Chapter 11
Vanessa
eleven
. . .
We sit at the counter and eat our breakfast. The bread has to cool, so it’s not ready to be sliced, he explains. He also doesn’t have a kitchen table by design—he doesn’t like them. I don’t quite get it, but that’s okay, because it’s not something I have to understand. It’s his life, his house, his kitchen. He can do whatever the fuck he wants with it.
“What are you up to today?” I ask as I finish off my eggs. I was hungrier than I thought, because they practically disappeared as soon as I sat down.
Today is a day off—the league-mandated day off—because they’ve had so many consecutive days of games and training.
Sven shrugs. “Bake some more bread, maybe go for a swim.”
The training facility doesn’t have a pool. I wonder where he goes. The guys generally don’t go to non-team facilities because of the risk of getting mobbed by fans. Even the most stoic of bodybuilders turn into giggling fans in the presence of the hockey team.
I wait for him to ask what I’m doing, but he doesn’t.
Does he not care? Or does he not realize that’s the expected way to continue the conversation?
Sven is absorbed by his meal. He takes his coffee with a splash of almond milk. Rupert is perched on his shoulder. Every so often, he offers her a piece of the eggs from his palm, and she guzzles it down.
He’s surprisingly affectionate when it comes to the bird.
I should probably stop calling her “the bird.”
“What kind of bird is Rupert?” I ask. The name intrigues me. You don’t find a lot of Ruperts nowadays, especially not in female birds.
Sven trails a finger over her neck. “She’s an African Gray Parrot. She’s not allowed to leave the house and all the windows are screened so she can’t get loose. Other than that, she gets pretty much free rein of the place.”
“She wasn’t out last night?” It’s more of a question than a statement.
“Rupert goes to bed pretty early. Her cage is in the living room. She has a perch upstairs, but I don’t sleep so well when she’s in my room.” His cheeks tint pink.
Even though he didn’t ask, mentally, I run through my schedule for the rest of the week. I didn’t have to work yesterday—Scott was on shift—and after Tuesday’s home game, I’m supposed to travel with the team to Pittsburgh for my first road trip. Wednesday and Thursday, I’ll work from the team’s hotel, handling anything the staff requires. After Thursday night’s game, we head on to Philadelphia for a quick back-to-back game.
We’re scheduled to get back to Boston Friday night—or rather, Saturday morning, since the private plane doesn’t leave until close to midnight. It’s a quick hour-and-a-half flight. Doesn’t make getting home from work at two o’clock in the morning any more appealing.
At least being on the same schedule as the players will give me some consistency. Right now, my schedule can be pretty volatile as Jacky, Scott, and I rotate to provide coverage. Since I’m filling in for Jacky (and she’s handling my duties back at the arena), it makes sense for me to absorb most of the travel.
And—well, it gets me closer to Sven.
The man sitting in front of me clears his throat. “There’s a party.”
“Oh?” I’ve never known him to be interested in parties.
“The team.” Sven focuses on a point somewhere behind me and to the left. “Next week, there’s a Halloween party.”
“Oh.”
Is he asking me to go with him?
“What sort of costume do you like?”
I think he is.
But—I tilt my head.
“What’s wrong?” Sven asks.
“What do you have in mind?” I deflect.
“Everyone does couple’s costumes,” he says with a frown.
So he is asking me.
Or—well, he’s presuming I’ll go with him.
He’s right, of course. I’ll go with him. I want to go with him, even beyond the expectation that we are there together.
“Do you want funny, scary, or sexy?” I ask.
Sven wrinkles his nose. “Not scary.”
“We could do a celebrity couple, or someone from a movie, or?—”
“I don’t care,” he says. “Whatever you want.”
“No. You don’t get to do that,” I tell him, crossing my arms over my chest. “This may be a fake relationship, but I won’t do all of the emotional labor. We both have to carry the weight.”
He blinks at me. “Okay. All I’m saying is, I don’t have a preference, so whatever interests you, I’m already agreeing to it. You don’t have to run it by me, you can pick whatever you want.”
“That’s still me doing the emotional labor.”
“It is?” He looks genuinely confused.
“Your not caring means that I have to care, because otherwise nobody does and it won’t get done.”
Sven pauses.
“What?” I snap the word more harshly than I intended.
“I never thought of it that way,” he says quietly. “I thought I was helping.”
Some of my coolness thaws. He’s really not trying to be difficult.
“You have to tell me,” he says. When I open my mouth, he lifts his hand. “It’s emotional labor for you to educate me. I realize. But I need you to tell me—one time—and then I won’t repeat the behavior again. I don’t always recognize the patterns until they’re brought to my attention.”
I consider this.
He’s trying. He cares.
“I haven’t been in a relationship for a long time,” Sven says slowly. “I don’t know where the boundaries are here. I like rules. I like structure. And this thing with us…”
I wait.
“I don’t know what the rules are,” he finishes. “I need to know.”
“Well, we’re dating.”
“Yes, but what does that mean?” His eyes are intent on my face. “Do you come to the games? Do you sit in the box, or on the ice, or are you in the pit with everyone? The guys who go out after the game—are we supposed to go with them?”
“Wow. You’re, like, really wigging out.”
“I need rules,” Sven says simply. “In the absence of rules, I default to the norm.”
“I didn’t go to last night’s game, but I saw your goal in the second period,” I tell him. “We were out at a bar and I was watching the game on my phone.”
His forehead wrinkles. “We?”
“Me and my two roommates,” I explain. “Bex and I played lacrosse in college together, and she met Elsy in grad school. Bex’s brother is in the league and Elsy’s best friend plays, too.”
He quirks an eyebrow. “Oh?”
“Wyatt Whitney and Nick Mitchell.”
Sven lets out a low whistle. “I know Whitney. He’s formidable.”
“He’s a teddy bear for his little sister.” I shrug. “He used to buy us alcohol in college. Every time he came to visit, the fridge was magically full of beer and wine.”
“And Mitchell?”
“I’ve only met him once, when his team played Boston last year. He took Elsy and me out for drinks. He’s… fine, I guess.” I shrug. I hardly know the guy. “It’s kind of funny that the three of us all have hockey connections. We didn’t realize it at the time. I was already working for the team when Bex and Elsy moved to the city.”
He hums. I can’t tell what that means.
“Do you go back to Sweden every summer?”
“Only for visa requirements.” Sven frowns. “I don’t talk to my family much. They don’t like me.”
“Oh, I’m sure they?—”
“My sister is a lawyer, and my brothers are doctors and in business,” he says. “I’m the disappointment.”
I gape at him. “You’re an elite hockey player.”
He shrugs. “So?”
“So you’re... like, you’re an amazing hockey player.”
“Athletics are nothing to be proud of,” he says. His voice lacks any tone or inflection.
“What the fuck? Who the hell told you that?” My voice is rising in pitch, and I have the strong urge to punch someone.
“Good baby girl,” Rupert says, staring at me.
“My father,” Sven says.
“Well, he can fuck right off,” I declare.
To my surprise, Sven quirks a small smile. “Yes. That is why I don’t go back to Sweden much.”
“Don’t you miss it?”
“Not terribly, no.” His voice is dry. “In the off season, I might go on holiday for a bit, but then it’s time to recover and prepare for the next season.”
“You don’t get a break?”
Even the Logistics team gets a few weeks off after the close of the season.
He shrugs. “I’ve never found anything I would rather do more than hockey.”
I stare at him, trying to ascertain if he’s being truthful, and I realize he doesn’t know how to be any other way.
“So, rules?” I ask, circling back to our earlier conversation that neither of us finished.
“Rules.”
I nod. “Okay. Let’s talk about it.”