Chapter 2
Magnus
I can’t believe people sometimes.
A guy at a table nearby at the restaurant where we’re having a late lunch thinks he’s really sneaky. I get up from my seat and walk over to him.
“Hey, hi.” He smiles and holds out his hand to shake mine. “Magnus Lundgren, right?”
I play the game, smiling and shaking his hand. “Yeah, and what’s your name?”
“I’m Paul. Lifelong Crush fan. You’ve been on fire this season. I hope they offer you a fat contract and keep you here forever.”
“I’m Chad.” The guy across from him wants a handshake, too. “Can we get a selfie with you?”
Annoyance flares, but I push it aside. This is part of the job.
When I got injured during my first pro season in the US, finally making killer money, I thought no one would ever ask me for a selfie again.
So even though I’m out with teammates and their kids and not on the job right now, I need to be gracious.
“You can get whatever photos you want with me and any of my teammates,” I say. “But first, I’ll need you to delete the ones you took with the kids in them.”
Paul smiles sheepishly. “I wasn’t trying to get the kids in any of them. I was just excited to see you guys.”
“No problem, I get it. We’re all just protective of the kids, you know? There are crazy people out there.”
“Yeah, that’s for damn sure.” He unlocks his phone and opens the photos.
“Everything good here?” my teammate Carter asks, approaching us from behind.
His youngest daughter, Rachel, is about to fall asleep, her head resting on his shoulder.
“I’m sorry,” Paul says. “I just deleted all the pictures I took.”
I can feel Carter bristling beside me.
“It’s not a problem,” I say. “We appreciate it. Let’s grab some pictures before our food comes.”
Carter passes Rachel to his oldest, Olivia.
The kids are all occupied with their giant milkshakes, oblivious to us.
My seat is between Eli’s and Cooper’s, and I’ve been enjoying watching them try to take down the premeal desserts.
Eli got one with sticks covered in brownies and candy, and Coop got one with chocolate-covered strawberries and marshmallows.
Each one has more sugar than I eat in a month, but from their smiles and wide eyes, I can tell this is a big treat for them. Coop told me his mom makes him eat vegetables every night, and I think he was expecting me to be as appalled about it as he was.
Once we’ve taken photos with Paul and Chad, Carter claps me on the back and says, “Thanks, man. I missed that.”
I just nod and return to my seat. He couldn’t have seen them taking pictures because his back was facing their table. He’s trying to get Rachel to sleep while listening to his daughter Hallie talk without any breaks. She basks in his attention like a flower in the sun.
“Do you have a mom?” Coop, who’s five, asks me.
“Yes.”
“Give my mom her phone number so you can come over. We can play cars and I’ll show you my hiding place.”
“It’s just a closet,” his brother Eli, who’s seven, says from my other side. “And he doesn’t have to ask his mom; he’s a grown-up.”
Coop looks at me for confirmation of that, chocolate syrup about to drip from his chin. I grab my napkin and swipe up the syrup.
“Sure, I can come hang out sometime. I like playing cars.”
His smile widens. “What’s your favorite? Mine’s a dump truck.”
I’m not used to being around kids, so spending today with Carter’s girls and Blair’s boys has been a change of pace for me. I like it, though. It reminds me of being home in Sweden, where I have a niece and two nephews.
“I’m a big fan of ‘dump trucks,’” Isaac says from across the table.
I meet his gaze and shake my head. I’ve spent enough time in locker rooms—and with Isaac—to know where this is going.
“Dump truck” used to just mean a woman with a big, sexy ass. That’s not something Isaac needs to be teaching kids about, but he might be talking about the even worse modern meanings of it.
Some guys call the women they use for sex “dump trucks”—“fill her with a load and send her on the road”—but the crudest meaning of it involves people shitting on their sexual partner’s face.
That’s the kind of shit that makes me feel like I’m thirty-one going on eighty. I don’t find it funny.
“What?” Isaac grins at me. “I had one when I was a kid. I could entertain myself for hours filling it up with rocks and moving them from one side of my backyard to the other.”
Our food arrives, saving me from having to continue the conversation. Coop pays no attention to his grilled cheese, still working his way through the milkshake. Eli cuts all his chicken tenders into bite-size pieces and eats them with a fork.
Those two are like night and day. Eli is more quiet and thoughtful, and Coop is all energy and curiosity.
“You ready for this?” I ask my teammate Leo, whose wife is pregnant.
“I’m so ready.”
He gives Rachel and Carter a wistful look. She’s asleep on his shoulder now, and he’s got one arm wrapped around her while he eats with the other.
“What are you guys doing when Mara goes back to work?” I ask Leo.
“Live-in manny. We already hired him.”
“What’s a manny?” Hallie asks.
“It’s a boy nanny.”
“Suki was our nanny, but now she’s our second mom.”
“Aunt Mara won’t let a nanny as pretty as Suki into our house. But our manny’s great. He comes highly recommended.”
I already knitted one blanket for Leo and Mara’s baby, and I’m working on another one that has his sweater number and our team colors on it. Knitting is one of the things that keeps me sane when I’m stuck in my hotel room.
After our late lunch, we all go back to Carter and Suki’s house so Rachel can take a nap. They live on a cul-de-sac with only a few houses on large lots, so the rest of us play street hockey.
