“Before I started playing professionally, the farthest I ever traveled was Finland, and that was by boat. I was never actually afraid of the flying part, but there’s nothing fun about being trapped in a closed tube traveling six hundred kilometers per hour. It still bothers me if I let myself think about it too much.”
“You seem like the type,” I remark.
His eyes narrow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing,” I shrug. “Only that control freaks are usually pretty claustrophobic, if I had to armchair psychologize.”
“I see. And from my armchair, I’d say your life could use a little control. You’ve probably never looked at a calendar or planner.”
“Oh, you couldn’t pay me.”
“You’re probably late to every appointment.”
“By at least ten minutes.”
“How disturbing. Your floorboards are probably buried under a decimeter of dust.”
“I don’t know what a decimeter looks like, but I’m sure it’s true,” I reply.
“I don’t even want to think about your refrigerator. I can practically see the old produce and condiment bottles that expired three years ago. Year-old spills clinging to the drawer bottoms.”
“You need to live a little, Falkenberg. Where’s the fun in life without expired salad dressing? Anyway, claustrophobia never bothered me. I’ve never been someone who needs to be in control,” I say.
I’m thinking more about my wild partying days a few years back, but the lingering look Falkenberg gives me makes me realize how the comment sounded. He looks away, and suddenly I’m all too aware of his nearness—the way his thigh almost brushes mine.
“Dying in a fiery crash would beat cancer any day, though,” I say quickly.
For whatever reason, it’s the wrong thing to say. He frowns, examining his cuticles.
“Yeah,” he says after a moment, then glances between his watch and the lavatory sign. Still occupied. I don’t know why, but something about what I’ve said has upset him. Even more surprising is the concern and inkling of regret I feel.
“Are you excited to go home?” I change the subject.
“Stockholm isn’t home.” He rolls his eyes.
“Close enough.”
He snorts, some of the tension slipping away. “There are a lot of Swedes who would berate you for saying that.”
Then he takes a packet of what looks like candy out of his pocket and pulls out a black, sugar-coated disk. It smells like licorice. He eats one. Then he offers the bag to me. I’m not the biggest fan of licorice, but I neversay no to sweets, so I try one—and almost immediately spit it back into my napkin. My eyes start to water. It wasn’t sweet. It was salty.
“Are you trying to poison me?” I rasp.
“They’re good,” he glowers at me.
“Yeah, if you like chewing on asphalt.”
He shrugs and eats another one.
“So is your family going to come to the games?” I ask.
He pauses with the candy—candy being a loose term—in his cheek, as if considering how to answer. “No,” is all he says.
“Oh.” I get the sense I’ve said the wrong thing again, but he doesn’t leave. Desperate for something to break the thickening silence, I say, “So do you watch movies, or how do you kill the time on these flights?”
“I usually just study game clips,” he replies.
He still hasn’t touched the bottle of wine he stole from me. I’m starting to wonder if he took it just so I wouldn’t drink it.
