Hot on Ice: A Hockey Romance Anthology

by Avery Flynn

  "So where to now?" Edward didn't sound the least bit amused. Jonas didn't blame him. So far, the carefully planned schedule for the Cup was going to hell in a hand basket. The printout of it was nearly illegible, covered in cross-outs and notes. Eddy had gone back to the iPad version of it now, but it too was proving unruly and hard to follow thanks to the stream of constant messages and reminders from the team's owner and GM.

  "You said we had something planned at a youth center," Jonas rotated his left shoulder. "You didn't cancel it, did you?"

  "No... why? Do I have to make another change?"

  "No, let's head there now."

  Jonas pretended not to see the relieved expression on Edward's face. Trying to keep track of all the planned events and adding the impromptu ones probably wasn't the easiest job in the world. Ed had to go everywhere with the Cup and couldn't let it out his sight. So far, Ed hadn't complained much but he'd made a few comments about how some of the players were acting like this was a pussy tour and not a Cup tour. Well, Jonas wasn't chasing tail. Sure, he wanted to reconnect with Mariam, but this wasn't some one-night stand scenario. And he wasn't really obligated to do anything, was he? Jonas could always walk away from it when he wanted to do something else.

  The driver had already turned the car around and was heading back toward the city. They passed a tributary of the Ume that Jonas and his friends used to call Dead Man's Creek. They'd loved skating when the water froze over. It was where he'd first learned how to play hockey with his older cousins and some boys from the neighborhood. In summer, it was everyone's favorite place to take a dip and escape the summer heat.

  "Did you find out where she is?" Edwin was still tapping at his tablet screen.

  "I did. And we're heading there now."

  "I thought we weren't taking any detours."

  "We're not," Jonas confirmed. "She's at the center. She runs it."

  4

  Mariam

  Mariam checked the figure one more time. Someone had made a huge donation to the center anonymously. She suspected it was from her parents again. She'd have to call them and remind them they didn't have to keep doing this, even if it did take a heavy load off Mariam's shoulders.

  She went through the list of monthly donors--most were small amounts, not more than perhaps 300 or 400 kronor each, but the people of Umeå were doing what they could to help care for these children even when certain politicians from the far-right party were hell-bent on sending them back to God knew what. They claimed the children who lived there now, who were learning Swedish and who had finally stopped worrying if bombs would fall on them at night, were terrorists. None of those politicians had ever stepped foot in the center or tried to meet the children. The prime minister, a Social Democrat, had come several times, as had the Minister of Education and the Minister for Justice and Migration. They appreciated Mariam's initiative, even when parts of the population thought these children were a burden, were someone else's burden.

  Åsa worked beside her, typing furiously on her keyboard while keeping a running stream of conversation. Her short blonde hair was even lighter now that the summer weather was in full force. Like Mariam, she'd spent long days outside with the children, playing soccer, leading nature hikes in the forest, or teaching the younger children to ride bikes. Åsa had also left behind a successful career in Stockholm as a creative director for a global advertising agency to devote her time to the center. Sometimes Mariam wondered if they were both crazy--walking away from what everyone said were dream careers to devote everything to the Open Arms Centre and its uncertain future. And its future was pretty uncertain. They had to rely on the donations they received and the fickle funding from the EU and Swedish government. But this new donation...was a game changer.

  "Did you see this, Åsa?" Mariam wondered. With the printout of that month's donations in her hand, she crossed the room and sat on the edge of Åsa's desk. "Take a look at the one I circled."

  "Sweet Jesus, am I dreaming? One million US dollars?" Åsa blurted out the words and then laughed. "This is real? The check didn't bounce?"

  "It looks like it was an electronic fund transfer," Mariam said. "And according to the time stamp, it plopped into the center’s account...twenty minutes ago. I thought it was from my parents...but that amount? I don't think so."

  "Your parents are generous to a fault, but I don't think they'd drop that sort of money on us in one go."

  "No, neither do I. I don’t even think that they have that kind of money to throw around. It was anonymous donor."

  "Well, thank you very much, Sir or Madam Anonymous Donor."

  "What time is it?"

  "It's almost one o'clock, why?"

  "We've got that special visitor coming..." Åsa reminded. "In fact, it's someone we used to know well."

  "Who is it this time?"

  "A hockey player who used to live here." The teasing tone in Åsa's voice caught Mariam's attention. She "And you used to date him."

  "Jonas Magnussen." His name slipped between her lips so easily. She swallowed hard.