Darling, Carter’s massive pet pig, watches us longingly out of the sidelights by the front door. Carter said it’s too cold for him to be outside for long.
“Charlotte,” Carter calls out sternly to one of his girls. “We never hit people with hockey sticks.”
“She hit me first.”
Olivia and Charlotte’s argument intensifies, and Carter has to stop playing so he can mediate.
“You’re a good puck handler,” I tell Eli.
“I am?”
“Yeah, you’ve got good instincts, too.”
“Do I have good instincts?” Coop asks, pronouncing it in sinks.
“You’ve got good energy.”
“Want to race to the net?” he asks.
“I’ll race you,” Isaac says.
“Can I go play with the pig?” Eli asks me.
“Sure. You don’t have to stay out here.”
He grins and races off, leaving me, Bash, and Leo.
“Does this mean we can go watch football?” Bash asks.
“I think so,” Leo says.
I look at my wristwatch. “I have to go, actually.”
“Got a date tonight?” Bash asks.
“No.”
“He’s probably just tired of your shit,” Leo says.
“I have an appointment.”
“You getting your balls waxed?” Bash asks.
“Yep. Your mom’s tired of choking on my pubes.”
I glance over my shoulder, relieved to see that Coop and Isaac are having another race, so we’re out of their hearing range.
“I’ll see you guys.” I give Leo my hockey stick, waving at Carter and then at Isaac and Coop.
My six-year-old Chevy Trailblazer is slow to start after sitting out in the cold for several hours. My vehicle provides endless joke fodder for my teammates, but it gets me from here to there. Even when I was making great money during my year in Tampa, I didn’t buy a new car.
I was trying to prove myself then, as a twenty-eight-year-old coming from the Swedish league. There are differences between the leagues, the biggest adjustment being how much more physical the game is in the US.
I was taught the game by a coach who was a former US player, though, so my game’s always been physical. Everything was going well in Tampa until my shoulder was broken in two places.
Now here I am, three years older and on another prove-it year after extensive rehab. This is my last shot.
When I walk through the front doors of the Grand Madison, the hotel I live at, the woman at the front desk flashes me a smile.
I nod and keep my head down on the walk to the elevator.
I’m already cutting it close on getting back to my room in time for my call with my agent; I don’t want to stop and talk to anyone.
It’s a quick ride up to the third floor, where I walk down the hall and around two corners before reaching Room 332.
I swipe the key card and walk into the room, scowling. It smells sweaty and stagnant, like the inside of an old hockey bag. But my bed’s made and my clean laundry is stacked on it.
I don’t even have time to take a piss before my phone rings, a photo of me and my agent, Art Marx, popping up on the screen.
We were having dinner in Manhattan’s Chinatown, and he was still four hours away from a case of food poisoning that made him call his attorney from the hospital’s emergency room to be sure his ex-wife was officially out of his will.
He cried and told me he was sure he was either going to shit or puke out some essential body parts.
“Hey, Art.”
“Hey, you still riding that natural hat trick high?”
“Yeah, that was a great night.”
I was locked in, scoring three goals in a home game against St. Louis.
The fans covered the ice with hats and gave me a standing ovation.
It was my first natural hat trick in the US.
I got teary-eyed when the whole place was cheering for me because I didn’t know if I’d get another chance at it when I was rehabbing.
“Well, I think we should take advantage of your hot streak. I’d like to chat with a few GMs if you’re okay with it.”
I sit in the overly firm leather chair in the corner, thinking about it.
“You don’t think Cleveland will offer me a contract?”
“They haven’t yet. You’re still open to another team, right? If the deal’s good, I mean?”
“Yeah, for sure. If I can get at least three years and the money’s good, I’ll take it.”
“I don’t think that’ll be a problem. Keep doing what you’re doing. No late nights out, no fodder for the rumor mill. Stay focused and we’ll get you the deal you deserve.”
“Okay.”
“How’s Elin?”
Art’s been my agent since I signed with Tampa, and he asks about my sister every time we talk. He even sends her flowers every year on her birthday.
“She’s doing well, thanks for asking.”
“The German place is still working for her?”
“Yeah. My mom’s happy with it.”
“How about you? Other than hockey? Are you feeling more at home in Cleveland?”
I sigh as I stare at the art on the wall across from the chair. Three rectangles of varying sizes, all in muted brown shades. It’s the opposite of the art in Swedish galleries and museums, which is bright, colorful and full of life.
“Home enough. I’m here to get a contract.”
“You still at the hotel?”
“Yeah. It works.”
“I guess you’re living out of a suitcase when you’re on the road anyway.”
“I’m hoping to be living out of a suitcase on the road for the next four or five seasons.”
I need a contract offer. If I’m not making money playing hockey, the only other thing I’m qualified to do is coach, and it would take me a lot of time and luck for that to be as lucrative as playing hockey.
This has to work. My family is counting on me, and I can’t fail them.
“I’ll let you know what I hear,” Art says. “Keep it up.”
“Thanks, Art.”
I have an early morning, so I need to have an easy evening. I’ll probably knit and catch up on Survivor.
The blast of an RTA train horn pulls me from my thoughts. Those fucking train horns have made me consider switching hotels more than once, but anything close to the arena will still be close to the RTA tracks.
If I can just get a contract—no matter what team it’s with—all the nights I’ve been woken up by those horns will be worth it.