Chapter 4
Magnus
Game days bring out the quirky rituals in all of us.
For Isaac, it’s fart yoga and two Snickers bars eaten an hour before we hit the ice.
Carter doesn’t like to talk on game days—he gets introspective.
Silas does tai chi in the weight room and then sits in a corner with a hoodie over his eyes, visualizing his performance.
I’m not superstitious. Some guys don’t wash their socks or shave when they’re on a hot streak. There are things I always do on game days, but I wouldn’t call them superstitions.
Before I put on any gear today, I pinned two small, overlapping squares of cloth to my compression shirt. One is from a shirt my dad used to wear all the time. The other is from one of my sister Elin’s worn-out cloth headbands.
Those little pieces of fabric have been with me during every game for the past eleven years.
They were there when I played my first pro game in the US, in Tampa.
Still there when my shoulder was broken during a game in Boston.
I had them pinned beneath my hospital gown when I was recovering, and in my pocket during every grueling rehab session in Minneapolis.
Sometimes Minneapolis feels like a fever dream.
I was able to pay for intensive rehab with physical therapists, sports trainers, and a former college coach.
Being out of the game for so long as I recovered was tough.
I didn’t just have to rebuild strength and mobility in my shoulder, but in my entire body.
Someone turns on country music in the locker room, and I immediately put my headphones on. My pregame playlists all have Metallica, Eminem, and Rammstein. Music helps me get into a good headspace before games.
Our trainer Melina approaches me and I move my headphones aside so I can hear her.
“Hey, you ready?” she asks.
She never forgets. No matter how hard you rehab and how well you heal, anytime you’ve broken bones, they’re more prone to break again in the same places. Melina works on my shoulder before and after every game.
I get up and follow her into the training room, where I lie down on the training table on my stomach and she puts a moist heating pad on my shoulder.
“It’s feeling okay?” she asks.
“Yeah, it’s good.”
Isaac’s on the other side of the room with Talia, getting his quads massaged.
“You in your hat-trick zone?” he asks me.
“Hope so.”
“That was epic, Magnus,” Talia says. “Did you see the social media post from the woman who said she’d crawl naked over shards of ice for one night with you?”
“No.”
“How would he see it?” Isaac says. “Gramps has a flip phone and no social media.”
“I can’t imagine a life without doomscrolling,” Talia says.
Melina hums her agreement. “Social media makes me feel smarter than average every day. It’s like a bad relationship I keep going back to.”
“You ever think about getting a smartphone?” Isaac asks me.
“Not really.”
“So you’ve never gotten sexy photos from a woman?”
“No.”
“Not everyone has an external hard drive for their spank bank, Isaac,” Melina says. “And probably another one just for your own dick pics.”
“But does he spend more time looking at the women or at the dick pics?” Talia quips.
“And which one does he spend more time spanking to?” Melina says, laughing.
Melina moves on to the next part of our pregame warm-up for my shoulder. I sit on the edge of the table and she moves my arm through several range-of-motion exercises.
“Can we be done?” Isaac asks Talia. “I need to take a shit.”
“Yeah, that’s fine. Put your helmet on, though.”
Before I joined the team, Isaac’s teammates had a “crap cap” made for him because he’d passed out while sitting on the toilet several times and hit his head. He’s hit and miss on wearing it, but with the size of his contract, he should never walk into a bathroom without it.
“You okay?” Melina asks me once Isaac’s out of the room.
“Yeah, why?”
“The crease between your brows is deeper than usual.”
I smile and shrug. “I’m just feeling like a hamster on a wheel, I guess. Practices, games, and hotel rooms are my life.”
She nods, her expression sympathetic. “You’re on a prove-it and that has to be stressful. But you are, you know—proving it. I’m sure you’ll get an offer.”
“They could’ve offered, but they haven’t. Every game feels do-or-die. Like if I have even one bad one, I’ll blow my chances.”
“I get why it feels that way. But no one kills it in every game.”
“Yeah, but when you have a contract, there’s breathing room.”
“Maybe you should check in with Coach Turner.”
I shake my head, getting up from the table since she’s finished working on my shoulder. “I’m fine.”
“I’m always here to talk if you need it,” she says. “Your mental health means just as much as your physical health to me, okay?”
“I appreciate that.”
“Ready for resistance band warm-ups?”
“Yeah.”
It wasn’t my best game, but it wasn’t my worst, either. I got an assist in our 2–0 win over Vancouver.
Our team owner, Hudson McClain, watches our homes from his box and I felt his eyes on me tonight. There is a general manager, Lena Richardson, but McClain is heavily involved in all team decisions.
