Chapter 11
The regular season started the first Saturday in October. Nick played well and relished the burn in his thighs and lungs as the game wore on. He scored on a power play early in the third period, and the hometown crowd stomped and shouted as lasers shot across the arena. The preseason had been great, but this was official—all the pain and work of rehab had been worth it. He was back. After the game he had his jersey off but was still in his pads when a reporter approached him in the locker room. “Nick, you’re only twenty-two goals behind Arne Swanson on the all-time goal list now. Think you’ll get him this season?”
Nick stared at the guy as he felt the familiar vertigo, the falling, falling. He sat on the stool in front of his locker.
“Nick?” the reporter said.
Leif, the Swedish goalkeeper, turned to look. “Nick? You okay?”
Nick nodded. “Um, I don’t know,” he muttered to the reporter, and then he headed off on his skates to the bathroom. He stuck his head under a spigot and ran water over his face and hair. Twenty-two behind Swanson?
Once the reporters were gone and he’d showered, Devin cornered him. “What was that about?”
Nick played dumb and shimmied into his shirt, then buckled his belt.
“You went pretty white,” Devin said.
“It’s the Norwegian blood. We’re a pale people.”
“Tell me.”
Nick exhaled sharply and turned to face him. “Sammy Gonczy and I had a bet going on who would pass Arne Swanson first. A half gallon of butter pecan ice cream was riding on it.”
“Oh, man. I’m sorry.”
“My stats are changing and his aren’t. I’m going to pass Swanson and then go on to get the next guy on the list. And Sammy will always stay exactly where he is.”
Devin was quiet for a moment. “It bothers you to see your stats change?”
“We were tied,” Nick said. “Can you believe that? He was as likely to get there first as I was. More, maybe. It’s unfair as hell.”
“Yeah.” Devin was quiet for a moment, and Nick moved to step past him. “How’s the apartment coming?”
“I canceled it, okay?”
Devin took that in. “Coach know that?”
Nick took a step forward. Aggressive. In Devin’s space. Devin didn’t react, just looked at him calmly. There was a reason he was the captain. “My home is none of his business.”
“Looks to me like you don’t have a home,” Devin said, then turned and walked out of the locker room.
Nick made it through three days of practice before Coach Pedersen called to him after a scrimmage. “Sorensen. Over here.” The coach nodded toward the penalty box, and Nick cocked his head. Really? But he opened the door and sat on the bench, surrounded by high plexiglass to keep fans from doing more than shouting at a player serving a penalty. Pedersen stepped in and let the door swing shut behind him.
“Was I naughty?” Nick said.
“Yeah. Heard you decided to keep living with nothing.” Nick’s mouth pulled tight. “We had a deal.”
Nick shrugged. “It’s my place.”
“It’s not normal.”
“Jake Hilstrap has seven girlfriends. Tyler Maki collects caterpillars. Caterpillars, Coach. I’m not any weirder than that.”
“Neither of those things affect the team.”
“It will if Jake’s girlfriends find out about each other.”
The coach lowered his gaze and looked at Nick for a long time. “When we signed, you we knew we taking a chance. You had a serious physical injury.”
“All better,” Nick said, standing. The coach didn’t move.
“And the psychological injury. I’m mad as hell at us for not requiring you to go to counseling.”
“I wouldn’t have gone.”
“So you said. That’s why we should have made you go. We probably still will. For now, you get your living space fixed up. That’s an order.”
“Not in my contract.”
“It is.”
“Bullshit.”
“You can’t do anything that would be detrimental to the team.”
“I have a good mattress! I’m not going to get a stiff neck.”
“This is obviously about the plane crash. I haven’t worked out how exactly, but it doesn’t matter. You’re messed up somehow, and you need to get it fixed before you crash during the playoffs.” Nick stared at him. “Sorry. Poor choice of words. But the pressure’s going to get worse, and I don’t know if you’re going to be able to handle it.”
Nick took a long step over and got in the coach’s face. “I fell fifteen thousand feet out of the sky in a metal tube”—he threw his arm toward the arena ceiling—“that slammed into a field at night.” He bit the words. “Everybody else died, and I was alone out there for an hour before they found me. You understand that? I spent five weeks in the hospital and months rehabbing my effing leg, and I’m back. So excuse me for not giving a damn about your feelings about my goddamn silverware.”
The coach looked at him soberly, not flinching. “I just made a decision. You get your apartment vaguely normal. I don’t care if you leave dishes in the sink or you buy an ugly sofa. Just get somewhere in the normal range. And we’re going to find you a counselor, and you’re going to go.”
“The hell I will.”
“It’s a health issue, Nick. I need your head facing forward by the playoffs.” He gave Nick an appraising look. “And frankly, it could take a few months.”
