Hot Talker – by Rhian Cahill
HOT TALKER
BY RHIAN CAHILL
KALLAN
Stepping into the quiet, I close my eyes and take a deep breath of the sweet, earthy air, my lips curling in a satisfied smile.
I’ve been in Baton Rouge a week and for the first time I feel at ease— normal .
Although, when you’re the youngest player on the newest NHL franchise, I guess normal is subjective. And honestly, there has never been anything normal about my life anyway.
Leaving home at fourteen to live with a family I’d never met thousands of miles from the country I was born in so I could eat-sleep-train-play-repeat, hockey in the hope of getting the call every young player wants, could never be referred to as normal.
But all that hard work and sacrifice paid off.
I got the call everyone who laces up skates with their eyes on a professional career dreams of.
Except when it came it was from a team who hasn’t even hit the ice yet.
The Baton Rouge Rogues are the newest franchise in the NHL, and on paper the roster is a mixed bag of old and new, players and coaching staff.
Hell, the whole org is a mixed bag.
Our first team event happened last night and while I stick to myself most of the time, I enjoyed meeting the guys I’ll play alongside, the coaches who will help me train and hone my skills—reach my potential.
The team meet and greet has my feet itching to get on the ice. And I’m not the only one ready to lace up my skates.
The veterans, who should be looking at retirement, have a new fire burning in their eyes.
The minor league players, who never expected a call up to national level, still have a dazed-is-this-real edged with hunger look about them.
And the guys like me, who’ve spent their teen years playing hard and well with the aim of getting on the radar of every scout in the league, vibrate with eagerness to prove ourselves worthy of our spot.
The excitement at the event was palpable, and I doubt I’m the only one who didn’t get much sleep last night.
But I—we—need to contain it, hold it until we can let it loose on the ice. We have one more day of anticipation before we can all do what we came here to do.
Play game winning hockey.
I know I’m lucky to be here, especially when I pretend not to understand English most of the time. That small deception has served me well though.
I hear things I shouldn’t because when people think you don’t understand what they’re saying they tend to reveal things they wouldn’t—or shouldn’t—in my presence.
And the bonus is I get out of social situations easily.
But don’t be fooled, my English is excellent.
Long before I came to America, Mormor had me speaking English instead of my native tongue. I can speak Swedish. Just not as well as English.
It’s one of the things I regret about my childhood. That, and leaving Mormor behind to chase a dream I wasn’t sure I wanted.
Leaving my only relative was hard. I never knew my father, and my mother was out of my life before I was seven so my memories of her are sketchy at best.
My grandmother was my sole caretaker and when she passed, I didn’t even go home for her funeral. It was her final wish, and while it hurt, I granted it to her as I’d granted her the wish to see me play in America.
Except she never got to see me reach the top.
It was Mormor’s greatest wish. She wanted me to have everything my parents didn’t give me and her idea of that was coming to America to play the game I showed natural skill in.
For the first few years of my life hockey was an escape. A place to get away from Mom and whoever she was with. When Mormor opened her door and her home to me, she showered me with the love and attention I’d never had, and leaving her house to play hockey was the last thing I wanted to do.
But she’d seen my talent. And Alvar Wallin, a man who played professionally, had agreed with her. He took me under his wing and between the two of them, I slowly began to see the wisdom of chasing a career playing hockey.
I just didn’t want to chase it outside of Sweden.
Together, they showed me the benefits of working toward playing in America, and along the way, my love of the game grew. Other than Mormor, it’s the only thing in my life I’ll mourn when it’s time to let it go.
No need to think about that yet. I’ve got years and years of playing in the league if I keep my focus, pay attention to my coaches, and play well.
“Hello. Can I help you?”
The soft, melodic voice turns my head and pulls my feet toward it before my brain registers what I’m doing or seeing.
Behind a wide counter is the most beautiful girl I’ve ever laid eyes on and she’s smiling at me. I’m so dazed by her smile that when I reach her, I stand in front of the counter for at least a minute and just stare.
“Do you need help?”
Jolted from my daze, I say, “Ah, yes?”
I don’t know why I phrase my answer as a question. I’m here to join the library, and I’ll definitely need help doing it.
