by Avery Flynn
By the time the final game started, Jonas has heard too many rumors. His head still ached, so did his broken nose. At least his leg was not broken as they'd first feared. A hairline fracture that would heal as long as he took it easy. One of the orderlies came in with his dinner tray and adjusted the bed so he could sit up. "Do you want to watch the game?" she asked.
He nodded yes though he knew watching television would probably only make him feel worse. The flickering images and rapid movements seemed to jar his brain too much. He needed to see the last game though. If he couldn't be on the ice, he could at least watch it on TV and hope they clinched it.
We won...
That thought was echoing in his mind the whole time various nurses and interns popped into his room to congratulate him. After all these years of living thousands of miles away from his family and losing touch with so many old friends while he chased a dream, he'd done it. It didn't matter that he wasn't on the ice the night the gods of hockey determined that New Orleans was the winner, his team had won the cup.
Fucking hell...we won.
Jonas's phone kept ringing and he'd divert the calls. He needed a little more time to process it.
No one prepared him for this. The crushing weight of being on the winning team. Garsey and Courage tried to warn them all--they'd gone from being ragtag underdogs to media darlings at neck breaking speed. But then again, no one had expected them to win, so why bother with stylists picking out their wardrobes for events, PR gurus prompting them on what to say and how to say it, all the trappings of fame that came along with being at the top of the league. They were the new kids on the block, they weren't supposed to bring the cup home. But they had, and now everyone had their eye on them.
Hell, the press was already speculating about next season and whether they'd be able to hold onto the Cup two years running.
Jonas Magnussen had been around the league long enough to know the drill. At thirty-three he was no longer the new kid on the block, even if the Cajun Rage were. He'd already been traded three times before. And his body felt every bit of the ten years he'd been playing professionally. But experience taught him not to show it, to shrug it off when the cameras were trained on him and laugh as though it was all par for the course. And in a way, it was. He played hard. That's why the Rajuns had been so keen to get him in the starting lineup. And playing hard was what had got him injured, marked him as a good target. But a concussion in pursuit of the Cup? Par for the course.
Before he left the hospital, the PR team showed up, making sure he was still photogenic enough for TV interviews, relieved that his bruises made him look more like a rugged rebel than a barroom brawler. They coached him: "Give them the smile if you can't think of anything to say. Or the Iceman look. They love the Iceman look."
During each interview, he flashed the charming smile he'd practiced, the one the Rajuns' PR spin doctors said would charm the panties off any red-blooded woman, and sometimes it had. He lowered his eyes whenever the flickering eyes got too much. He was still not one-hundred percent, but at least Dr. Singh had given him the okay to travel to Sweden with the Cup.
"Mariam?"
Saying her name again after all these years took Jonas Magnussen back to those desperate days of longing. Would she even remember him?
"Just a second." She reached for her suitcase without looking over her shoulder to see who'd addressed her. She gave it a tug, but it was too heavy for her to budge. Jonas rushed forward then, ignoring the quizzical looks of his minders who were only interested in making sure the Cup made it to its destination without any incident, or the star struck fans lingering by the baggage belt. He grabbed hold of the handle before the bag got too far and lugged it off the belt. Wow, it was heavy. How much had she packed? He extended the handle and set the bag on its wheels, then brought it over to her. His shoulder complained at the exertion, but he ignored it. He waited for her to look up now from her handbag...
Anything for a few moments with her.
Ten years may have gone by since the last time he'd seen her, but he was certain it was her.
It had to be her. Why else would just a glimpse of her jolt him so much? And the voice...it hadn't changed. He missed how she pronounced his name...a little of her Eritrean accent still tinging some of her words even after so many years of living in Sweden. All those years ago, when she'd sleepily whisper his name as though she were still caught between dreams. He'd dated so many women since then and none of them had made him feel so...undone.
Around them, other passengers streamed into the reclaim area. Some took stole looks at Jonas. He was used to it now, but sometimes he longed for the old days when he was just another hockey player and not the Iceman.
He shielded her too from the photographers waiting to get shots of him and shushed Edwin Motz, the Keeper of the Cup who was rattling off a list of things for Jonas to remember. None of that mattered--not if this really was Mariam Kidane standing before him.
She finally stopped searching her leather handbag and looked up, already thanking him without really seeing him. He smiled at her and she stopped mid-sentence. He said her name again, this time using her full name. She flicked a glance at him and then he heard it--the quick gasp of recognition.
"Oh my God—it's you! Oh my God, Jonas..." Mariam's voice trailed off and she pressed her full lips together. The sleek mane of dark hair was new to him. Jonas always remembered her with her wild, natural curls spiraling in every direction and her constant exasperation that her hair never did what she wanted it to do. Mariam Zadik Kidane hadn't changed.
No, that wasn't really true.
Mariam had changed, but he would have recognized her anywhere.
His heart was already beating much too fast, anxiously waiting for her to make the next move. She took a step forward, then hesitated. Jonas too hesitated--should they hug? Shake hands? What was the protocol now for meeting the woman you'd always loved but who left you to pursue her own dreams?
