Stockholm Diaries, Caroline

by Rebecca Hunter

  She heard Niklas’s footsteps coming back through his apartment and out into the hallway. Caroline wiped the tears that had fallen down her cheek, not ready to expose just how much this hurt.

  Niklas sat down next to her again, even closer than before. His leg leaned lightly against hers, and he put a warm hand on her back. His body was so near to hers, and she could hear his quiet, uneven breaths. In his other hand, he held a small black bag, which he set in her lap. A camera bag. Another tear fell, and Niklas reached over to wipe it away. Her breath was shaky.

  “I know it’s not the same thing as having your own, but please take mine for now, while I get yours fixed.”

  Caroline shook her head. “It’s all right. I can take mine into a shop. You can keep yours.”

  What she didn’t say was that she wasn’t going to let her camera out of her sight, especially not with the man who just knocked it onto the stone steps. Besides, cameras weren’t interchangeable. Hers wasn’t anything like the one someone with a passing interest in photography would buy. Just the lens itself was worth two months of her salary back in Michigan.

  Niklas shook his head, and she could feel his hand tense on her back.

  “Look,” he said, putting his other hand on her arm, “I don’t know much about cameras, but the guy I bought it from told me this was a good one. I bought a few lenses, too, when I thought I’d try some photography a year or so ago, but now I’m not sure what any of them do.”

  The heat of both his hands moved through her, muddling her thoughts and melting some of her frustration. She closed her eyes, unleashing a flood of images that had nothing to do with cameras. Images of him pulling her against him the way he had in the park, but with an entirely different purpose this time. She pushed them away. Caroline opened her eyes again and looked down at his camera bag, trying to gather her thoughts.

  She unzipped it and took a deep breath. Then she pulled his camera out with a small gasp. This wasn’t an amateur camera; in fact, it was nicer than her own. She had read extensively about this particular model, but she could never justify the price tag. Not for baby photos in the mall studio, at least.

  “I—I can’t take this,” she finally said. “I don’t have the money to replace it if it breaks.” This was an understatement. If hers cost two months of her Michigan salary, this one cost six, neither of which she had right now.

  Niklas ran his hand through his hair, and Caroline could feel his eyes on her again as she gently turned his camera over in her hands. She could feel his warm breath meeting the bare skin of her neck. He drew in a deeper breath as if to speak, then reconsidered.

  Finally, he said, “It’s a year old, and I’ve only used it once. Right now it’s worth nothing to me because I can’t work it. Try it out and then show me how to use it. You’ll be doing me a favor.”

  Whether or not he really considered this a favor was a bit suspect, but Caroline couldn’t ignore the fact that this was a chance to try out her dream camera, the one that had never been within reach in Michigan. And it also meant she was no longer out of a career. She set his camera carefully back into the bag and zipped it closed.

  “So tell me again what you’re doing with a camera like this,” she said.

  “Trying to find myself a productive hobby?” he attempted a half smile. His voice was soft and tender, and he seemed to be watching her closely.

  Though Caroline still had an uneasy feeling about what kind of problems she could be creating by agreeing to this exchange, she couldn’t deny she wanted to take it. And then there was another, uncomfortable pulse of excitement at the idea that this would be a connection between them. As bad of an idea as this was, she wanted a reason to see him again.

  “Okay,” said Caroline before she could change her mind again. She turned over her own camera to pop out the memory card and then handed it over to him. “I’ll try it out. Thank you.”

  They both moved to stand, and Caroline realized too late that the staircase was too narrow for them both to do this at the same time. And now more than just his hand was touching her. He was facing her, and his leg pressed against hers. His eyes were just as intense as they had been early the other morning, and they seemed to be asking her something. Whatever it was, the answer was yes. She felt his hand softly rest against the curve of her hips. She turned her body toward him, and he came even closer. She could hear his breath, harsh and uneven, as he hovered over her. She didn’t lift her own hand to smooth his hair the way she wanted to, half-afraid that he would bolt if she made any sudden moves.

  “I’m really sorry about your camera,” he said. His eyes stayed on hers, and he reached up with his other hand to smooth her hair over her shoulder.

  “I came out here to…” He broke off and shook his head instead. “I’m just sorry.”

  His touch grew firmer, more deliberate as he stroked further down her back. Caroline’s heart pounded wildly. Was he going to kiss her? She could feel that he wanted to—that clearly wasn’t the problem.

  “It’s okay,” said Caroline, and this time she really meant it.

  She lowered her gaze to the way his t-shirt stretched over his broad shoulders and across the muscles of his chest. He smelled of contrasts, the clean scent of soap against something much more basic. She wanted to touch him. Slowly, she brought her hand up and let it rest against his side. His muscles twitched, and a small groan escaped from his mouth. Her hand trembled as she felt hard muscles and heat through his t-shirt. She looked back up into his eyes. What she found there was the same want and hunger she felt simmering inside herself.

  He leaned down and let his lips brush against her mouth once, twice, before he parted his lips and gently took hers. The kiss was soft and warm, a question to her, please. Yes, her lips told his and he urged her mouth wider. Yes, she told him again, and his tongue stroked hers. Then Caroline was suddenly reaching for him, the muscles of his back, his sides, with his camera bag hanging precariously from her elbow.

