All You Need

by Lorelei James

  Axl. I hadn’t texted him back and I needed to talk to him now more than ever.

  “If you’re that dehydrated the staff wants to start you on an IV drip.”

  “No.” I sat up. “That’s an overreaction. I just need to get some water and fresh air. Some snacks. Then I’ll try to sleep for a few hours.” I stood. “If I leave, will there be an issue with me getting back up here?”

  “I’ll check with the nurse. I don’t feel comfortable letting you wander around outside by yourself in the middle of the night,” my dad said.

  “I’ll remind you I am an adult, Dad. And it’s almost dawn. I’ll stay in the designated smoking areas.”

  My dad’s eyebrow winged up. “You won’t find fresh air there.”

  “I doubt I’ll find many smokers this time of day either,” I said dryly. “I’ll be fine. Besides, I’ll have my phone.” I walked over to Cathy, our hospital liaison. “I need some fresh air and snacks, but I want to make sure I can get back up here.”

  “Of course.” She’d already set up a makeshift desk. She dug a lanyard out of a box on the floor. “This will grant you access to all areas.”

  “Great. I’m trying to avoid reporters, so is there a designated smoking area or a rooftop garden nearby?”

  “Yes, down on the seventh floor there’s an outdoor area. The exit is at the east end.”

  “Accessible by stairs?”

  “Yes. Stairs are across from the service elevator. There are beverage and vending machines on every floor, but for more substantial fare you’ll have to head to level A.”

  “Thank you.”

  Neither Brady nor Walker saw me head down the hallway after I grabbed my jacket and purse out of the waiting room. I booked it down the stairwell, grateful it wasn’t cramped. After popping out on floor seven, I found a vending machine and bought a bottle of water and a Red Bull. Then I stepped out into the chilly Chicago predawn.

  Despite the cold and the darkness, I took my first full breath since I’d felt the claustrophobia closing in.

  In the aftermath of an episode, I always felt ridiculous. Like I should’ve outgrown this fear. That I would be so ashamed if anyone ever found out I still struggled with this. Then that was followed by belittling myself; once again I’d made the incident more terrifying than it actually was.

  I headed to the railing and looked across the Chicago skyline. I felt so . . . lost.

  I noticed the gas heating lamps above a few of the seating areas and clicked one on. The chill immediately evaporated. I settled into a chair, pulled out my phone to call Axl. But it would be rude to call him now, especially since he had to be up in a few hours to practice before tonight’s game. So I sent him a text message. A really long text message detailing everything that had gone wrong—including the episode of claustrophobia and my worries that my family would figure out what had happened to me.

  Or is it more concerning that they don’t look beyond the surface with you?

  The long, rambling text took me close to half an hour to type. I ended by telling Axl how much I missed him, I loved him and wished him good luck at the game and that I’d be in touch.

  I wanted to tell him I needed him here with me. That I hated hiding what we meant to each other. That I’d been wrong to put my career first and us second. But Axl was having an amazing season. His personal life had not been a blip on the radar since our “breakup,” and all the media focus was on his game. That was a huge relief to him. In fact, in the past few weeks he hadn’t asked even one time if I’d heard anything about the Haversman presentation, when before, he’d asked me about it almost daily. Now it seemed as if he wanted to continue to keep our relationship under wraps . . . at least until the hockey season ended.

  Maybe that was the smartest option. Besides, I had other things to worry about now with Jensen’s injury.

  • • •

  The second day we got the best news. Jensen’s paralysis had been temporary.

  But now he needed surgery immediately to repair his kneecap.

  The team physicians, some of the players and other medical professionals all weighed in on which orthopedic specialist should perform the surgery, and they narrowed the list to two.

  Neither doctor was in Chicago.

  They ended up choosing a surgeon in Florida.

  We were discussing arrangements when my phone rang. The caller ID read Peter, and I had a moment of panic that maybe something had happened to Axl. Then I remembered that as far as Peter knew—as far as the entire world knew—Axl and I were done.

  “Peter? Did you mean to call me?”

  “Yes. Do you have a few minutes to talk?”

  “Give me one second. It’s loud in here.” I left the waiting room and walked down the hallway to the stairwell and slipped inside. “What’s going on?”

  “Remember when I said you had to be ready to pitch to Haversman at a moment’s notice?”

  “Yes.” Then I said, “Why?” even though my stomach was already sinking and I could guess what was coming next.

  “If you’re serious about this, you have to be in Belize tomorrow.”

