasn’t sure how to respond. She found it difficult to reconcile the Niklas from her building, the man who had worried about her walking alone in the park and escorted her home, with a man who would assault someone, but Caroline guessed that Ludvig wouldn’t be interested in this line of conversation right now.

  Ludvig didn’t take his gaze fr
om her.

  “Players like Niklas just think they can do whatever they want because they’re famous and make lots of money.” His voice was calmer now, but the edge of anger hadn’t disappeared entirely.

  Caroline considered Ludvig’s statement. She had the sinking feeling that this particular description did seem to fit the Niklas she knew, the one who slammed the door on her twice. She turned to look at Ludvig.

  “Yesterday you said that players like Niklas show us our true nature, what we’d be without society. That they’re paid to do what the rest of us aren’t allowed to do. Were you talking about assault, too?”

  Ludvig’s eyes widened, and stared at her a while.

  “They’re just animals,” he finally said, not bothering to mask his contempt.

  He put the last of his equipment back into his bag. As Caroline stood up to do the same, he turned back around and put his hand on her arm. Ludvig’s face was uncomfortably close to hers, and she suddenly wondered if he was going to try to kiss her. But he didn’t. Instead, he spoke softly this time.

  “Look, I’m sorry if I sound harsh. I don’t think it’s in men’s nature to assault—that’s not what I meant. I just don’t want Niklas to do the same thing to you.”

  Caroline gave him a half smile.

  “I’m pretty good at looking after myself,” she said, though Niklas had cast doubt on that idea.

  But Ludvig nodded.

  “How about going out for lunch?” he said. He searched in his bag and pulled out a neat stack of papers. “It’s the schedule of the games. I’ve circled the higher-profile ones I think we should be at. We can plan at the restaurant.”

  “There’s something I need to do,” she said. Ludvig’s face fell, and it tugged on her with a mixture of guilt and irritation. He had only invited her to a work-related lunch, one that she would professionally benefit from. Veronica would have told her this if she were standing there. In fact, it was this hypothetical conversation with Veronica that pushed Caroline to add, “How about tomorrow instead?”

  Ludvig’s smile was back. “Great. I’ll pick you up.”

  Caroline took the hockey schedules that he was still holding out for her, but as soon as she looked up at his satisfied smile, she regretted letting those words out of her mouth.

  Chapter Eleven

  Actually, what Caroline had told Ludvig was not quite the truth. There was nothing she had to do. Only something she wanted to do. She wanted to know the story behind Niklas’s assault, and she knew the idea wouldn’t leave her alone until she found out.

  Caroline stared out the subway window as it crossed the bridge to Stockholm, only to dive back underground into the city. After a few more stops, the train emerged again, giving her a view of Old Town, surrounded by water. Yellow and orange buildings lined the waterfront, all with copper roofs, turning green from the elements. They were packed neatly onto the little island that peaked in spires and towers in the distance.

  As the train sped back underground, Caroline’s thoughts wandered back to the press conference and to Ludvig’s face as they spoke in the empty room. For a moment even-tempered Ludvig had looked furious, both with Niklas for the assault and with her for having a connection to him. Caroline found Ludvig’s reaction just as surprising as the idea of Niklas’s assault. His contempt for Niklas had been tinged with something else, something Caroline, distracted by Niklas, couldn’t quite identify at the time. Now she closed her eyes, trying to replay Ludvig’s words, back at the rink and inside the press conference room. Could it be envy? Caroline opened her eyes and looked out the window, into the darkness of the subway tunnel. Could Ludvig, so polished and controlled, envy Niklas? When they had first met in Veronica’s apartment, Ludvig himself had mentioned he wanted to play hockey at one point, though the idea of Ludvig out on the rink was hard to imagine.

  The recording of a soothing woman’s voice came over the intercom and made an announcement in Swedish she was beginning to recognize: St. Eriksplan, the name of her station. Caroline walked quickly through the streets, back into the dark, cool hallway of the apartment building, hesitating for a moment at the top of the stairs. Niklas’s door was dark and solid, completely unchanged from the dozens of times she had passed by, and yet Caroline stared at it, as if looking for a signal. Nothing happened. Niklas had assaulted someone—at least that was Ludvig’s claim. So why was she still inexplicably drawn to him? Was he drawn to her as well? It had felt that way, but there was something else there, too. With a sigh of exasperation, mostly directed at herself, she opened her own door and walked in.