Her smile grows as she waits patiently for me to tell her what I need. Only I can’t seem to speak. Or think straight.
My gaze travels over her greedily.
Her hair is a deep brown but there are strips of rust and caramel and sand swirling in the ends of the curly strands. Her blue eyes are as bright as a cloudless sky on a summer afternoon. And her mouth…
Plump lips stretched in a wide smile that have me thinking of lazy kisses on that humid summer afternoon.
“Eh…”
“Do you need a library card?” Her smile trembles a little as a light blush fills her cheeks. “I haven’t seen you here before, and I’m here every day.”
Her explanation makes sense and even if it didn’t, I wouldn’t care, because just looking at her has my mind and body relaxing in a way I’ve never experienced.
“So…” She rolls her hand in front of her, prompting me to answer.
Clearing my throat, I press up against the counter and keep my eyes locked on hers. “Yes. I need a card.”
“Okay, great! All I need is an ID so I can put you in the system.”
Her smile is a flash of brightness I never want to be without, and it takes everything I have to put actions to her request.
Tugging my wallet from my back pocket, I flip it open and find my newly issued Louisiana driver’s license. Putting it on the counter, I wait for recognition to hit.
Except, it doesn’t.
She just moves it in front of her keyboard and starts tapping away.
I watch her. Yes, I feel a little creepy doing it, but I can’t help myself. I’m drawn to her in a way I don’t understand. I’ve never had a serious girlfriend. Never been attracted to a girl enough to ask her out more than a couple of times.
“Here. You can put that away.” She slides my license across the counter. “I’ll get your card. Won’t be long.”
Before I can say anything, she disappears through the doorway behind her. The urge to follow her is so strong I actually take a step to the side.
Pulling myself up, I remember where I am, who I am, and what my focus should be.
I’m here to play hockey.
Except after long minutes of waiting, she comes back with that bright smile firmly on her face, and I know I’m screwed.
Because for the first time in my life, something other than hockey has my attention.
I don’t even know her name, but I know whatever it takes, she’s going to be mine.
HAVEN
Kallan Larsson is hot. And young. Not as young as his baby face implies.
We’re the same age.
Well, for a month anyway.
I’ve been sneaking looks at him from the moment he walked through the library doors and stopped, eyes closed. I could see him take a deep breath and wondered why doing so would put a look of relief on his face. It’s not hot outside this morning.
Although the thermostat is going to hit the high eighties later today.
Just the small amount of time I watched him and the few words we’ve spoken since he walked up to the desk is enough for me to know he’s nothing like the boys I went to high school with.
Or the men I’ve met since.
I can’t even tell you why he’s different.
He seems more mature, I guess.
More…
Hell. I don’t know.
If I forget about his age and that handsome baby face, I’d guess he was in his mid-twenties.
The last guy I dated was twenty-three, looked thirty, and wasn’t as mature, or manly, as Kallan seems.
I’m reluctant to hand over his library card because then he’ll disappear into the stacks, and I won’t be able to see him anymore.
But I can’t dawdle in the office any longer. I need to return to the desk and do my job—the one that keeps a roof over my head and food in my belly.
Smiling wide, because I honestly can’t seem to do anything else around him, I head back out front and offer him the laminated card.
“Here you go.” I hold the card out over the desk.
“You can borrow six books at a time and have two weeks to return them. You also have access to our computers; you’ll find them on the second floor.
We have an extensive collection of games for all the major gaming systems if you’re interested in that.
We have magazines, too, although you can’t take those out of the library. ”
“Okay.”
“Can I point you in the direction of anything in particular?” If I can keep him talking about books, I can keep looking at him.
“Ah, yes. Where is your genre fiction section?”
“We have shelves and shelves and shelves of fiction. What genre are you after?”
“Romance.”
If there was a mirror in front of me, I’m sure I’d see a bug-eyed, slack jawed version of myself.
With a sheepish grin curling his lips, he shrugs. “I like to feel happy when I finish a book, and I find romance delivers that every time.”
“Well, yes, of course it does. It’s the genre’s promise to readers. The hero and heroine might not look like they’ll get it and possibly have to fight for it, but they always get a happy ending.”
“Exactly.”