14. Kai
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
KAI
October
The bus trip from Manhattan to Weehawken takes less than half an hour. As we ride into our new season, the team is quiet, focused on getting a win.
Revolution Arena, on the Hudson River waterfront, is already buzzing when we skate out for warmups.
The lights are too bright, glaring off fresh ice and clean glass, and the music rattles my helmet while I stretch.
Fans crowd behind the plexi, some already banging on it, trying to get a reaction from us.
I skate a slow lap around my crease, testing the ice. It’s too fresh, the kind that will punish you if you’re a fraction off.
The Fury is at the other end of the rink.
They’re a young team with many players I don’t know.
At the far end, Teddy Morrison is already in his net, the same big, composed guy as always.
We’ve been on rival teams since college.
No one could call us friends, but we’re close enough to trade a nod during games.
I lift my glove, and he raises his stick in return.
After the starting lineup announcements and national anthem, the ref wastes no time dropping the puck.
For the first twenty minutes, the game goes exactly the way it’s supposed to: both teams play hard and avoid penalties.
Morrison is his usual irritatingly steady self.
His methodical approach makes him a tough opponent, but it’s also his weakness.
Get him moving laterally twice, and his recovery is delayed by half a second.
That doesn’t seem like much, but in pro hockey, half a second is an unlocked door. The Condors find it twice, first on a rebound my buddy Noah punches through a screen, and second on a nasty little give-and-go that leaves Morrison sliding the wrong way while Nico buries the puck over his blocker.
We’re up 2–0 going into the first intermission.
In the locker room, I towel off and catch my breath. With my teammates joking around, I slip into the hockey version of me—loud and happy. But the buzz underneath it is a warning. My brain is skating a hundred miles per hour on the rink in my mind.
Theo gets me to sit down. I stare at the chrome bolt on the empty stall opposite me, counting its ridges until the frantic skating in my head slows to a glide.
When Nico rests his hands on my shoulders, I come back, steadier but still on edge.
I have no idea how much time has passed, but at least I’m calmer.
The second period starts heavier than the first. The Fury come out pissed, taking no prisoners and finishing checks they’d only leaned into earlier. A winger dumps the puck deep and chases it; he hits Jace—one of our forwards—like he’d been promised a bonus for separating Jace from his spine.
The puck is still loose.
“Heads up!” I shout, tapping my stick.
The puck bounces wildly around the crease as players scramble for control, pushing and shoving but stopping short of an actual fight. More players rush in, and soon everyone collides with Morrison. The whistle blows a moment too late as he goes down and stays put.
The crowd noise shifts into a less angry hum. Players return to the benches as everyone watches the Fury’s net. I skate to our bench, hoping to relax a little. The Fury’s trainer comes onto the ice and hurries to their crease. When he arrives, Morrison tries to roll but can’t.
Shit. This isn’t good.
Eventually, the trainer and the Fury’s captain help Morrison up. He puts weight on one leg but immediately shifts off it. It’s easy to see the pain on his face. They escort him off the ice and disappear down the tunnel toward their locker room.
Nico looks at me and asks, “You good?”
“I’m winning two-nothing.”
“Isn’t it us winning by two?”
“Not without me.”
He shoots me a grin. “Cocky bastard.”
“Accurate.”
The announcer’s voice comes over the speakers. “Ted Morrison will not return to tonight’s game. Now in goal for New Jersey, number thirty, Oskar Olofsson.”
Oskar. The name makes me think of the Oskar I know. Except for a couple of “hope you’re good” texts while I was at training camp, we haven’t talked in weeks. I told myself that was for the best, and maybe it is. But hearing “Oskar” still hits harder than I expect.
Their Oskar skates out from the tunnel and heads for the Fury’s net. He’s tall, leaner than Morrison, and looks all-business in brand-new gear.
As I skate to my goal, I try to remember what I know about the Fury’s new backup. Young. From Europe. Supposedly hot stuff.
That’s about it.
Play resumes with Nico winning the draw, and we cycle low. I track the puck from my end, partly focused on the developing play, and partly aware of the new goalie facing me, 180 feet away.
The action is immediate. A shot from the circle, a kick save. The Fury’s goalie drops and smothers the rebound. Good save. A little frantic, but clean.
Both teams change lines, but there’s no faceoff. Instead, the officials gather near the boards because someone has objected to something. I distract myself by checking out the new goalie.
