Chapter 2
Niillas
The tall windows of the library glow amber in the early evening gloom as Niillas finds a parking space and cuts the engine of his battered but trusty Defender.
He’s fifteen minutes early, but that’s intentional.
He wants to watch Sander emerge from the building, wants to see if his pretty captain will actually show up, or if this whole Halloween party thing was just some elaborate joke created to make Niillas look foolish.
Not that it would be the first time someone had tried, and for the kind of pretty boy hockey captain like Sander, it would definitely be on brand.
Truth be told, Niillas should’ve refused to go to the party.
He has better things to do than watch his fellow students getting drunk and making even bigger asses of themselves than usual.
But something about the challenge in Sander’s blue eyes had hooked him, reeled him in like a fish too stupid to recognize bait.
Team-building, Sander had said, as if Niillas gave a shit about bonding with a bunch of boys for whom hockey and their inflated egos are the most important things in the world.
The library doors swing open, and Niillas straightens in his seat, expecting to see Sander’s familiar strawberry-blond head. Instead, a pair of grad students stumble out, laughing too loudly.
He checks his phone: 7:25.
Not that he expects Eriksen to be punctual. With his looks, he can probably afford to keep everyone waiting.
The doors open again, and it takes Niillas’ brain a moment to process what he’s seeing.
It’s Sander, but not the usual version. Gone are the team sweats and university hoodies.
Tonight, Sander wears black jeans and a fitted black Henley that shows off his athletic build.
The outfit is completed by a blood-red leather jacket that looks expensive and well-worn.
Small horns poke through Sander’s strawberry-blond hair, and even from this distance, Niillas can see the glint of something metallic at his throat.
A Halloween costume.
A devil.
Of course.
The worst part is that Sander is a devastatingly cute devil.
He spots Niillas behind the wheel and jogs over, his movements fluid and confident. Yanking the passenger door open, Sander slides in, bringing with him the scent of blood orange and cinnamon that makes Niillas want to bury his nose in the crook of Sander’s neck and just breathe him in.
“Thought you might not show up,” Sander says, buckling his seatbelt. His gaze flicks over Niillas’ Shaman band T-shirt, raising a judgy eyebrow. “No costume? Or are you dressed up as a Finn?”
“I’m dressed up as someone who doesn’t give a shit about Halloween.”
Sander snorts, and the sound is surprisingly genuine.
“Edgy. I like it.”
They leave the library’s parking lot and merge into the light evening traffic.
The heater blows warm air between them, and as always when his team captain is concerned, Niillas’ senses prickle with awareness.
He keeps stealing glances at Sander’s costume.
The little plastic horns are ridiculous, but they somehow work on him.
Everything works on Sander Eriksen, actually, which is equal parts confusing and infuriating.
“So,” Sander says, making himself comfortable in the passenger’s seat. “Tell me about the reindeer.”
“What about them?”
“You’re helping your grandmother with them this weekend. I’m curious.”
Niillas glances over again and catches sight of the pendant glinting at Sander’s throat: a small silvery pentagram, held by a leather band that looks suspiciously like a collar, more suitable for a sexy witch than a devil.
Together with the horns, the costume should look corny, but Sander wears it with the kind of confidence that makes it look almost sensual.
“November is the main season for gathering the herds,” Niillas says, forcing his attention back to the road. “I’m helping her prepare the winter pastures.”
“Sounds…nice.”
There’s something wistful in Sander’s voice; he’s probably romanticizing the life of a reindeer farmer. The ignorance should irk Niillas, but it’s also oddly endearing. Romanticizing or not, Sander does have a point, after all.
“It is. Nice,” Niillas says, feeling vaguely stupid, and also relieved that Sander doesn’t continue the conversation immediately.
They drive in silence for a few minutes, crossing the fjord through the tunnel and turning north. The city lights gradually give way to the less busy suburbs, looking at Troms?’s center across the fjord.
“Can I ask you something?” Sander breaks the silence.
“Ask.”
“Why did you transfer here? Rovaniemi’s a good uni, better hockey team for sure.”
Tension coils in Niillas’ chest because the question is surprisingly personal, surprisingly perceptive.
He gets what Sander is wondering about. For a guy like him, an opportunity to go professional is surely the most desirable thing to happen, and the chances in Finland are so much better than everything Norway has to offer.
