CHAPTER FORTY-TWO OSKAR
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
OSKAR
I’m so warm I’m practically fused to the sheets. A sliver of daylight cuts between the drapes, but I squeeze my eyes shut because sleep is still calling my name. Except… what is that tickling my belly?
The unmistakable sound of Kai’s purr-like snore reaches my ears, so I crack one eye open. He’s not there. But I feel one of his legs tangled with mine, and then… Fan! Another tickle on my stomach.
I lift the comforter, and there he is, the lower half of his body pressed against mine, his head resting on my chest. Another little snore rumbles against my skin. Another tickle.
“Fan ocks?!” I can’t help laughing. “Kai!”
I have to shake his shoulder hard to wake him up.
“The fuck?” His voice is muffled against my chest. He shifts around before lifting his head. “What’s going on?”
“You’re snoring on my chest and tickling my stomach with your morning breath.”
“Makes no sense.”
“It does because when the air comes out of your mouth… never mind. Get up here.”
Once he’s in my arms and we’ve exchanged a proper good morning kiss, I glance at the clock. “Oh my God, it’s eleven o’clock.”
He gives me the first smirk of the day. “I’ll call the reporters.”
Laughing, I roll on top of him. “Why are we sleeping so late?”
“Because we’re exhausted. But since you’re already on top of me, want to play a game before we get up?”
I shake my head. “You’re insatiable. We did it twice last night and again at about four a.m. I need food and a little recovery time.”
His dramatic sigh would be more convincing if he didn’t look half-dead. “Spoilsport. Have to admit I’m hungry too. Will you make some of those scrambled eggs I like? There’s smoked salmon in the fridge.”
“Let’s go.” I roll off him, then stop and trace my fingers over a dark bruise on his chest. “This one’s getting bigger. We’ll put some of that stuff on it after we shower.”
“We’re both nothing but big bruised bodies,” he says, yawning. “Better buy more of that stuff this afternoon.”
Later, after we get more bruise cream, we take up residence on the roof of Kai’s building. It’s only the first week of June, but the temperature’s already in the nineties, so we alternate between swimming and resting in the shade. Currently, we’re lying in chaise lounges like two beached whales.
“We have practice tomorrow,” he says.
“Who’s we?” I ask. “Not me.”
I shouldn’t have said that. It’s not that I’m bitter, but… well, I’m a little bitter.
His voice is soft. “I’m sorry you’re out of it, Ozzy. I won’t say ‘there’s always next year’ because that sucks. But after five years with the Condors, this is my first trip to the Cup Finals. You’ve got time.”
My stomach does a fluttery thing before it twists into a knot, and I work hard to keep my tone even. “I wanted it so much, but that doesn’t mean I am not thrilled for you. I will be at every game if you’ll let me. Mercer’s biggest fan.”
He turns onto his side to face me. “Nothing would make me any happier. I’m just glad we’re not playing against each other anymore.”
With that, I decide to leave it alone for a while. I can’t deny how I feel, but today isn’t about that. I point at him. “I can do ten laps faster than you can. Ten round-trip laps.”
“Bullshit.” He narrows his eyes. “I was a champion swimmer in high school.”
“And I’m the best swimmer at my parents’ lake house.”
They probably hear his scoff in Stockholm.
“Ten laps? You’re on.”
The fucker is running toward the pool before I’m on my feet.
We complete the first lap together, but by the end of the second, I’m ahead.
“Touch and turn, Mercer,” I yell back at him. “Stop cheating.”
“Fuck you,” he yells, splashing behind me.
I pull a little farther ahead with each lap, and his trash-talking becomes less talking and more gurgling. By the time I begin my last lap, he’s turning at the other side of the pool. As we pass in the water, all I hear is, “Bluh-buh-buh-buh,” followed by a cough.
I complete the lap, pull myself out of the water, and sit on the edge, watching him flounder his way back. He finally makes it, and I do my best to act like I’m not still out of breath while he gasps and spits water.
When he’s able to speak, he gives me a look that would set fire to a tree in a rainstorm. “You’ve gotta be kidding me. You cheated.”
“Did not.” I can’t keep a snarky grin off my face. “I took it easy on you.”
The truth is somewhere in between. I didn’t cheat, but I gave it everything I had.
“Damn playoffs wore me out,” he says.
“I had playoffs as well.” I try not to sound too smug.
He frowns for a moment, then his face lights up. “I’m saving myself for the next round.”
“Keep telling yourself that, baby.” I extend an arm to help him out of the water. “You did well.”
He glares at me. “Another ten? I’ll show you what I’ve got.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Do you really want to do that now?”
His shoulders sag, dragging him down until the water reaches his nose. After a struggle, he gets his mouth back above the surface. “Help me out of here.”