  Åsa checked the schedule on her computer screen. "Yup, that's the one. Your Jonas..."

  "He's coming here?" Mariam felt all the color drain from her face as a flock of butterflies took flight inside her. This had to be a joke. He wouldn't really come here, would he?

  "Yes, like I said... we're giving him a tour of the center and then he's bringing some cup and having snacks with the kids... What's wrong? I thought you'd be pleased. Free publicity for the center, maybe we'll get some international donations..."

  "I-I'm just shocked, that's all. He's a pretty big name."

  "He is." Åsa agreed. "I didn't think you'd get so nervous. I thought you were over him after all these years."

  "I am over him," Mariam retired quickly. "We were kids back then. We didn't know anything about love."

  "Who does when they're nineteen? I sure didn't." Åsa shrugged. But his coming here is great for us--maybe we can get him to do a commercial or an ad to help us... a little free publicity. And who knows? Maybe you two will take a trip down memory lane."

  "You're insane," Mariam laughed. "He's here to show off the Cup, not reconnect with me."

  "But you saw him at the airport," Åsa waggled her index finger at Mariam. "And you told me he wanted to see you again....to catch up. Anything's possible, right?"

  "You know what? We should get ready, shouldn't we?" Before Åsa could go on, Mariam stalked back to her side of the office and straightened up her desk. She reached for her handbag and found her compact. One look in the small mirror told her she looked okay, though a little lipstick, maybe mascara wouldn't have been wrong.

  No... she thought. What am I doing? He's here to see the kids, not me.

  Their receptionist buzzed them and announced, "Our guest just pulled up. Are you two coming?"

  Åsa pressed the buzzer and confirmed, "We're on our way now." She turned to Mariam. "I'm not letting you off the hook, you know that don't you? I want the full story later on."

  "Hush, Åsa..." But she knew her friend would not forget. Once Jonas was gone, Åsa would not let her get away with brushing off that juicy of a story.

  Mariam strode forward, channeling her inner lioness. It was a trick she'd learned from her grandmother--one of the fiercest women she knew--so many years ago. Never let them see you feeling doubtful or nervous, she would have said if she were there. No, that won't do. Mariam straightened her shoulders. If she was going to come face-to-face with Jonas for the second time in one day she wouldn't be caught off guard as she had been at the airport.

  He'd already been shown to the center’s courtyard, a makeshift garden that Mariam and some of the children had taken on as their own pet project. Jonas was bending down, listening to Josef and Zsosa as they pointed out different plants and flowerbeds. The security guards who'd accompanied him at the airport were looming near the Cup, which has been set on a low table by the doors leading out to the garden. A bespectacled man busied
himself with polishing the cup while a trio of the younger children sat giggling and watching him. The photographers she'd remembered from the airport were also there, their camera lenses already trained on Jonas and capturing these candid moments with the children.

  He was so at ease with them. He didn't talk to them like their limited skills in Swedish were a hindrance or an annoyance. Instead, he knelt with them—gingerly she noted, was his leg still bothering him? — and listened to the kids as they explained how they took care of their garden and how much they liked living in Umeå.

  "Do you live here too?" Zsosa asked in her halting Swedish. At six, she was one of the youngest children at the center. She'd arrived in Sweden with her ten-year-old brother and had been at the center now for close to six months. She handed Jonas a watering can. "The sun hats need water too."

  "Sun hats?" Jonas asked. He followed Zsosa as she showed him which flowers were what she called 'sun hats'. Once she'd pointed them out, he took the watering can and began pouring water on the plants. When he stood to his full height again, Josef and Zsosa took his hands and pulled him forward, giving him an impromptu tour of the garden. His interest and enthusiasm for everything they showed him was genuine. He didn't do as some of the politicians did when they showed up and pretend they were listening while talking over the children. Instead, he asked them questions and encouraged them to show him more of the garden and the other projects they were working on.

  The children loved having Jonas there. They clustered around him, asking questions about hockey and Josef especially seemed charmed by the idea of being a hockey star. “Do Syrians play hockey?” he asked Jonas. “I have never seen a Syrian hockey player.”

  “Hockey’s for everyone,” was Jonas’s reply. “If you want to play hockey, then you should. I’ll bet you would be a great hockey player.”

  Josef’s pensive expression made Mariam smile. He and Zsosa were her favorites, even if she loved all of the kids who called Open Arms their temporary home. He was always so serious. Even now, he seemed to be formulating a plan for how to become a hockey player, though he didn’t know very much about the sport.