I reminded myself several times tonight that maybe I’m not meant to land in Cleveland permanently. The team has several very strong offensive players. Maybe my time here is just a stop on the way to a team that needs more of what I bring to the table.
“Let’s go out,” Isaac says to me when I’m drying off from my shower. “You need some fun in your life.”
He’s riding high since he got a shutout tonight. I don’t feel like going out to a bar, but sitting inside my hotel doesn’t sound great, either.
Winters in Sweden are long and dark, but walking into my apartment there made me feel lighter even on the grayest of days. Birch floors and lots of windows, with a fire in a simple fireplace—that’s a home to me. My Cleveland hotel room is dark, stuffy, and stifling.
“Tomorrow’s an early day,” I say.
“You want to be part of this team, don’t you?”
If only drinking a few beers with the guys would accomplish that. Isaac, one of the highest-paid players on the team, just doesn’t get it.
“I do. But I need—”
“You need to get laid, man.” He grins at me. “Nut the stress away. Works every time.”
“Not tonight.”
“Come on. At least be my wingman.”
My frustration boils over. Not just with Isaac—with everything. Living at hotels, the lack of a contract offer, and not seeing my family in more than a year. I’ve fucking had it.
“Go fuck yourself, Isaac. I’m not going out. I can’t make everything into a joke like you do. I’ve got too much on the line.”
He’s silent as I walk away. I was a dick, but some people won’t take a simple no for an answer.
My other teammates seem to sense my mood, avoiding me as I dress in my suit. Once I’m finished, I get my phone to check for messages, hoping there’s one from Art.
I have two messages. The first one is from my accountant’s office.
“Hi, Mr. Lundgren, it’s Nadia, one of Jim’s assistants. He wanted me to let you know your mom’s bank account dropped below the threshold you set to trigger a manual transfer. Jim had me move ten thousand into it, so I wanted to let you know that. Call us if you need anything further.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose, my elbows on my knees. I don’t want my mother worrying about money. As far as my family knows, I’m living the dream right now, making great money.
In reality, I can’t afford to turn down any contract I’m offered, even if I have to play for the worst team in the league. My sister’s care and my mom’s expenses are my responsibility, so I have to make whatever money I make last a long time.
Mom’s frugal, but she’s been spending more traveling back and forth between her home and the facility Elin is at in Berlin. I have money transferred into her account monthly, and this is the first time she’s fallen below the minimum balance I set with my accountant’s office.
The second voicemail is from my mom, and it’s in Swedish.
She’s congratulating me on our win, even though it’s almost five a.m. there.
She’s never missed watching one of my games online with the internet-connected TV I had set up in her home.
One day, I’ll get her to one in person, but she’s never been comfortable being that far from Elin since Elin’s injury.
I leave the locker room alone, my hair still damp from the shower. The team’s PR people didn’t ask me to be available for postgame interviews, which is both good and bad.
Bad, because it means I wasn’t one of the best players tonight. Good, because I’m not in a good frame of mind to be interviewed.
“Magnus.”
I turn to see Carter jogging toward me, dressed in a black suit and a pale-blue tie. He always gets asked for postgame interviews, so I’m not sure what he’s doing chasing me down.
“What’s up?” I ask when he reaches me.
“You okay?”
My shoulders slump with a sigh. “Yeah. I just wasn’t up for Isaac’s shit tonight.”
“I get it. I know you must be stressed.”
I shrug. “It’s a big waiting game.”
He puts a hand on my shoulder. “You’re going to get a great offer. I don’t know what team it will be with, but you’ve played at a high level this season. People have noticed.”
I nod. “Thank you.”
“I actually needed to catch you anyway, not just because of the Isaac thing. Are you free next Saturday night?”
My smile is wry. “If I’m not playing or practicing, I’m always free.”
“Would you be interested in going to a fundraiser for the Crush Foundation? Suki is a cochair and we’re taking a big group of friends.”
“Yeah, definitely.”
“Good. It always looks good when players show up to that stuff. We always have a good time. It’s a bunch of couples, you, and Jules’s sister Blair. That okay?”
“Of course. Blair seems great.”
“Thanks, man. I’ll text you the details. You got a tux?”
“Yeah. Just let me know where and when.”
My tux has gotten too tight in the shoulders with all the rehab, but I can get a new one in time for next Saturday. Putting my best foot forward with the team’s front office people and Hudson McClain is worth the investment.
“See you tomorrow,” Carter says over his shoulder as he walks away.
“See you, man.”