He’s facing away, drinking water. When he turns back around, his mask is still tilted upward. For some reason, he removes it entirely. His head is down, but I see long blond hair. It’s familiar enough to make something tighten in my chest.
Slowly, he raises his head and looks directly at me. His mouth curves into a smile, and his eyes catch the light. Amazingly, I can see them well enough to think they’re blue.
Fuck. I know they’re blue.
My knees wobble so much I nearly topple over, but I catch myself. Two goalies can’t go down in the same game.
This is impossible.
Oskar’s been on my mind for so long I’m imagining things. Since August, I’ve seen phantom versions of him in crowds and dreamed about him at night. Now I’m thinking he’s in the Fury’s crease.
What did the announcer say his name is? Just Oskar, right?
No. Fuck me. He said Oskar Olofsson. My lips start tingling as I look back down the ice. Oskar’s still staring at me.
Holy fuck. It is Oskar.
Memories flash through my mind—the bright sun at the baseball game, him kissing me in the pool, me watching him crumble at the Imagine memorial.
And… Holy shit. Him on top of me, sweaty and grunting. The last time I saw him, he was eating breakfast in my condo.
Then I left town, a goddamn coward.
Oskar is a goalie?
My stomach twists so hard I nearly puke.
“Mercer!”
I look up into a ref’s face.
“You all right?” he asks. “If you’re sick, get off the ice. If not, we need to play now, or I’ll have to call a delay penalty.”
The teams are in position for a faceoff, and Oskar has his mask back in place.
“I’m fine,” I say, trying to sound like it. “Ready to go.”
A minute later, every man on the ice is in our zone, and a shot comes through traffic from the point. I see it late, react slowly, and get a shoulder on it by dumb luck. The puck kicks into the corner.
“Shit,” I mutter.
The game keeps moving despite my need to process whatever the hell is happening with Oskar. I try to reset during an icing call. Tap my posts, left then right. Focus on the basics—track the puck, see the angles, square to the shooter, and read the release.
But there is no clean read anymore. There’s only Oskar in the Fury’s net, and that fact will not let me have my attention back.
Oskar must be as surprised as I am. We exchanged names, but since he was fresh from Sweden, he wouldn’t have known who Kai Mercer was. I’d let him think I was a regular guy with a condo and a seasonal job.
I think he lied, but did he? Did I?
No. We just didn’t say.
Or was that the lie?
The Fury storms into our zone again. I’m late with my challenge, too aggressive and out of position. Their winger sees it, pulls the puck across his body, and slaps a shot toward the goal.
Up glove! I’ve got it.
The shot clears my glove by an inch, and the horn sounds like a loud, personal attack.
Condors 2. Fury 1.
It’s possible the shot would’ve gone in no matter what, but I hadn’t been ready.
Nico skates close and taps my pads. “Shake it off.”
I nod. But I can’t do it.
Across the ice, Oskar raises his stick. Why did he do that?
Just get through the period.
The next ten minutes are ugly. My teammates play harder than ever, but Oskar stands on his head. Amazing for someone who’s twenty-two and playing his first HFNA game, thrown into it against a team already up by two points. A lead the Fury has now reduced to one.
Shit. With thirty seconds left, the Fury ties it on a deflection I don’t see coming until it’s already past me.
In the tunnel, Jace slaps my shoulder. “We’ve got this.”
“Yeah,” I answer.
“Mercer?”
Tarasov, my backup, is on the other side of me. “You good?” he asks.
I barely manage not to laugh. I’m so far from good that “bad” wouldn’t begin to cover it.
The locker room smells of sweat, wet gear, and tape, along with a big slice of irritation. I remove my mask and try to ignore the noise. Coach Holmer comes in for a quick pep talk while we strip out of our jerseys and towel off.
After Holmer leaves, voices come at me in fragments.
“Keep pressing, Kai.”
“You’ve got it.”
“We’re going to win this. I’m buying drinks afterward.”
The noise is so loud I can’t think. I’m about to scream when someone starts talking close to my ear.
“Can I count on you, Mercer? Should I send Tarasov in?”
I lift my head. The goalie coach is standing over me with his arms folded and a cautious expression on his face.
I hate cautious expressions. They make everything feel worse before anyone says a word.
“I’ve got it.” I give him a thumbs-up.
Before he can reply, I get up and say, “Bathroom.” Then I race across the room before anyone can stop me.
