CHAPTER SIX
The following morning, Tanner slid into the meeting room with about three seconds to spare.
Team USA’s captain, Dustin Fowler, shot him a look from across the room, but Matty waved him over, patting a seat next to him that he’d apparently saved.
“Thanks, dude,” Tanner whispered.
“No prob.” Matty tapped his thigh with the backs of his knuckles and shifted, trying to get more comfortable.
He looked too big for the chair, and it made Tanner smile.
Matt Carlson was fucking hot. With big arms and a soft smile. Dark hair, dark beard, dark eyes. Ass that wouldn’t quit. Unfortunately, Tanner couldn’t enjoy it at the moment since Matty was sitting.
Oh well, there was always the shower later.
“Okay, guys,” the team’s general manager, Pat Fleming, said, clearing his throat to get their attention. “Now that we’re all here, I want to officially welcome you to Toronto, to Team USA, and to the North Atlantic Tournament.”
Fleming said that like they hadn’t already gotten phone calls, emails, and entire welcome packets the other day. He was the current GM for the Toronto Fisher Cats, so he already knew a bunch of the guys in the room too.
But whatever. Tanner supposed he had to say something.
Tanner did his best to focus as Fleming talked about the team, the tournament, and what they were trying to achieve.
Winning, duh, Tanner thought, trying to keep his leg from jiggling. God, he just wanted to get out on the ice and see what they could do together.
His mind wandered as the guy blathered on.
Last night had been unexpectedly fun. Leif had been his usual annoying self, but the sex had been great. Of course, after sex and cuddling, Leif tried to kick him out of his room. Rude!
They’d argued about that, then wound up making out. It had gotten a little heated and Tanner had somehow ended up pinned against the dresser, knocking a bunch of shit onto the floor. In the chaos, Tanner was pretty sure he’d ended up with an extra key card that belonged to Leif.
The hot lady at the front desk had given him two cards at check-in. He assumed they gave them to everyone but since he was always losing his cards or demagnetizing them with his cell phone, that was great.
But last night, after he left Leif’s room, he’d been super confused when he got to his own door and the card in his hand hadn’t opened it.
At first, he’d assumed maybe he’d done the demagnetizing thing when he stuffed his phone and card in the pocket of his pajamas, before it hit him that maybe he’d scooped up Leif’s card from the floor.
He’d knocked on Leif’s door again, planning to ask him about it, but Leif had completely ignored him. Also rude.
Of course, when Tanner had reached into his pocket to grab his phone to text him and let him know why he was knocking, he’d remembered he didn’t actually have Leif’s phone number. He’d also discovered a second key card in his pocket.
With a shrug, Tanner had gone back to his room and, somehow, despite being pressed to his phone, that second card had worked to open the door.
He’d gone in and flopped down on the bed, landing on top of a third key card. Oops. So, yeah, he was about ninety-three-percent sure he’d stolen one of Leif’s cards.
Tanner had gone to bed, figuring he’d worry about it today, but he’d spent the morning loitering around the lobby, trying to find Leif so he could return his card.
But each team had separate breakfast rooms—honestly, Tanner wasn’t sure why he’d ended up in a room next to Leif anyway, since most of the guys from Team USA were on the floor below—so, other than a quick glimpse of Leif as he crossed the lobby to get on the bus to the practice facility, Tanner hadn’t seen him at all.
He’d been surrounded by the other Nordic guys, so Tanner hadn’t wanted to bug him. Or, like, explain why he’d been in Leif’s room.
“Clayton! Did you hear what I just said?” Pat Fleming called out.
“Uhh.” Tanner darted a glance at Matty, panicked.
“They’re trying us out on the top pair together against the Nordic team,” Matty whispered as he bent down, pretending he was itching his ankle.
“Yes, sir,” Tanner said. “I’m excited to be on the top pair with Carlson! We won’t let you down.”
Fleming’s stern expression softened a fraction. “Glad to hear it. You think you can hold your own against Rasmussen?”
“Absolutely, sir!” Tanner said. “We’re ready to kick his ass.”