We laugh on the way back to our lounges.
“Must be some lake house your folks have,” he says. “Were there fifty other kids there in the summer to compete against?”
“No, only enough to keep each other motivated.”
We have dinner at an Italian restaurant we like, then come back to Kai’s and settle on the couch.
“Are you looking forward to practice?” I ask.
“Do you ever look forward to it?”
I laugh. “No. But I enjoy seeing the guys.”
“Same. I’m sure Holmer’s going to work on our power play. It was our weak point against…”
I put an arm around his shoulders. “Against us? You can say it.”
“I just don’t…” He snuggles closer. “It’s weird, Ozzy.”
“But you’re excited, right? I would be.”
He shifts so he can see me. “You’re okay with it? I don’t mean losing, because how could you be? But you’re okay with me?”
That takes me by surprise, and it takes me a moment to say, “I am completely okay with you. Losing is hard to deal with, but it wasn’t personal. When you played one-on-one with friends growing up, did you hold it against them if they beat you?”
He shrugs. “Not for long. But we weren’t playing for the Laurentian Cup.”
“Oh, baby. You are so much more important to me than that damn Cup.”
I caress his cheek and kiss him. He snuggles against me, the first time he’s relaxed in two days.
An hour later, I ask, “Are we still watching the game?”
Kai looks over. “What game would that be?”
He knows they’re playing game seven of the Western Conference playoffs.
I give him a don’t-play-dumb look. “The one that will determine who the Condors are playing in three days.”
“Guess we’d better,” he says. “It would be good to know.”
For forty game minutes, we watch the Dallas Thunder chase the San Jose Pulse around the ice.
When the third period starts, I’m nursing a beer while Kai’s bouncing beside me on the couch.
His cola’s sweating all over the coffee table, so I move it to a coaster to keep him from having a panic attack later.
“Come on, Dallas,” he yells at the screen. “Just one decent clear. Is that too much to ask?”
The Pulse are up by three. I take a sip of my beer and say, “You’re quite invested in the Thunder.”
“They’ll be easier to beat.” He doesn’t take his eyes off the screen. “San Jose’s got that playoff experience from last year. Dallas is a mess.”
“Is that what you’re telling yourself? Because I’m pretty sure you don’t want to face the Pulse.”
He tears his eyes away from the TV to glare at me. “You’re pulling for them, aren’t you? Admit it.”
“You’d better wipe that look off your face before it sticks,” I say, making him snort. “All I’m saying is that San Jose’s the better team. It would be more fun to play against them.”
He waves me off. “We don’t need that kind of fun. Watch this. Dallas is about to score.”
A Dallas forward breaks away, and Kai cheers so loudly the neighbors must hear. The forward shoots, but San Jose’s goalie makes an impressive save.
I point at the screen. “See? That’s what I mean. The Pulse goalie has great instincts. Dallas’s guy moves like he’s skating in wet cement.”
“Exactly my point.” Kai’s talking through gritted teeth. “We can face him, and the Thunder can face… well, me.”
I snort. “You’re full of it. I seem to remember someone letting in Carson’s goal from the red line.”
“It was one time,” he says, grabbing a pillow. “Asshole.”
I dodge the pillow, but my beer sloshes onto the floor. “Fan! Now look what you made me do.”
“Me? You’re the one chirping my future opponent.”
He runs to get paper towels. As soon as he comes back, the Pulse score again.
“Goddammit!” He pounds his fists on the sofa. “Get it fucking together, Thunder.”
Meanwhile, I’m cheering. He looks over, and if his eyes were death rays, I would be dead.
“Wow,” I say. “You’re getting almost as excited as you do when we—”
He cuts me off with a look. “Don’t even finish that sentence, or it will be a long time before we do that again.”
“Big talk for a man who’s blushing.”
He flips me off. “Fuck you.”
The Pulse scores yet again with forty seconds left. I can’t help but cheer, not that I try very hard not to.
“I hate you, Olofsson.”
“No, you don’t.” I move closer to him. “You’re just mad because somebody’s going to give you a fight.”
“You only pulled for them because we beat the Fury. Will you be pulling for the Pulse in the Finals too?”
“No.” I give him a look designed to make him wonder. “You’re the only goalie for me.”
He clicks off the TV before they award the trophy. “Hate. You.”
I raise my eyebrows. “Look at it this way. When you beat the Pulse, you’ll look much better than beating Dallas’s Tumblers.”
“You…” He gives a loud huff. “Fine. San Jose it is. And when we beat them, you’re buying dinner for a month.”
“Deal. Now hold on a second.” I dash to the bedroom, grab his good-luck gift from my drawer, and come back holding up a bright red jockstrap.
His mouth falls open. “What the hell is that?”