3
TRIAL BY FIRE
We sat in the chain of vinyl seats, just outside our gate. I held a book, pretending to read, and Niklas scrolled through the messages on his phone, his baseball hat pulled low on his face. The flight was delayed, and the quiet between them built with every extra minute we waited. I could no longer shut my mind to the end of this trip. It was here. From now on, we were no longer suspended in travel time.
Niklas’s large, warm hand rested on my thigh. The corners of his mouth turned down, and his knee jogged, double-time, as if he were prepping himself for a sprint, not four-and-a-half hours of sitting on an airplane.
I laid my book aside, running my hand along the hard, bunched muscles of his shoulders. His leg stilled, and he set down his phone. He swallowed and rubbed his jaw as I pressed my fingers harder.
“I have a headache from clenching my teeth all morning,” he said.
I nodded.
“I’m not doing any better,” I said. “I’ve read this page in my book about five times, and I still don’t remember what it says.”
He turned to face me, and his hand caressed my cheek, but his voice was tight. “I want you to stay at my house when we get to Detroit.”
I looked up at him.
“But… does that mean you’re…” The words barely came out as I tried to ignore the flutter in my stomach that his statement had set off. Was he thinking of staying in Detroit? The new me was supposed to be stepping out on my own. So how would staying at Niklas’s house fit into the starving artist, making-it-on-her-own thing?
Niklas turned away. “We need to go look at something before we even start this conversation.”
“Umm, okay,” I said, standing up.
We walked down the hall, away from our gate, until we reached a newsstand. Niklas grabbed an assortment of newspapers from the shelves with barely a glance at which ones he was taking and paid. He didn’t look at me, but his hand searched for mine as we walked back to our seats.
When we sat down again, he grabbed the top newspaper from the pile, discarding each layer until he reached the Sports section. He laid it on his lap, and I leaned on his arm to get a better view. His muscles were hard and tense, and we moved under my touch.
I immediately found the article he was looking at: “Oklahoma Tornados Stand Together Under Abuse Allegations.” I swallowed hard and skimmed the article.
A group of women had accused a good portion of the hockey team of rape and abuse at an after-party and sued them. I understood that the event alone hit a little too close to home for Niklas, but it was the slant of the article that sent a shiver through me: Clearly, whoever wrote the piece didn’t believe the allegations were true. The story focused on the women’s past partying and the amounts of compensation they demanded, not on the details of the claims themselves.
“Are you done?” Niklas didn’t look directly at me, and his voice was barely there. I nodded, and he moved on to the second newspaper.
My mind raced in all directions as I skimmed the next article. How did this event relate to Niklas? What was he thinking? And why had his agent call him with this news? Was Niklas somehow involved? The last thought stopped me cold. He would never do anything like that, would he?
I couldn’t believe my mind had just made that leap, but now that I had latched onto the idea, it lingered. Last night in the hotel, I had felt his roughness as he held onto me, teased me. And I couldn’t deny that my body had responded. Was that a hint of something darker between us?
I sat up a little, my cheek no longer resting against his arm. Niklas must have felt the shift. He dropped the newspaper and turned to me. For the first time since we left the hotel, Niklas seemed fully aware of my presence.
His eyes narrowed and the corners of his mouth drew down. “Is there something you need to ask?”
He kept his voice low, under the hum of the airport. Then he closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead with his hand.
“No, I don’t,” I said, resting my hand on his thigh. “I don’t.”
“Never, Caroline,” he whispered, the frustration in his voice giving way to hurt. “You know that, don’t you? Never, ever. ”
The finality of his statement didn’t cover the anxious edge in his voice. The lines on Niklas’s forehead grew deeper. I found his hand and laced my fingers with his.
“I know that, Niklas,” I said. “But why did your agent call about this? Why did he think of you when this story came out?”
His mouth tightened into a thin line, and he didn’t respond for a while. He looked away, his eyes dark.
“My agent thinks this is an opportunity for me,” he muttered, “that I can use this story to my advantage. That the Red Wings might consider offering me another contract.”
My eyes widened. “How could this be an opportunity?”