  She felt his hand through her hair, pulling her deeper into his kiss. The other hand moved down to cup her rear, pulling her body against his. The camera bag dropped. It didn’t matter. There was no mistaking his arousal, and her own body responded unequivocally, without waiting for her brain, moving, pressing harder against him, provoking the urgency that waited behind his tenderness. She felt each part of her body awaken as he touched her, each muscle tightening.

  Then, as suddenly as it began, he broke away, leaving them both gasping for breath.

  “Gud, I didn’t mean to do that,” he muttered.

  “Sorry,” he added, though she wasn’t sure what this sorry was for. If it was for the kiss, there was certainly no need for an apology.

  Now Niklas wasn’t looking at her at all. Instead, he picked up her camera and disappeared down the spiral staircase, taking two steps at a time.

  Caroline leaned back against the stone wall, trying to process the events that had all taken place these last minutes in this hallway. The heat of his fingers lingered along her skin, and she could still feel the weight of his hand on her rear as he pulled her closer, wanting more. But as her mind began to catch up with her body, the tenderness of his kiss, a tenderness that had quickly lit into something much more, was muted by the sinking feeling that kissing Niklas—and everything else she had wanted in the moment—wasn’t a good idea at all.

  He was her neighbor, making this entanglement much too close to home, especially if things turned sour. And that seemed likely, considering how quickly he seemed to turn his emotions off. Despite the soft-spoken side she had seen from him so far, she knew he had another side. She had heard him that night when she arrived, late, probably assuming no one else was awake. Or not caring. At least she had thought it was him, yelling what could only be curses in Swedish that pulsed through the apartment walls between them.

  She should know better by now than to get involved with someone like that. She knew that those emotions could twist into somethi
ng darker. From time to time, her father’s gruff and quiet demeanor spilled over into something less controlled. And Caroline had watched her mother sooth the edge of her father’s emotions too many times to believe it could disappear. After a few, volatile relationships in college, she knew she was better off staying away from this kind of temptation.

  This was her neighbor, and she knew nothing about him. Nothing. Maybe she couldn’t stop the heat rising inside her each time Niklas came close enough to touch, but she could decide to stay away.

  And this also meant that she had to forget that his kiss on the stairs was the most delicious thing she had tasted in a long, long time.

  Caroline walked slowly back to her apartment door and let herself in. A walk in the park now felt out of the question. She wasn’t ready to see Niklas again, especially not after he had fled down the stairs so abruptly. The city still had hours to sleep. Caroline looked down at the black camera bag in her hand for consolation. At least she had something to do now.

  Closing the apartment door behind her, Caroline walked down the hallway to the kitchen, the room farthest away from the front door. She wouldn’t hear Niklas’s footsteps or the creak of his door from here. She set the camera bag down on the table and unzipped it, carefully removing each of the pieces, lining them up on the table. Yes, this was a consolation, and a good one, too, she told herself. She decided to worry about the entanglements of the trade—and what might follow—later.

  Chapter Eight

  The subway ride took Caroline straight through the center of Stockholm with stops that Veronica had translated for her, T-Centralen, Central Station, and Gamla Stan, Old Town, places she had been meaning to visit all week long. But instead of getting off at one of these stations, she continued through the city on the green line until the subway reemerged from underground for a view of the enormous round building that rose up on the other side of the water. Globen, it was called, though it looked less like a globe and more like a giant golf ball.

  As the large, white building grew closer, her fingers gripped Niklas’s black camera bag, tingling with excitement. She would finally test the camera and lens for what it was supposed to be best at: clear, fast-action shots.

  The intercom announcements were completely unintelligible, and most of the stops had names that neared twenty letters long, so Caroline kept her eyes fixed on the map and the signs closely. Finally, with a little audio jingle, a word she recognized popped up on the screen: Globen.

  Caroline exited the train and followed the flow of people heading toward what looked like some sort of white space station. On the left side of the doors, beyond the stream of fans, she could see Ludvig, waiting for her with a pass in his hand.

  “Hello,” he said, kissing her on the cheek. Caroline smiled uncertainly. Did the kiss mean this was a date, or was this just the standard European way of greeting someone? Before she could come to any conclusions, they were pulled into the throng of fans pouring into the arena doors. Luckily, Ludvig seemed to know where they were going.

  “We’ll take the press entrance next time, but I wasn’t sure you’d be able to find it.”

  Next time. They would be attending the games together, apparently.

  He walked her back outside and then steered her around to another door. Ludvig flashed their passes. They entered into a hallway and then turned down another one, underneath the bleachers, until they came to the rink-side opening. The cool air sent a shiver through her, and the smell of indoor ice and sweat made her feel like she was back in Michigan, pushing through the crowds at Yost Arena.

  But she wasn’t. She was across the Atlantic, in Stockholm, waiting for the Swedish national team to skate out onto the ice. The arena hummed with energy. Finland was already circling around their end of the rink, evoking both jeers and cheers from behind her, some of them sounding surprisingly slurred for a 1:00 pm game.