  “What? You’re joking.”

  “No, I am not. Haversman is hosting his annual mixer and this is the only chance you’ll have to pitch to him this year. A yacht docks tomorrow night at sunset, picks up all the guests and takes them to his private island. So you have one shot to be on that boat.”

  “Peter. They’re moving Jensen to Florida tomorrow for surgery. I can’t just tell my family I’m flying off to Belize to meet with Haversman on his private island.”

  “You cannot tell them that anyway, Annika. This is a by-invitation-only event. Anyone who talks to the press about this? Banned for life. And since you’re taking my invite, you do not want to do that and fuck me over.”

  Shit. “I . . . can’t. Jensen—”

  “Will be doped up for the next five days,” he inserted. “He won’t know if you’re out in the waiting room, or in Belize.”

  Man, he just cut right to the heart of it.

  “You’re concerned about your family’s reaction. If they’ll judge you or get angry. But the truth is, you don’t all need to be there holding Jensen’s hand, because he’s only got two of them. This is a huge opportunity for you to expand your vision for the company. It’s not like you’re blowing off your family to party in the Caribbean. Not only can Haversman put this new line of products you’re pitching in his magazines, but he can feature it in his hotels—of which there are now twenty-five hundred.”

  I knew all this. I truly did.

  “Tell me you’re not dragging your feet because the pitch isn’t ready,” he said sharply.

  “The pitch is perfect,” I retorted. “And the only reason I’m hesitating is that my youngest brother is having major fucking surgery away from home, after an event that’s been traumatic to my entire family.”

  Peter sighed. “I get it, Annika. I do. But there’s part of you that knows if Brady said he had a major presentation to make on behalf of the company and couldn’t be there, he’d get a pass. If you do the same thing, you’re shirking your family responsibilities.”

  I closed my eyes. I hated that he was right, because we both knew it wasn’t “my family” he was referring to, just my mother, who’d take issue with it. “How long does this mixer last?”

  “Five to seven days. Haversman arranges air transportation for everyone back to Atlanta, since he’s fluid with the number of days.”

  “Have you been to his island?”

  “Yes. It’s unbelievable. Truly paradise. So you will have time to relax and get to know the other attendees, which is beneficial if Haversman opts not to market-research your product. There are others who might be interested in it.”

  “Any kinky bondage games that are played? And are all attendees expected to participate?”

  Peter laughed. “What an active imagination. Nothing like that. It’s all on the up-and-up. The best food, the best booze, the best
spa services, all in a relaxed business environment.”

  How could I say no? I couldn’t. “Okay. Count me in. Last couple of questions. Attire? Do I bring him a gift? And is there cell service?”

  “Attire is business but island casual. Yes, bring him as unique a gift as you can come up with at this late notice, but nothing your company manufactures. He likes oddities. Of course there’s cell service. He’s a tech mogul, but the transmissions are monitored fully. If your call abruptly ends, you said something that revealed too much.”

  “I feel like I should have a sat phone with me and a code word in place in case I need an emergency extraction.”

  “You’ll do fine. Call me tomorrow and let me know you’ve made your connections to Belize.”

  I frowned. “Connections?”

  “My admin booked your tickets. Check your e-mail. You leave from Minneapolis tomorrow. I assumed you’d need to return here first and get your presentation.”

  I could be pissy that he’d assumed so much, or I could let it go and save my energy for the battle to come. “Thanks, Peter. I’ll keep you updated.”

  After I hung up I checked the airline schedules. I booked a seat on the next flight from Chicago to Minneapolis, which left in two hours.

  Then I looked at my spreadsheet for Axl’s schedule. If I was gone the full seven days, I’d get back the day after he started his nine-day stretch of away games.

  My heart hurt. I’d miss him like crazy. But maybe hiding our relationship could finally end—I just had to kill on this pitch and make sure our sacrifice was worth it.

  I rested my forehead on my knees and gave in to the urge to weep. If I released the tears from my system now, it’d keep me from breaking down in front of my family and all they’d see was the Iron Princess.

  Twenty-seven

  ___

  AXL

  In the last three games I’d ended up with thirty stitches.

  The team doctors were taking bets on if I’d rip the stitches today or if I’d require a whole new set.

  I’d never actually notched ice time in Madison Square Garden—every time the team I played for had a game here, I’d suited up but ended up warming the bench, so maybe I did need a zipper strip to mark the occasion. But then again, it was better to give than to receive and there were a couple of Rangers players I’d be gunning for who decided it’d be funny to taunt me in the press. We’d see who had the last laugh at the end of the third period.