  Finally, the place was beginning to feel familiar, almost like her own. She entered the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. There wasn’t much to choose from, just various sandwich fixings that she had been experimenting with. She pulled out a few items and assembled a simple arrangement: opened-faced on buttered brown bread, with cheese and two slices of tomatoes. Then she walked over to the kitchen table, where her laptop waited for her.

  But now that Caroline had a chance to look up Niklas’s history, she hesitated. Did she really want to get the story from the press first? Nothing about the man she had met in person—the man who had steered his friend away from her in the park, who had walked her home, who had kissed her so tenderly and thoroughly—matched someone who would assault a person. She wanted to hear the story from him. That is, if she could get him to talk to her without slamming the door on her.

  Caroline shook her head. Was she really still waiting for this guy? She took a deep breath and typed in her search words: Niklas. Almquist. News. But before she could press Enter, she heard a knock on the front door. Caroline was half way down the hall when the second knock came, more urgent than the last. She peered through the peek hole. Niklas was standing impatiently close to the door. Caroline’s heart gave a hard jolt. She swallowed hard and opened it.

  “Niklas,” she said quietly. Despite all her thoughts and apprehensions over the last day, at that moment when he stood in front of her, she was struck by her unequivocal attraction to this man. He had changed since the press conference and was now wearing jeans and a t-shirt that stretched across the muscles of his chest and showed his long, fit arms. His shaggy blond hair was under more control than usual, though one wavy lock threatened to fall down on his forehead. The cut on his brow was mostly healed, and his sky-blue eyes were looking right at her. Into her. And he had that same, brutal look on his face that he had given her earlier at the press conference.

  “Your camera. I got it fixed.” he said, handing it to her. She hadn’t even noticed he was holding it.

  “Thanks,” she said, turning red. The camera, of course. That’s why he had come over. And he wanted his own back. “Come in. I’ll get yours.”

  His expression changed a little, and he hesitated before stepping through the doorway.

  “Don’t you know you shouldn’t let strange men into your apartment,” he said in a low voice that was gentler than she had expected.

  “And that’s you?” she said with a smirk.

  But he didn’t smile.

  “I’m the worst kind of stranger. The kind people think they know,” he said.

  Caroline’s mind played with the possible meanings behind his statement. Ludvig’s warning came back to her. Should she be scared of this man? Nothing in her experience with him felt dangerous, but it was Niklas himself who had pointed out just how unattuned she was to danger a few days before. Still, the tension between them felt like something much different.

  “Just come in,” she finally said.

  Despite the frustration he seemed to be keeping on a short leash, she heard him draw in a sharp breath when his body brushed against hers. She felt it too, and it was enough to awaken the physical memory of their kiss. The apartment was unnaturally quiet as they walked down the hall, just their footsteps and the sound of his low breath behind her. As she started to turn into the kitchen to grab his camera bag, Caroline caught sight of her
laptop. It was on the table where she had left it, open, with her search words clearly typed into the box. Pictures of him, mostly in his Red Wings jersey, spread across the screen.

  Shit. She caught her breath and then turned around, finding Niklas only inches away from her. Her heart gave a sudden jump, though she wasn’t sure if it was her nervousness or the tension that sparked every time they were near each other. The heat from his body flooded through her, and she had to consciously stop herself from reaching out and touching him.

  “Sorry,” he said. He took a step back and looked away.

  Caroline’s mind was having trouble working. She managed to point across the hall and say, “You can go into the living room. I’ll find it.”

  He nodded and moved past her, but not before glancing into the kitchen. Did he see what was on her screen? If he did, he didn’t let it show on his face. He simply turned and walked into the other room.

  Caroline realized she was holding her breath, and she let it out slowly. She slipped into the kitchen, closed the laptop and grabbed the camera bag off the table. She found Niklas pacing at the other end of the living room. When he heard her enter, he crossed back over in long strides, ignoring the bag in her hand. He stopped in front of her but seemed unsure of what to do next. He ran his hand through his hair and then looked down at her.

  “Why didn’t you tell me you’d be there?” His words were slow and controlled, and his eyes bore into her.

  “I didn’t know who you were before I went to the game yesterday. I had no idea you’d be there.”

  “I find that hard to believe.”

  Caroline could feel her own anger building. “You’re so well known that you find it hard to believe I didn’t know who you are? That’s quite an ego you have.”

  Niklas scowled. “I find it hard to believe that a sports photographer who came all the way from Detroit for a hockey tournament wouldn’t know the players she was watching.”