Fleming snorted. “I’m not looking for a brawl, Clayton. I want you to draw penalties on him. I’ve seen what you do to rile him up during games. I need you to do that here. He’s likely to be the Nordic team’s top scorer and we need him shut down and taken out of commission.”
“On it!” Tanner said, sitting up straight and giving him a cheeky salute. “One pest, at your service.”
Fleming cracked a smile. “God help us.”
The meeting went on, with other people yammering away, and Tanner dug his nails into his palms. Sometimes the stinging discomfort helped him focus.
He did his best, but he felt fidgety and he was glad when the meeting finally wrapped up.
“Dude, I hope your hubby eats your ass so good,” Tanner whispered to Matty as they left the meeting room. “You totally deserve it after saving my bacon twice today.”
The tips of Matty’s ears went pink but all he did was jostle Tanner with his shoulder. “Looking forward to getting on the ice with you again, man.”
Leif felt a little out of place as the Nordic team warmed up and did drills and scrimmages that morning. Most of the guys were from Sweden or Finland, though there were a few from Denmark.
Leif was the only Norwegian.
Most of the other guys had been born in their respective countries too. They’d grown up in Sweden or Finland, only coming here to North America to play.
Leif had been born in New York. He had dual citizenship and had often spent summers in Norway, visiting his grandparents and getting to know his aunts, uncles, and cousins.
He’d toyed with the idea of playing for Team USA but he was proud of his Norwegian heritage and wanted to represent his country. As the only Norwegian player in the league right now, much less this tournament, it was important he play for the Nordic team.
But he didn’t quite fit in.
Oh, the guys were nice enough. But on the bench or in the locker room, the Swedes clustered together, often lapsing into speaking Swedish. The Finns spoke Finnish. And although the hockey rivalry between those two countries was pretty strong, many Swedes spoke Finnish and many Finns spoke Swedish.
Leif didn’t speak either.
He did speak Norwegian, even if it was a little rusty, and Swedish was similar enough that he could pick up a few things. But he wasn’t fluent the way they were and he was still the odd man out.
So Leif poured his energy into playing the best hockey he could during scrimmages and, thankfully, by the end, he was starting to click with his linemates. He knew how to do hockey but he always felt a little out of step with the social aspect of being on a new team.
When practice was over and guys began to troop off the ice, ready to cool down, shower, or get some post-game treatment before lunch, Leif stayed on.
He gathered some pucks, tucked them into a loose circle near the blue line, then pulled one out and began firing. That always cleared his head.
A few went wide, others went off the posts, but by the end, most of them were going in the net.
When Leif’s arms ached and he was out of pucks, he went to retrieve them. He was just debating if he should do another round when he heard the sound of skates on ice. He tensed, expecting to see his father coming to see what was wrong.
Aksel Rasmussen always had a sixth sense for when Leif was struggling and well, he was the assistant coach for the Nordic Team. Leif had already done half a dozen interviews about that.
He and his father had talked about how they were going to handle it—mostly that both of them were going to remain professional and focus on the hockey—and he was irritated that his father had already broken their agreement.
But when Leif swept around the net, he got a glimpse of the person who definitely wasn’t his father. It was Anders Lindholm.
“Rasmussen,” Anders said with a polite dip of his head.
“Lindholm.” Leif acknowledged him. “Uhh, did I do something wrong?”
Anders Lindholm—retired player, hall of famer, and queer, married man—had started the skills camp Leif, Tanner, and a number of guys here at the North Atlantic Tournament had attended last summer. He was also one of the skills coaches for the forwards for the Nordic team.
He was kind of an inspiration to Leif. Even if he was Swedish.
Shit. Had Leif messed up somehow? Was staying after to practice not allowed or something? Though he couldn’t imagine why, especially on the first practice day of the tournament.
“Something wrong? No.” Anders looked at him, his expression inscrutable.
Anders was always kind of … enigmatic.
He carried himself with this sort of regal dignity and seemed very quiet, thoughtful, and self-contained.