  I had one goal.

  Two assists.

  I spent two minutes in the sin bin—although I probably deserved more.

  I’d played one of the most aggressive games of my pro career. I’d never felt so satisfied at smashing guys into the boards as I did during those sixty minutes.

  We beat them 4 to 2.

  Since it’d been an early Sunday afternoon game that aired opposite the Super Bowl, there wasn’t much media coverage. So that was probably why I noticed him at the press conference.

  My father. Sitting in the back row.

  I actually said, “What the fuck?” out loud, earning a sharp look from Coach.

  I dutifully answered questions about the vast difference in my stats from last year to this year—all coaching and teamwork.

  My recent string of goals—adaptability in the face of the opposition’s mistakes is a skill learned only through ice time, which I was grateful to have plenty of this season.

  When asked if any incident triggered my more aggressive playing and subsequent injuries, I couldn’t answer, I’m frustrated as fuck because not only haven’t I seen my girlfriend for three weeks, but with our travel schedules I’ve barely talked to her. Instead I said, Hockey isn’t a sport for pussies. You get hurt, you suck it up, you get your ass back on the ice and take out your pain on your opponents, and by the buzz in the nearly empty room, I knew I’d just ended my “lie low” media creed for the past months.

  My father waited for me outside the locker room. I hadn’t seen him in three years. He didn’t look all that different. I suppose we looked alike, same longer blond hair and pale blue eyes, although I topped him by ten centimeters and outweighed him by twenty kilograms. He had the once-preferred slight build of a football player. Now the European football players seemed much bigger and more muscular than in days past.

  “Father.” I offered my hand. “You’re looking well.”

  “Thank you. Interesting game.”

  Not “Great game” or “You killed it out there” or “I saw you’re one of the leading scorers among D-men this season.” Just . . . interesting. “You’re in the States on business?”

  “Yes. Leaving tomorrow.”

  For once I wished I had to dash off to catch the team plane. But we were staying in New York overnight. “Me as well.”

  “We should have a drink and catch up. Where are you staying?”

  “At the Ritz,” I said.

  “I’m at the Four Seasons. They have a decent wine list. You should meet me in the bar. Say . . . an hour from now?”

  “Two hours would be better for me.”

  “Great. See you then.” He took off, which surprised me. Usually he’d hang around and expect me to introduce him so everyone could kiss his World Cup medal.

  Any elation I’d felt over our win had been soured by his presence.

  I reminded myself not to give him that kind of power.

  Flitte headed toward me. “Who was that guy?”

  “My father.”

  “No kidding. No wonder he looked familiar. You hanging out with him?”

  “In a bit. Why?”

  “We’re in New York, man. We gotta eat pizza.”

  “Cool. I’m starved. We meeting the team someplace?”

  Flitte shook his head. “Just you and me, Hammer-time. They went back to the hotel to watch the football game.”

  I hadn’t really spent any one-on-one time with Flitte. He wasn’t as obnoxious without McClellan and Dykstrand egging him on.

  “So, does your old man live in New York or something?” Flitte continued with the interrogation as soon as we were sitting inside a pizza parlor.

  I shook my head. “He lives in Italy. He’s here on business, I guess. Weird that I ran into him. Or maybe I should say weird that he came to one of my games.”

  “He’s not, like, your biggest fan?” Flitte said.

  “Not even close.”

  “I know how that goes. My old man wanted me to play baseball. He bitched about the price of hockey equipment constantly—‘If you’d picked baseball you wouldn’t be putting this family in the poorhouse.’ So as soon as I was old enough to get a job, I did and I paid for my own equipment. Hockey paid for college.” He shoved the last bite of pizza in his mouth and swallowed. “People say you gotta respect your parents, but I say your parents need to respect you too. My dad still says, ‘Think of how great a baseball player you could’ve been if you had put as much effort into that as you did into hockey.’”

  “My dad is the same way. Except with football—soccer.”

  “Screw ’em both. Hockey rules.” He held up his beer mug and we toasted.

  After we ate, I hailed a cab to the Four Seasons and spotted my dad already seated in the bar.

  He gestured to his glass of wine. “Would you like one? It’s a decent Argentinian Malbec.”

  “No, thanks.” When the waiter arrived, I ordered a Brooklyn Lager.

  My father wrinkled his nose. Another mark against me.

  He scrutinized my suit. “Still with Pontus for your wardrobe, I see.”