The players all froze into a tense tableau, waiting for the scrimmage to begin. Then the puck dropped, and they sprang to life. The white jerseys won the face-off and headed into red territory. Niklas hung back, anticipating a white player’s move toward the goal, while another red player took on the puck holder directly. The puck holder passed to the guy Niklas shadowed, and Niklas raced around to steal the puck before it hit the white jersey’s stick. He dodged the white jersey but didn’t head straight for the goal.
Why? I racked my brain for the explanations Ludvig had given me earlier that summer, but I couldn’t remember the details. Probably something about being offside, though I still wasn’t entirely sure what those rules were. I’d have to ask Niklas later.
In the time I had let my mind wander, the puck had changed hands again. Red jerseys struggled to regain possession of the puck as white jerseys passed it back and forth in what looked like an intentional pattern.
I couldn’t take my eyes off Niklas. When I had watched him play back in Sweden, it was only shortly after we had met, when I was still trying to get my mind around the idea that the man I had kissed outside my apartment was the same man fighting on the ice.
My heart jumped as Niklas skated by, mouth guard pushing his lips into a sneer as he raced toward the puck. He hit a white player with enough force to knock the guy back and get what he was after. He stole the puck on the offensive side and, without fully turning around, passed it to another red jersey snaking in front of the goal.
The guy didn’t have to reach for the puck. Niklas’s pass shot directly to the middle of his teammate’s stick with a loud slap. The guy didn’t hesitate. The red jersey hooked around the goal, nudging the puck in right as he passed the post.
The red jersey skated toward Niklas with his glove up, ready to celebrate, but Niklas turned to skate back down the ice, ignoring him, leaving the guy behind. I thought I had missed yet another nuance in the hockey game until the red jersey turned back around, giving me a view of the name written on his back: Bauer.
Oh.The events of the last hour hadn’t just disappeared the moment Niklas stepped on the ice. I wondered if Niklas had been more willing to put off-the-ice issues aside before, back in the spring after the hints of abuse had appeared in the media. Bauer’s reaction to the goal suggested that this might be true, though Bauer hadn’t come off as particularly insightful about Niklas’s flashpoints. Was Niklas more easily set off by Bauer now? Was this because of me, too?
If Niklas joined the Red Wings, he’d see Bauer every day. That wouldn’t lead anywhere good.
Niklas’s line headed for the bench, and another group of players took their places. But I was no longer watching the scrimmage. My gaze was fixed on Niklas. He sat at the end of the bench, looking at the ground in front of him, as someone—a coach?—talked in his ear. Niklas nodded but didn’t look up. The coach made a sweeping gesture towards the tunnel where the players had emerged from and stood back up.
Niklas took a drink from his water bottle and raised his eyes to the game in front of him. His gaze moved across the rink and into the stands, onto me. I studied his face for emotion, but he didn’t let anything show. He looked like the version of him I had met in the Stockholm hallway months ago, face impassive, impervious to everything around him. I couldn’t bring myself to smile at the person staring at me. After another moment, his eyes fell to the floor in front of him again.
He didn’t look in my direction for the rest of the game. Not that I had expected it, but after the events with Bauer, I couldn’t shake the feeling that Niklas’s experiment merging his two worlds wasn’t going well. I didn’t have a place in this world; in fact, my presence only made it harder for him.
Now I wished I had taken his keys when he offered them. I could have driven away, but instead I was stuck inside the arena, imagining ways the next hour could play out.
Actual events were much more mundane. After another line change, I could see Niklas loosening up on the ice, even enjoying himself again. For once, I kept my focus on the game, not letting my mind wander. And when the players left the ice, I simply stared out at the empty rink.
What was I thinking? I couldn’t be a part of this world, and seeing Niklas on the ice today, I wasn’t altogether sure I wanted to be. He had made the distinction when we met: Hockey was a world that prized physical skill, fighting, intimidation and single-mindedness—qualities opposite those a relationship needed. Well, maybe the physical skill part overlapped.
I didn’t hear Niklas until he sat down in the chair next to me. He didn’t say anything at first, just leaned over and kissed me. I closed my eyes and took in the familiar scent of him, mingled with soap and aftershave. I let out a long breath. His hand slipped under mine, and he twined our fingers together, squeezing gently.
It’ll be okay. We’ll figure it out, the gesture seemed to say.
I wanted to believe this was true, but after watching him on the ice, the possibility seemed farther away. His lips met mine before I could take that thought further. Gently, he coaxed my mouth open, as if to wordlessly remind me of all the reasons I had come to the arena in the first place.
“You okay?” he asked.
I nodded. “What about you?”
Niklas shrugged. “There are a lot of great guys on the team.”
“And then there’s Bauer.”
“Yep,” said Niklas, running his hand through his hair. “And then there’s Bauer.”
I sighed, unsure of how much further I wanted to take this discussion.
“Not now,” he whispered. “Later, when we’re home.”
Niklas stood, keeping my hand firmly in his, and led us up the stairs and back out of the arena. We drove out of the city, through the sunken concrete walled highways and back to the lush green of Niklas’s neighborhood. When we walked into the quiet house, the scent of summer barbeque wafted from the kitchen. I looked over at Niklas for signs of surprise but found none.
“Did someone break in and cook us dinner?” I asked.
Niklas chuckled. “That would be the housekeeper you were so hesitant about. What do you think now?”
I smiled. “The idea is growing on me.”
“I thought we’d have barbecued ribs, corn on the cob and potato salad out on the back deck,” he said. Then he raised an eyebrow and added, “If that’s okay with you.”