They both took the easy, more Swedish route: they nodded and smiled without saying anything. But there was something more. Jonas felt the charge in the air between them. Anyone watching them had to know that this was no ordinary meeting.
Mariam's lips still looked as kissable as he remembered and those impossibly dark brown eyes that sometimes looked more like ebony... oh, she was still so out of his league, how had he ever held onto her before? Jonas muttered a swear word and shook his head. Here he was--all 6'1" and 195 pounds of pure muscle--and a look and a smile from Mariam still left him as tongue-tied as he'd been that first time he saw her when he was nothing but a sixteen-year-old with major league hockey dreams.
"Are you bringing the Cup home?" Mariam adjusted her bag on her shoulder. The blouse she wore left
He nodded. "It's part of the tour. I get it for one day, and then we deliver it to the next player in line."
"You really did it."
"Yeah, I guess I did." He still wasn't used to talking about the big win. It still felt unreal--that the Cajuns were the reigning champs now, that he even played a part in helping to bring the cup to New Orleans. "Never really thought it would happen."
Behind them, the baggage reclaim area was beginning to fill. Passengers from the Oslo and Göteborg flights wandered into the hall, searching for their baggage belt. Someone shouted "Iceman!" Jonas kept his cool. It wasn't before smart phones were raised, snapping pictures of him that he knew would end up on Facebook and Instagram.
"It's great to see you again."
"You too... we should catch up." The words tumbled out before he could stop them. It was what he wanted to say, but saying them felt so clichéd. He'd heard his teammates say it too often to people they weren't interested in. But he wanted to catch up with her. It had been too long, and they'd both been too young, too headstrong.
Jonas glanced at the burly bodyguard hovering behind him. "Couldn't you give us a little space? I haven't seen Mariam in a long time."
"I need to guard the..."
>
"It's over there with Edwin," Jonas cut him off. "Maybe you should go and guard them? But we're in Umeå, so I don't think anything crazy will happen, do you?"
"No, sir, but the league..."
"I need a few minutes and then we can go." He channeled the chill tone with enough force that it hit the target. It was what he was known for--the icy stare, the hard line of his mouth when he was focused on the goal. It was why they called him Iceman even if he hated it.
But it worked.
The bodyguard shrugged and, acquiescing, lumbered over to Edwin. Mariam slid into the window seat. Jonas blushed as she squeezed past him. She was so damned beautiful it hurt. That's what he'd thought ten years ago. He still thought it now.
"How are you?" he asked now, the words tumbling around in his mind, all the things he'd thought he'd say if they ever met again not quite coming out. But now, she was standing there, unsure if she should smile, maybe just as unsure as he was about what to say or what was the protocol for meeting lost loves.
"I've been in Mallorca," she said and then screwed up her eyebrows. "My parents..."
"Did they finally move there then and leave Swedish winter behind?"
"Something like that, yes." She glanced over his shoulder, then lowered her eyes. "I needed a little vacation."
His sister Bella had mentioned something about a court case Mariam had won. He'd tried to follow all the details but it was in the middle of the playoffs and he'd been in the hockey zone, unable to focus on much of anything else.
A young fan appeared at his elbow, asking for an autograph and a selfie. Jonas reluctantly agreed. He didn't want to disappoint the little boy, but once it started, it wouldn't end. People forgot he was just like them, that sometimes he didn't want to be bothered. Two more fans approached, the guards kept a close eye on them making sure no one tried to dash off after getting a chance to hold the cup, but where would they go in such a small airport?
Mariam had watched with an unreadable expression on her face as Jonas handled each fan with the same attention and care. He remembered how it had been when he was a kid and he bumped into his hockey idols at the practice rink or after games. How many times had he waited in the cold just for a ruffle of his hair and scrap of paper with a barely legible autograph scribbled on it? She moved a little off to the side, but he held his hand out to her and said, "Wait...don't leave yet."
"I'm not going anywhere," she assured him, but he still glanced over at her wishing he knew what she was thinking. Once he'd signed the last autograph, he approached Mariam again. He'd expected her to wear the same expression of frustration he remembered from the past, but she seemed interested.
"Does this happen wherever you go?" she asked.
"Yeah, now it does." He gestured at the Cup. "Especially with that thing in tow."
She laughed. "It's kind of hard to ignore."
"Yeah, it's the perfect chaperone."
"I can't believe I'm seeing you again," Mariam blurted out. She shook her head as she realized what she'd said. "You know what I mean... it's been ten years and somehow we've no laid eyes on one another...aside from on television."
“It's good to see you again, Mariam." He shoved his hands in his pockets. It wasn't what he wanted to do, but too much time had passed for them to embrace or even brush each other's cheeks with platonic kisses.
"It's good to see you too." She swept her hair back and revealed the graceful curve of her neck. He used to love kissing her there and now, when her nut brown skin had a sun-kissed glow, Jonas could barely look away. "God, I'm happy for you, Jonas. Your dream came true. You won the Cup."
"I missed the final game.”
"It doesn't matter. You took one for the team."
"You saw the game?"
She nodded. From inside her bag, her phone began to ring. "Will you be here long?"