But as much as Niillas likes to play, he isn’t after a professional career, and the honest answer to Sander’s question is complicated.
There had been dreams that felt more like memories, and the inexplicable pull to his grandma’s homeland, a growing restlessness that had been building over months.
But he’s not about to share any of that with Sander.
He doesn’t want to sound like some kind of esoteric weirdo.
“Better research opportunities,” Niillas says instead. “More funding for field work.”
“Hmm.”
Sander sounds irritatingly unconvinced. Is he hoping for some kind of sordid tale about how Niillas got expelled or something?
“What’s ‘hmm’ supposed to mean?”
“Nothing. It’s just—” Sander shifts in his seat, and another hint of his deliciously warm scent hits Niillas like a punch to the gut. “You don’t seem like the type to make decisions based on funding considerations.”
“No? What type do I seem like then?”
Sander is quiet for a moment, and when Niillas glances over, he finds Sander studying him with an intensity that makes his skin prickle.
For all his rich jock charm, Sander can be earnest and sweet on occasions, too, and Niillas has no idea if this part of him is just an act.
A way to mock. To get his way. Or if this is the real Sander.
“Thought you were the type who does what he wants, when he wants, and doesn’t give a damn what anyone else thinks about it.”
Niillas chuckles against his will. Is Sander calling him a bad boy?
“Maybe I am. And also, my grandmother owns land further north. I spent a lot of time there as a child. I want to be close as long as I can.”
“Oh.”
“What about you? Your family is from Oslo, right? You could’ve stayed in the big city.”
It’s a little embarrassing how Niillas has hoarded any scrap of information he could collect about Sander. But there’s something magnetic about him that draws Niillas in.
“Oh, that. I-I needed a change of scenery, and the forestry program is excellent, so—”
It sounds like evasion, probably is, but Niillas doesn’t press the subject.
They fall quiet, and Niillas pulls onto the smaller road leading away from the fjord and up to Jonas’ house.
The estate is perched on a cliff, offering a breathtaking view.
Cars are already parked haphazardly along the drive, and Niillas can hear music thumping even through the Defender’s doors.
Warm light spills from every window, and costumed figures move like shadows against the glass.
“Looks like we’re fashionably late,” Sander observes.
“We’re exactly on time. If you’d wanted to attend Jonas’ pre-party binge drinking, you should’ve said so.”
Sander laughs, and the sound goes straight to Niillas’ core.
“God, you’re literal. Also, you would’ve refused to come in that case.”
“Yes,” Niillas says flatly as he parks at the end of the drive and kills the engine.
Why does Sander have to be so irritating all the time?
“Ready for some team-building?”
Sander’s voice is warm with amusement, and the silly devil horns cast small shadows across his face, making his cheekbones look sharper, his eyes darker.
The silver pendant catches the light from the house, drawing Niillas’ gaze down to the line of Sander’s throat, the hint of collarbone beneath his shirt.
“Sure,” Niillas says, though he’s starting to think the party is a mistake.
Being alone with Sander is one thing. They have been alone together before, sometimes after practice and occasionally in the library, and as long as Sander doesn’t say some incredibly stupid shit, it’s bearable.
Being at a party with him, when Sander holds court like some kind of ice hockey prince, everyone falling over their feet to please him, is a special kind of torture.
They get out of the car and crunch across the gravel drive. The October air is sharp with salt and the promise of winter, and Niillas can hear the fjord lapping against the rocks below. Above them, the first stars are beginning to appear in the clear sky.
“Nice place,” he says as they approach the front door.
“Jonas’ parents are quite wealthy,” Sander says as if he weren’t from an equally wealthy background.
The front door opens before they can knock, revealing Henrik dressed as a vampire, complete with plastic fangs and a gaudy cape. Unlike Sander, he looks ridiculous in his getup.
“Sander! You made it!” Henrik’s gaze shifts to Niillas, and his grin widens. “And you brought the mountain man. Excellent.”
“Mountain man?”
Niillas feels anger bubbling up in his chest.
“It’s the hair,” Henrik explains, gesturing vaguely. “And the brooding. Very Viking-esque.”
“I’m Sámi, not Norwegian.”
“Same difference.”
Niillas feels his jaw clench, but Sander steps smoothly between them.
“Where’s Jonas? We want to say hello and thank him for hosting.”