24. Oskar
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
OSKAR
The bus doors open with a hiss, and the heat hits hard. Eighty-four in St. Louis in October can’t be normal.
Sweat drips down the back of my neck as I fall in line behind my teammates shuffling into the arena’s loading dock. Two wins on this trip already. Our loss to Nashville stings, but our mood is good.
Inside the locker room, the equipment manager points toward my stall. My damp shirt is clinging to my back, so I get undressed and step into the shower for a blast of cold water.
Two minutes later, focus restored, I head back to check my gear. The equipment guys have unpacked everything and laid it out beside my stall. Carefully, I run my hands over each piece, checking straps, Velcro, stitching, buckles, and the tightness of the skate rivets.
While I’m working, Carson comes over. “The equipment inspection, huh? You goalies are all perfectionists. Must be exhausting.”
I keep my eyes down. “Better than letting a shot through because something is wrong with my gear.”
Chuckling, he leans against the neighboring stall. “Had any video time with your mystery lady back in New York? Can help break the tension.”
My fingers tighten on my chest protector, and I hope my grunt passes for an answer.
Last night I wrote Kai, “Missing you, baby. We’ll see each other soon.”
Thinking of him makes me feel like a liar for not telling the truth.
Carson tries again. “The old right hand feels a lot better when you can see her.”
I press my lips together so I don’t snap at him. I haven’t been with the team long, and I cannot afford to make enemies.
“We’re keeping in touch,” I say. “It’s been hard to talk for the last few days because we’re both busy.”
“I hear you,” Carson says, oblivious. “I’m going to find some local company after the game. You’re welcome to come with.”
I clench my teeth until my jaw aches. The conversation is getting uglier, and I want out.
Once I’m sure my blocker is in good shape, I face him. “Aren’t you with someone at home?”
He looks like I punched him, and when he speaks, his voice is quieter. “She’s only a friend with benefits. I wouldn’t cheat, Olly.”
The surprised look on his face convinces me he’s telling the truth.
“Sorry,” I say. “I misunderstood. But we are seeing if we can make something work at home, so I will not go with you later.”
“Got it.” He still seems friendly. “Good luck, man.”
I step around him and go to the visitor’s lounge to find a snack. Kai’s face flashes through my mind, followed by the memory of how his hand feels in mine—big, a little rough, trusting.
J?vlar.
After finishing a protein bar, I stretch for a while, then warm up on a stationary bike.
Hand-eye drills are next. Before long, Kendrick finds me and says it’s time for the kickaround, which the Fury guys refer to as “sewer.” I’d rather have some quiet time, but team bonding matters, especially since I’m new.
I grew up playing what Americans call soccer, so I put my skills to work.
“Watch out, boys,” Marco, one of the young forwards, calls out. “Olly’s got moves.”
“Grew up with this,” I say, trapping the ball with my foot and passing it to a teammate.
Jokes fly around the dock, mostly chirps about the disaster in Nashville when we blew a two-goal lead in the third period. After we have our bodies moving and laugh away some tension, it’s time to go back to the locker room. Tonight is about to get real.
Time passes in a blur as we have a team meeting, dress out in game gear, and go out for the warm-up. Then we’re back in the locker room, waiting for game time. I put my head down and remind myself of all I have to be grateful for, and all I need to remember.
New team. New country. Same ritual. Same me.
And Kai.
The buzzer sounds for us to line up, and the roar of the crowd washes over us as we take the ice. Time for business.
Chaos erupts as soon as the puck drops. St. Louis wins it, and their winger charges up the ice toward me. Our men are on him, and I track the puck through the swarm of bodies, keeping my head moving.
It cycles low, then comes back to the point. Slapshot.
I snap my glove up and catch it clean, feeling the impact buzz through my arm while the crowd groans.
The next rush comes even faster. One of the Sting’s wingers tears down his lane and cuts across the blue line. I track every move as he draws back, and his shot rockets toward my blocker side.