  Caroline had never been particularly interested in sports. It didn’t help that her mother grew up on a dusty ranch, in a family where ideas like extracurricular sports were as foreign as deciduous trees. The second-rate status of the only sport her father ever loved, soccer, served as yet another reminder that he would forever live in a foreign country, no matter how many years he had been a U.S. citizen. So aside from the incomprehensible chatter of Univision soccer on Saturdays, Caroline managed to escape the draw of sporting events until college, despite growing up in a sports-driven Big Ten state.

  Even now, entering the hockey arena felt like entering a foreign culture, with its own dress code, customs and ritual chants surrounding her. In fact, Caroline found the crowd just as interesting as the game, though she knew enough not to take her eye off the ice once the puck dropped. But right now, as the teams entered, she focused on the endless seats behind her: the rows of bare-chested men with faces painted the color of the Finnish flag; a long line of kids with matching jerseys—maybe a hockey team?—coming to see their national idols in action; couples with matching t-shirts, blue and yellow, the letters SWE across the chest.

  “What do you think?” Ludvig’s voice startled her. In the midst of all the noise and excitement, she had forgotten he was standing so close to her.

  “There are a lot of rowdy fans,” she said, looking around. “I just hope the losing team doesn’t take it too hard.”

  “The Sweden-Finland game is always a big rivalry. There should be a lot of good action, lots of emotion,” he said, then pointed to her camera. “That’s the perfect camera for a game like this.”

  “Thanks. It’s—” she broke off, not sure what she wanted to say about her camera situation. “A friend and I switched for bit.”

  Though Niklas wasn’t quite what she’d call a friend, Caroline was at a loss for any other description. But Ludvig seemed to accept this explanation without giving it much thought.

  “Who are you shooting for?” he asked.

  She gave him the name of Connor’s publication, and he smiled approvingly.

  Connor had eventually written back saying he couldn’t get her a pass for the games, but his department would probably buy a couple of good shots if she found a way in. It was no guarantee, but it was a start. In other words, she had no idea if her photos would actually be published, a reality that made her sound amateur at best. But that probably wasn’t the kind of information she should be sharing with the guy who got her the rink-side spot. And she wasn’t an amateur, she reminded herself. She had experience, just not in the sports world… another piece of information she probably shouldn’t highlight for Ludvig.

  “I love standing here next to the rink. I love these games,” he said, looking straight into her eyes now, waiting for a nod of agreement. Caroline reluctantly gave it to him.

  “The energy from the crowd just feeds the players until they’re like animals out there,” he said. His voice was growing louder as he continued. “What’s left is raw aggression. They’re what we all are, without society to keep us in line. It’s why everyone loves the fights. People pay to see these guys do what the rest of us aren’t allowed to do. And if you and I pay attention, we’ll capture a piece of that with our cameras.”

  Caroline watched as Ludvig’s face became more and more animated as he talked. She had a hard time imagining any raw aggression hidden behind the wiry, mild-mannered guy standing in front of her, but he spoke with the air of authority on the subject that made Caroline wonder if everyone else besides her did, in fact, come here to witness aggression in its rawest form. Was she the only one who saw the intensity in sports photography as something different, not as a snapshot of the baser reality of human nature but as the exposure of a deeply private moment?

  To her, capturing the rage of a fight was more like photographing the victims of a hurricane. The pictures were statements about the emotional intensity of that moment, not about the nature of those people themselves. But there was a fundamental difference between hurricane victims and athletes: Athletes were paid to play out these scenario
s, with all the repercussions attached, all acknowledged from the beginning, under the watchful eyes of fans. Caroline wondered if these ideas had already crossed the minds of the hockey players that were circling the ice in front of her.

  Up until the start of the game, Caroline walked around, focusing the camera on the crowd, but when the puck dropped, she found herself pulled into the action. She was close enough to hear the players grunt and mutter as they passed by. It took a moment to channel back to her Michigan Daily assignments, but soon she was following the action, ready for something to happen.

  It didn’t take long. Just before the six-minute mark, two Finnish players broke away with only one Swedish player on their left in pursuit. Just as the Swedish player caught them, one of the Finnish players reached out his stick and tripped him. The second Finnish player shot ahead, curved around the goalposts and, at the last minute, slid the puck in behind the goalie’s skate.

  The crowd erupted. Caroline panned her camera back towards the middle of the ice, hoping to catch the moment of celebration, but instead what she found was a fight: The Swedish player had picked himself up off the ice and was now swinging at the Finnish player who had tripped him. His teammates rushed over to pull him back, but not before the Finnish player grabbed hold of his helmet, which tumbled down on the ice. The blood from his nose spilled onto his jersey. Caroline’s camera clicked, against her better judgment, as the Swede broke loose for another attack.

  She drew in a sharp breath. Her gaze was locked on the scene in front of her. Niklas. The player out on the ice, the player in blue and yellow swinging wildly at the Finnish player, despite the referee’s repeated whistles, was Niklas. The same Niklas that had kissed her in the stairwell. Niklas that had instinctively pushed away her camera when she had pointed it at him. Niklas that she had heard through the wall of his apartment. Now, Caroline had just captured his explosion on camera. Niklas’s camera.