His praise hit like a bomb. It was so rare that when you got it, it felt extra special.
And damn did he light up when his husband, Kelly, was around.
Anders and Kelly had been teammates on the Evanston River Otters before Anders’ retirement and Leif wondered how it felt for them to be opponents during this tournament, since Kelly was playing for Team USA.
Leif supposed he and Tanner weren’t the only ones sleeping with the enemy.
Of course, it was different for Anders and Kelly. They were married. And Anders wasn’t even playing. Just coaching. And Leif certainly wasn’t going to hook up with Tanner again anyway.
So none of that really mattered.
Leif cleared his throat. “Did you, uh, need something?”
“No. Do you?”
Leif frowned. “Umm, I’m not sure what you mean.”
“I know after I lost my wife and daughter, I came out to the ice to clear my head. Shooting practice helped. I was wondering if you needed to do this for the same reasons.”
“Oh.” Leif glanced at him, startled. Of course, everyone had heard the story about Anders tragically losing his wife and child in a car crash.
But he said it so calmly now. Like he was talking about a bad game.
Then again, it had been many years now and he’d grieved and moved forward with his life.
Fallen in love again. “No, it’s nothing like that.
I’m not married and I don’t have kids and I definitely didn’t lose them … ”
He trailed off, unsure if what he’d said was rude.
Anders gave him a faint smile. “I would certainly hope not. I simply wondered if you needed to work through something bothering you.”
“Oh.” Leif sighed. “Uh, I … suppose.”
When Anders continued to look at him steadily, Leif continued, glancing down at the ice. “I feel a little bit out of place here.”
“Because you’re the only Norwegian?”
“Yes. And the only US-born player.”
“True. Although Gunnar Berglund was born in Canada.”
Leif shrugged at the mention of one of their defensemen. Berglund had been born in Canada, but he’d been raised in Sweden, then come back to Canada again in his late teens for hockey.
“I know it’s different,” Anders acknowledged. “I’m simply suggesting that you may find similarities and connections if you dig deep enough. For example, Ola Jansson’s mother is Norwegian.”
“How do you know all of this?” Leif asked. Ola Jansson was on his line and he’d had no clue.
Anders gave him a faint smile. “Many years in the league, plus my work at the skills camp.”
“Fair enough.” Leif batted at a loose puck with his stick. “And I do get your point. You think this is my fault for not making an effort.”
The startled look Anders gave Leif told him he’d missed the mark. “No?” he said, confused.
“No, I wasn’t suggesting that at all, Leif. Simply that if you wish to do so, you can find ways to connect with your new teammates. You are coming to the dinner tonight, yes?”
“Yes,” Leif agreed without hesitation.
A dinner for the Nordic team and staff had been arranged for tonight. For the purposes of team bonding, Leif assumed.
“Good.” Anders clapped him on the shoulder. “Now, let’s pick up these pucks so you can get on with your day.”
“Aren’t there people who do that?” Leif asked.
“Yes. But we’ve already kept them waiting.” Anders nodded toward a Zamboni driver patiently waiting in the tunnel. “And Team Canada will be using the ice this afternoon. Besides, it’s the polite thing to do.”
“Sorry. Yes, I’ll help.”
“You don’t need to apologize. Just be aware.”
Leif nodded and skated toward the boards where an empty bucket waited, feeling a little chastised.
Maybe Anders hadn’t thought that Leif wasn’t making enough of an effort. But that didn’t mean it wasn’t still true.
This was the trouble Leif had wherever he went. He worked hard at his hockey skills. But he would never get along with people the way Tanner did.
Unbidden, the memory of Tanner underneath him last night popped into his head and his cheeks felt a little warm as he helped Anders collect pucks. Well, that was one way to get to know people better at the tournament.
Not that Leif planned to get to know his teammates—or Tanner—that way, again, but he could certainly participate in the arranged activities.
He’d had a decent time at the get-together for queer players last night and he’d do his level best to get to know the guys on his team for the next ten days. Tonight’s dinner would be a good start.
And at least he wouldn’t have Tanner there as a distraction.