I kick it out, but their center charges in for the rebound. Sliding across the crease, I throw my glove hand out before I can turn my head to look. The puck smacks into the webbing as I’m falling backward, and I clamp down hard enough to feel it in my wrist.
That was close. All instinct. I’ll have to tell Kai about it later.
The puck drops again. St. Louis pushes back hard, their defensemen pinching deep.
We clear it, but only as far as their trailing forward.
He knocks a one-timer at me. I move with the shot, already tracking glove-side, but it clips Carson’s stick and changes direction.
By the time I twist around, the goal horn is blaring.
St. Louis is up 1–0.
“Vad fan!” I slam my stick on the ice. I’m not angry. But… damn.
I turn to my net, grab my water bottle, and squirt some into my mouth. While I’m drinking, I spot a guy in the crowd wearing a Condors hat. He has dark hair and a build like Kai’s. Adrenaline shoots through me before my brain catches up. Only a phantom, but it clears my head.
During the break in play, the arena’s sound system blasts a song. For a second, I’m not here. I’m sixteen, watching Gunnar execute one of his trademark one-timers in a tournament game. He was always so damn good.
Wish you were here tonight, brorsan.
The next shift is all survival. After some heated play, Kendrick soars into the Sting’s zone. The crowd jumps to its feet as he races through center ice, dekes once, and buries the puck. Just like that, we’re tied.
Our bench goes wild. Now it’s a hockey game.
When the horn sounds, ending the period, we’ve pulled ahead 2–1.
We skate off without saying much. There’s plenty of energy in the locker room, but we maintain our focus. Everyone knows St. Louis will come out with all guns blazing in the second.
Sure enough, they throw everything they have at us. A sniper comes in alone on a breakaway, fakes a backhand, then snaps the puck glove-side. I rob him clean. Later, on a two-on-one, I stack my pads and kick the puck into the corner while the crowd groans.
By the third, we’re running on adrenaline. For ten minutes, both teams skate around doing their best to get in each other’s way. Then Marco intercepts a pass at their blue line and goes in alone, wiring the puck top shelf. 3–1.
Some of the life drains out of the building, but I stay focused. I’ve seen teams score two goals in less than a minute, so we aren’t out of the woods. But the saves feel automatic now. Blocker. Pad. Glove. Freeze.
When the final horn sounds, the weight sliding off my shoulders is almost physical. We did it.
Carson gets to me first and taps my helmet. “Hell of a game, Olly!”
Before I shower, I unlock my phone to tell Kai about my incredible save.
OSKAR: You won’t believe this. I kicked a puck out of the crease, and someone hit a rebound. I stuck out my glove before I could even turn my head.
Too arrogant? Delete.
OSKAR: Would you believe I caught a shot with my glove before I could even turn my head to look?
Still arrogant. Delete.
I want to share it with him, not make him think I’m bragging. I’ll tell him on the phone.
Everyone is too tired to go out after the game, and I breathe a sigh of relief. In the morning, before we fly home, we have a photo shoot at the Gateway Arch. It’s part of a Follow the Fury initiative the team is running.
I hurry through my routine and get into bed. There are messages from Kai on my phone.
KAI: My head is killing me, so I might fall asleep before you call. Sorry if I do.
KAI: I’m so fucking proud of you! Woo hoo! That game was a real gong show, and you stood on your head.
KAI: Come home so I can give you a hug.
KAI: I’ll even suck your dick.
KAI: A few times.
He’d sent the texts before we left the arena, but I saved them because one of the defensemen was in the seat next to me.
OSKAR: I assume you have more English to teach me since I don’t know what a gong show is and don’t remember standing on my head. Whatever it means, I am eager to learn.
OSKAR: I am excited about the rest of what you said. My dick needs sucking. I have a big present for you too, and I’ll put it exactly where you like it.
When there’s no answer, I assume he fell asleep. It’s later in New York, and I understand what headaches are like. We’ll be together tomorrow.
OSKAR: Natti natti, hj?rtat.
I dream about him all night.