“What’s a counselor going to do? Make me talk about the crash? About my best friends dying?” He was gesturing wildly in the small enclosure, and his hand bounced off the plexiglass. “Guess what? I don’t want to talk about it.”
“But you obviously need to.”
Nick leaned in, his eyes hard. “I can talk for an hour. I can talk for a week, and you know what? They’ll still be dead.” He wiped his nose on the back of his hand and maneuvered toward the gate. “How does it help anything if they’re still dead?” He grabbed the gate and jerked it open, clipping the coach in the thigh, and skated the few feet to the tunnel that led to the locker room.
Two days and a loss to Edmonton later, Nick was finishing breakfast when he got a text.
Coach Pedersen: You have a counseling appt tomorrow at 10 a.m. The trainer’s driving you.
Coach Pedersen: I have Moose McFarland on call if necessary.
Nick smiled faintly. Moose was a goon, a journeyman teams picked up for a year at a time and who wasn’t a skilled player. He went on the ice to intimidate other guys. He didn’t play for Detroit, but the coach’s meaning was clear—they’d stuff him in the car if they had to. Fine. Apparently he was going to a counselor—but that didn’t mean he was going to talk.
His phone rang. Nick tapped it on. “Yeah, I got your text. Screw you.”
There was silence for a moment, then a woman’s voice said, “I didn’t send a text. But screw you too.” He whipped the phone around to stare at the screen. Alyssa, the decorator. Shit.
“Alyssa?”
“Yep.”
“Oh geez, I am so sorry. I thought you were my coach.”
“You talk that way to your coach?”
“Um. Well, long story. I’m really sorry.”
“I’m in front of your building. I have a question I want to ask you, and I want an answer.”
“Yeah, okay. Of course. I’m sorry.” He walked to his apartment door and buzzed the main door open, then ran down the steps anyway and pushed it open. That seemed better—more apologetic. She was wearing a blue skirt and silver jewelry, and her hair was doing that thing where it sort of curled over her shoulders and made him want to touch it. “I apologize,” he said as she brushed past him. She had her work tote over her shoulder, and her sunglasses were still on. She walked up the steps to his apartment without talking and stood waiting for him to open the door. He pushed it with his foot, letting her walk in first.
Alyssa stood in his apartment and glanced around. “You didn’t get somebody else?”
It took him a moment to understand what she meant. “A different decorator? No! Of course not.”
“But you hated my design.” He didn’t say anything. It was true. He’d hated it. She pursed her lips and took a breath as if gathering her courage. Then she pointed a blush pink nail toward his kitchen. “Explain your coffeepot.” She lowered her bag and crossed her arms over her chest.
He looked at her for a moment, then slowly said, “I pour water in through the top, and I add—”
She rolled her eyes and said, “It’s a cheap piece of crap.”
“My coffeemaker has offended you?”
“Yes.” He smiled faintly and waited. She really was pretty—tall and elegant. “You have a lot of money and plenty of counter space. Yet when you went out to buy a coffeemaker, you got a bad one. Who gets a bad coffeemaker when they could get a good one?”
He blinked at her. “Me?”
“It makes no sense. I can see maybe you didn’t get around to dealing with your place. I mean it’s weird, but okay. But you got around to buying a coffeemaker and chose that monstrosity?”
“Monstrosity seems a little harsh.”
“Monstrosity.”
Nick smiled. “There’s a cup left. You want it?” Alyssa exhaled with a little huff. He grinned. “So you want to know why I defied social conventions and purchased a household appliance that doesn’t meet your expectations?”
“Yes.” She stood there waiting.
“Do you really want to know, or did you just want to yell at me for a while?”
Alyssa thought for a moment. “Both.”
“I’ll tell you if you’ll take the job again.” She stared at him. “Coach says I have to get the apartment done. If I have to deal with it, I’d rather have you do it. If you’re willing.”
“Is that why you were yelling at him on the phone?”
“No, he’s doing other stuff to me too.”
She pulled her mouth again in that way she had. It made him look at her lips, which was a problem, since he’d already kissed them and therefore knew what they felt like and how easy it was to pull her against him.
“You know, some people enjoy having their space done.”
Nick walked into the kitchen, grabbed his second coffee cup, and poured the rest of the coffee. He stood looking into the cup for a moment. “Might be some grounds in there,” he said, then shrugged and set it on the counter as close to her as he could get it.
“I’m a coffee snob,” she said.
“I can get something decent delivered if you want.”
“No. But thank you.”
Jesus, she was still waiting. She actually expected an answer. He raked his hair back and then left his hand on his head, elbow up, saw her sneak a look at his abdomen where his shirt had ridden up, and tried to control his smirk. He might be about to have a difficult conversation with a casual acquaintance, but he did have great abs. He dropped his hand, took a sip of his own coffee, and made a face. Then he said, “I seem to be having trouble going on. After the crash.”