I lock myself in a stall and sit on the toilet. The guys are raising hell, so it’s still noisy. At least no one’s trying to talk to me.
A little relieved, I take deep breaths and fix my eyes on the door latch. Metal, scratched, slightly crooked. Something I can hold still with my eyes.
Oskar’s face slides over it anyway.
I bang a fist against the other palm to keep from screaming.
Everything is fine. No problems. Think about Oskar later.
I lean forward with my elbows on my knees.
He didn’t tell me.
The thought lands sharp, then immediately trips.
I didn’t tell him either.
“Great,” I whisper. “That’s helpful.”
I dig my nails into my thighs, trying to hold on to something solid.
This doesn’t mean anything. It was only a week.
We took a stupid fucking walk through Central Park where I talked too much, and he listened like I mattered.
We fucked like rabbits for a few days. That’s what you do with hookups.
But were we just hooking up? The ache in my chest tells me it was more than that.
Don’t do this. Don’t make it bigger. Don’t let a gorgeous Swedish goalie with dangerous hands and terrible timing wreck your game.
Fat chance.
The worst part isn’t even the shock. It’s knowing the Condors will play the Fury four times this season. I’ll stand in my crease and watch Oskar in his, and I will have to help beat him. Part of my job is to identify his weaknesses and report to our coaches.
Fuck me.
When I leave the stall, the mirror catches me off guard. I look like me, another shock. The way things are exploding around me, I should at least have bruises.
I turn on the water and splash some on my face. Focus. Win the game. Then deal with him.
Gripping the edge of the sink, I meet my own eyes.
I can do this. The third period will go better.
But the third does not go better. If possible, I play even worse than I did in the second. How could I do anything else since I spend most of the time staring across the ice at him?
Trying to analyze his technique doesn’t work. I’ve been reading other goalies since I was a kid, and all it takes is Oskar showing up for me to lose that skill. I try again. He drops into his butterfly, sitting back a little.
Which means fucking what?
Six minutes in, the Fury score their third goal. Number four comes with only two minutes left in the game. The Condors do not score again.
Game to the Fury, 2–4.
I go through my post-game ritual on autopilot. The locker room is quiet, and my teammates are watching me. In the shower, Tarasov claims the nozzle next to mine. We don’t exchange five words because the mantra in my mind has me too busy to talk.
Find Oskar. Find him.
And I will. Not after I’ve slept and turned back into a person with reasonable emotional regulation, but right now. I get dressed and head for the door.
Nico catches me. “Kai.”
“I can’t.”
His mouth tightens. “Can’t what?”
“Do whatever you want me to do.”
He glances toward the room, then back at me. “You’re going somewhere?”
“Very observant.”
“Why?”
Nico is the only person who knows enough to understand. At camp, I’d told him I hadn’t seen Oskar since August and wasn’t sure I’d ever see him again.
“Oskar is their new goalie.”
“Oskar?” His eyes go wide. “Wait. Oskar from the summer?”
“I’m going to see him.”
“To say what?”
“Like I fucking know.”
I push around him and ignore the sound of my name as the door closes behind me.
On the road, the visitors’ hallway always feels deserted after games. Instead of fans and families behind a rope like at home, there’s only a scattering of security officers and media people. The reporters call out as I hurry by, and I ignore them.
I know where the Fury’s locker room is because I played in the All-Star game here last year. A guard in front of their door straightens when he sees me coming.
“Can I help you?”
“I need Oskar Olofsson.”
The guard blinks. It’s probably not what he expected from me.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Mercer, but the players are still unavailable.”
“Tell him I’m waiting.”
The guard hesitates, but I stare him down. Reluctantly, he turns and disappears through the door. My pulse is pounding in my ears, but I try to rehearse what I’ll say when Oskar comes out.
Eventually, the guard comes back. “Mr. Olofsson just got out of the shower. He’ll be here in a moment.”
I rock on my feet while I wait. Where the hell’s a fidget ball when I need one?
The door opens, and the world goes into slow-mo as Oskar steps into the hallway. Thor in a Fury hoodie and sweats.
My heart does a dangerous somersault. His hair is wet from the shower, curling exactly the way I remember from the summer.
Everything goes still when his eyes find mine. I can’t move. I sure as hell can’t talk.
“Kai,” he says, then steps forward and puts a hand on my elbow. “Come on.”
As I let him guide me away, my mind spins from the thrill of him touching me again. Where are we going?