“Caroline, don’t—”
I knew how this would go, so I cut him off.
“Let it go here, Brad,” I said softly. “Goodbye.”
I stood up, and he didn’t pursue me. I walked out of the café and didn’t look back.
*
I settled into the soft seat of the car and let out my breath. I put my hands on the steering wheel to stop them from shaking. Brad knew exactly how to get to me. He had probably even planned some of his lines ahead of time in the mirror, the way I had seen him prepare for trial.
Now I wished I had parked further away. Instead, I found myself sitting outside the café, still in sight of Brad. I forced myself to turn on the car, and the sound of the motor kicked my brain into gear. I executed a near-perfect three-point turn and drove away.
But I didn’t head home, not yet. I turned onto the highway towards downtown Detroit as the flood of thoughts I hadn’t been ready to acknowledge back in the café took hold of me. I wasn’t fully aware of the direction I was headed until I arrived at Joe Louis Arena. I parked the car next to Niklas’s, turned off the engine, and leaned back on the seat’s headrest. Brad’s words wouldn’t leave me alone.
If you like to be roughed up a little, you should have said so.
The thought made me cringe in a way Brad probably hadn’t understood. Brad was referring to the hints of domestic abuse that had appeared in the news, hints I knew weren’t based on facts—not about Niklas, at least. But the comment had struck a deeper nerve. It had brought me into Detroit, to the parking lot of Joe Louis Arena.
I sat in the quiet car, hands still gripping the steering wheel. What was I looking for here?
Niklas’s rough reputation hadn’t scared me off, not really, even at the beginning. The photo of Niklas and the abused woman had made me sick to my stomach, but I had let him into my apartment that very same night. What was wrong with me? True, I hadn’t actually believed what I had seen in the news. When we had met on an early morning in Vasaparken, his impulse had been to protect me, not to harm me. Still, the fact that his reputation had made the insinuations believable in the media should have been enough for me to run in the other direction.
But I hadn’t.
Even the night he had shattered the glass against the wall, I had stayed. More than stayed. I had knelt down and unbuttoned his pants not so long after. The memory wrung an uneasy mixture of arousal and wariness—wariness of my own desires.
I closed my eyes and leaned back in my seat, letting my hands drop from the steering wheel. I was here for a glimpse of Niklas in his rawer form. If I could get past the guard at the door, that is. Sighing, I stepped out of the car and walked across the parking lot to the entrance. Practice had begun over an hour ago, so the stairs up to the arena were deserted. I hadn’t really thought through how I’d get in, but the same security guard from the last time opened the door, gave me a once-over and let me in.
“No photos,” he grunted, and I nodded.
I walked through the deserted halls of the arena. Voices, whistles and the scrapes of skates on ice echoed through each opening to the rink, but I continued around the hall. This time, I was going to sit behind the players’ benches.
I peeked in a few tunnels until I came out in the right spot: A place where I could watch Niklas without him seeing me. Like my last visit, there were only a few spectators scattered around the seats. No one seemed to notice when I slipped into a chair only a few rows down from the entrance.
Red and white jerseys rushed to one side of the ice. The white players positioned themselves in a wide semi-circle around the red goal, passing the puck back and forth as the red players swarmed in between. I spotted “Almquist” on the back of a red jersey as Niklas dove after the puck and shoved a white jersey against the boards. Both players took an extra beat to skate away from the check. Were they supposed to play that rough in practice?
I glanced at the scoreboard above the ice, counting the minutes of the third period down. The players must be tired by now, though neither team showed any signs of letting up.
Niklas sprinted after the puck to the other side of the ice. His gaze stayed fixed ahead, and his mouth drew back into a sneer I recognized. My heart thudded in my chest, and I felt an uneasy mix of desire and excitement run through me.
The white jerseys gained control of the puck again, and Niklas raced to meet an oncoming player. I held my breath as Niklas skated full-speed at the puck, the entire force of his body heading straight for the white jersey in front of him.
That moment of intimidation was enough—the white jersey slowed. Niklas got to the puck first and circled around the player, his blades scraping the ice hard. My breath hitched as he plowed through another player on his way toward the goal.
A clatter from behind startled me. Long, jean-clad legs climbed over the row of seats next to me. I looked up into the eyes of…Bauer. I bit my lip, trying to clear my face of the dark excitement from watching Niklas play. But I saw in Bauer’s eyes that I was a little too late.
“Didn’t mean to scare you,” he said, sitting down next to me. “You enjoying the show?”
His voice was lazy and inviting, and he leaned back in his chair. Bauer was certainly as big as Niklas, but while Niklas intentionally toned down his presence around me, Bauer seemed to be doing just the opposite. He was sitting so close and looking so intently at me that I had to fight the urge to run away. He was no threat. At least not here in the arena.
I shrugged at his question. “I actually haven’t watched too much hockey before.”
He raised his eyebrows and leaned in a little. “Could have fooled me with the way you’re watching the rink. Or maybe there are other things you like about watching the game.”
His tone was unmistakably sexual.That kind of woman. But I didn’t react.
Back in Stockholm, when Niklas had told me the story of what had happened between him and Bauer, I had never imagined I would have to face this man a few months later. I couldn’t stop myself from thinking it: This man hit a woman. Probably more than one. What kind of person stepped across this line—and then let someone else take the blame for it? Nothing in his manner suggested that he would. I didn’t know what to expect. What did a man who hit women look like? I wouldn’t have guessed this about him, and the thought made me shiver again. I trusted Niklas wouldn’t, but… no, I wouldn’t let my mind go there.