Her face lost its pugnacious expression and instantly looked stricken. That didn’t make this easier.
“I had great friends. They were good people. And they’re not getting any coffee.”
“You’re drinking bad coffee on purpose? So you won’t enjoy it too much?”
“Yep. If I were a better man, I would do without completely. But I’m not.”
“Nick.” She didn’t go on.
Oh shit shit shit—she was starting to cry. He stepped forward and put his hand on her upper arm. “I am so sorry.”
She shook her head. “I shouldn’t have been mad about your coffeemaker. I shouldn’t have asked.”
“No, it’s good. Apparently I’m supposed to talk about things. This actually gives me some material the next time I have to explain myself. I’ll just work my way through the household appliances.”
“You have one,” she said, sniffing.
“You underestimate me. I also have a clock in the bathroom.” She smiled. “I probably need a potato baker too, so I can keep my hands warm during games.” He smirked at her, then realized his hand was still on her arm and he dropped it. “So are you willing to do the apartment? You can take out your nemesis.” He jerked his head toward the kitchen.
“Yes, but you have to tell me what you didn’t like about the first design. Otherwise, how will I do something you like? Also I might have a slight problem with perfectionism.”
He took a sip of coffee. “It looks like a plane crash.” She stared at him. “Blue interiors, metal accents, rivets, exposed wiring—that’s what it looks like.”
“Oh my god.” She pressed her fingers against her mouth and squeezed her eyes shut.
He shrugged.
“Oh, Nick. I am so sorry. I didn’t mean …”
He let her talk for a while, then said, “I’ll pay for your time, obviously, but I’d like it different.”
She sat on the floor with her back to the outside wall and said quietly, “What do you want it to look like?”
“Not blue. My old apartment was blue, for one thing, and I don’t want it to look too much the same. I think that would be harder.”
“Okay.”
He sat beside her, his thighs drawn up. He was barefoot. “I lived with Sammy Gonczy. He was going to get his own place—it was just time. But we’d roomed together before we were in the NHL too. I lived with him for a long time.” He curled his toes under. “When we moved into that place—the last apartment we had—I asked him what color he wanted the living room. And he said blue, just to shut me up. Because he didn’t care, see? And I said no, that’s not how you pick the color you’re going to live with.” He flicked his eyes toward her. “Color’s important to me.”
Alyssa glanced around his stark white space. Desolate. “How do you choose the color?”
“I go to the museum, wander the galleries, and see what’s calling to me right then.”
She blinked. “Are you serious?”
“Yeah.” He turned to look at her. “Why? You think that’s dumb?”
“No!” She put a hand on his forearm, then quickly removed it. “I think it’s great. I’m just surprised.”
“I almost have a double degree in art and art history. Did I tell you that?”
She stared at him for a moment, then back at his walls. “No. You did not.”
“So I spent parts of three days in the museum, just swimming in the colors, and finally Henry Brokman’s Meta hit me over the head. You know it?”
She shook her head.
“Here. Hold on.” He jumped up and ran into his bedroom, then came back a moment later with his laptop and booted it up. The keys glowed with a red light below the keyboard. He tapped and brought the painting up, then pointed. “That shade, right there—on the water. Where the sun backs off the wave and the color deepens, just a little? That’s what I painted the living room.”
He took a deep breath and looked around as though he could see it. “So I’m painting with a roller, right? I have half of it done when Sammy comes home with his girlfriend and says, “See? Blue.” He barked a laugh and turned to look at Alyssa. Her eyes were wet. “I made you sad. I knew talking was a bad idea.”
“No, it’s really helpful,” Alyssa said. She hesitated. “Is there any chance I could see what your old apartment looked like? Do you have a photo?”
He thought for a moment. “Somebody did an article on us. She came out to our place. Would that work?” He tapped the keyboard as he talked. A moment later he had an article from a Boston-area entertainment magazine up. “Um, it has us in it. You just have to ignore that.” He tapped one more time and then angled his laptop so she could see it better.
Alyssa sucked in her breath. There was Nick with a striking young man with almost black hair, their arms thrown over each other’s shoulders, smiling at the camera. Behind them was a beautiful living room with gray-blue walls, bookcases full of what looked like art and history books, solid but elegant furniture with wooden trim and turned legs. It had a European country feel, more French than anything, warmed with touches of yellow. Framed prints and original canvases hung on the walls and leaned on the bookcases, and sculptures of varying sizes littered the room, including a two-foot tall bust of Pericles wearing a cap with a hockey logo.
“Who chose the art?” she said, finally pulling her eyes away to look at him. “You?” He nodded. “It’s a beautiful space.” She tapped the touchpad, and the article flipped to the next page.
Nick made a strangled noise low in his throat. It sounded like he was choking. Alyssa glanced up at him, alarmed. He pulled his shirt up over his face and hunched forward, his shoulders shaking as the tears came.