"Just today."
"That's too bad, it would have been nice to catch up." She scrambled in her leather handbag to find her phone, but he didn't miss how her hands trembled. She was just as nervous as he was.
"Mariam..."
She was already raising her phone to answer, but she paused. She licked her lips and waited.
"Could we meet? Later? To catch up?"
“Maybe."
"If you have time."
"I could make time.” His words tumbled out as he tried to keep her there, just for a few more seconds. "I’m sure I can work something out."
"Okay... “She licked her lips again. "I’m staying at my parents' house."
"I've got a crazy schedule—"
"I'm not surprised." Jonas hoped he didn't misread the disappointment in her tone. She pressed her full lips together and then glanced over his shoulder. "You're on league business."
"Yeah, everybody wants to see the Cup."
"It was really good to see you, Jonas." When she touched his hand, a white-hot spark flared between them. That spark, that little burst of pure desire and love and energy that he remembered from so long ago—then rushed off, speaking quickly into her phone, apologizing to whomever had been on the other line, waiting, and dragging her heavy suitcase behind her.
"We need to get moving, Jonas," Edwin said, now appearing at Jonas's side. He was already tapping the screen of his iPad. "We need to get you to the hotel and then over to your sister's..."
"Can we change the schedule at all?"
"What? No, come on, you promised me you wouldn't do this."
"One change, Ed."
"No way, the schedule is tight as it is."
But Jonas was already thinking a few steps ahead. There had to be some leeway. If it meant he could see Mariam again, even if only for a few moments...and this time he wasn't going to let her slip through his fingers.
2
Mariam
Oh. My. God.
Mariam resisted the urge to look over her shoulder and kept her chocolate-brown eyes focused on the exit and the taxi queue. Ten years she'd managed to live her life without being confronted with the sight of Jonas Magnussen—hockey superstar and the man who was her first love when she was a teenager and who somehow still owned her heart years later. Keep walking, keep walking, she whispered to herself as she scrambled in her bag for her Jackie O sunglasses. As soon as she emerged into the blinding sunlight, she waved down the first taxi in the queue. She didn't dare to look back until the taxi was nearly in town.
Even then, she was certain her heart was in danger again.
"Jonas is back." Mariam didn't even bother with niceties or small talk once Åsa answered the phone. Åsa was her closest friend since Mariam had first arrived in Umeå from Asmara, Eritrea during Eritrean-Ethiopian War as a shy ten-year-old.
"Hello to you too, gorgeous! When did you get back?"
"A few minutes ago--but, listen to me--Jonas Magnussen is here."
"Your Jonas?"
"He's not my Jonas."
"He was your Jonas."
"Well, he's here in Umeå now. I bumped into him at the airport."
"That must have been surreal."
"It was." Mariam admitted. She leaned back in the passenger seat and tried to remember every detail of him. He was older now, obviously. His hair was no longer that silvery blond she remembered from his pre-league days. It had darkened over the years, mellowing into a softer shade more like newly harvested wheat. And his tanned skin didn't hide the faint remnants of bruises from the hit he took in the penultimate game of the championship finals. "I had no clue what to say to him. I just tried to keep my cool."
"How'd that go?"
"Honestly? I don't know. He said he wanted to see me later, if his schedule works out."
"How long is he here?"
"One day. He's here with the Cup."
"Wow...ten years without seeing the one you walked away from and now he's back..."
Mariam muttered a "tell me about it..." and then tried to center herself again. There was no point in testing herself in knots over seeing Jonas. The chances of their pat
hs crossing again were probably nil. He'd be too busy with league business; she had more than enough to do at the Open Arms Relief Centre, the support center for asylum-seeking children she helped run, and now that she was back from visiting her parents she was sure there were plenty of little emergencies to sort out.
"Are you on your way here?"
"Heading home first to drop off my suitcase and change," Mariam watched the taxi cut through Umeå to Fridhem, the quaint neighborhood where Mariam and her family had lived since they'd moved to Sweden from Eritrea. She'd lived there so long that she sometimes could not remember much of their old neighborhood in Asmara. "It shouldn't take too long."
"Good, we've got some surprise visitors coming today."
"Again?"
"Yup. Visit Umeå called and said to expect them in a few hours. They wouldn't say who it was. Probably some politicians. I don't think it's the King and Queen this time."
"So in other words, I shouldn't take a nap after I've showered."
"Nope, just get your ass over here," Åsa said with a hearty laugh.
Mariam couldn't help smiling. "It's good to be home again."
Mariam knew she was lucky. It had been drummed into her even as a child. You are so lucky, Mariam Kidane. Your parents came from a good family and didn't need to stay in a refugee camp. Your father's university studies saved you that indignity. It was the litany she'd heard from relatives and family friends. At school, it was a different story. Those first few winter months in Umeå when it was dark nearly all day and she was longing for the heat of the sun on her face, some of her classmates either asked her if she'd lived in huts with goats or if her parents planned to marry her off to an old man once she was old enough. She'd learned to perfect a bland smile and ignore their questions or answer them without a hint of anger in her voice even though she was livid inside.