  Mariam tried not to break into a smile. She followed their progress, waiting to approach them when they came to a stop at the makeshift soccer pitch at the bottom of the garden. A group of the older children had already started a game. When one of the girls scored a goal, Jonas cheered her on. He applauded and whistled, even managed to get the very serious Josef to laugh and cheer more like a kid than the mini-adult he sometimes seemed to be. She approached them with the same determined purpose as before and waved at Josef and Zsosa. Then she greeted Jonas with "Welcome to Open Arms."

  Jonas met her halfway. He disarmed her with a sexy smile—was she imagining her heart beating just a little faster? —and extended his hand to her. "Hi again."

  "I see you met our two unofficial tour guides." Mariam

  "Could you two turn this way?" One of the photographers asked. This was what Mariam had forgotten about--with each famous visitor, there was always the group of bossy photographers, demanding certain shots. She pivoted toward the photographer and ignored Åsa giving her the thumbs up from behind him. Jonas moved closer to her. She hadn't expected him to place his hand on her back. It was all so innocent--his palm rested on the space between her shoulder blades, but the heat of his touch seemed to brand her. She tried to focus on the questions the reporter from Dagens Nyheter was directing at her, but she was so attuned to Jonas's touch that she nearly stumbled in answering.

  "How long have you had this center, Mariam?"

  "I... I took over the running of it a few months ago, but the center’s been around for at least three years."

  Get yourself together, she reminded herself. If her grandmother were still alive, she would be shaking her head disdainfully at Mariam, letting a man get the best of her. She shifted her weight to her left foot, moving slightly away from him, but his palm still rested on her back. Now it glided downwards, slowly. She flicked a cautioning look at him but he was smiling at the reporter, reminding her that, yes, he and Mariam went way back, that they were old friends.

  Old friends.

  After ten years of no contact, of moving on with other people, yes...she supposed they could call each other old friends. Before they'd dated, they'd been friends. She'd nearly married someone else. He had too. She'd heard it through the grapevine. Funny, they'd both called off their engagements at nearly the same time.

  "Mariam, what do you think of your old friend's accomplishments?"

  "I'm very happy for him, naturally." She kept her smile fixed on her lips. How long this would go on? She knew she needed to give him a tour of the center, but his nearness...the woody-citrusy cologne he wore intoxicated her. The closer she stood to him, the more she had to resist the urge to wrap her arms around his waist and breathe in the scent of him. His hand slid round to her waist and he breath caught in her throat. That slow trail his palm has traced from her shoulders to her waist tingled from his touch. When he pulled her closer, she didn't resist.

  "Back when Jonas first joined the league, the two of you dated—"

  "We were kids," Mariam said. She felt her smile faltering. She didn't want to talk about their past with this prying reporter—even if I meant good news copy that would help the center. Beside her, Jonas tensed a little. Was he also dreading the direction of the questions?

  "Mariam was right to focus on her career," Jonas took over, his voice not betraying his reluctance to broach that forbidden topic. "She's done amazing things with her life since then—we both have. She's an incredible woman."

  Mariam tried not to react to his compliments. She knew how well he'd been schooled by the hockey league's PR machine. She'd seen how well he slid into the TV-friendly version of Jonas Magnussen in so many interviews over the years. The halting awkwardness had been honed into what some saw as a flirtatious game of playing hard to get. The easy smile that never quite reached his ice blue eyes, the casual way of raking his hair back from his face that was a nervous tic Mariam knew too well from when he'd first begun getting media attention and the way his thumb still tapped nervously... no one ever noticed it anymore, but she knew.

  Now she jumped in again, saving him just as he'd saved her. "It's not every day we get a visit from a champion, is it?" And the kids who'd all gathered now in the courtyard began cheering for Jonas and clustering around the Cup. It was enough of a distraction that the photographers began focusing on the children instead.

  "Thanks," Jonas murmured. "I didn't want them to rake you over the coals about...everything."

  "We were kids," she whispered back.

  "In a matter of speaking, yeah." She thought he would let his hand drop away from her waist, but he kept it there, his fingers spanning now and keeping her close. She'd forgotten how nice it felt to be held by him. She looped her arm around his waist too. They were friends, they could do this without it meaning anything, couldn't they?

  While the photographers and reporters began peppering the children with questions under Åsa's watchful supervision, Jonas leaned in and pressed a brief kiss to Mariam's cheek. "Can I see you later?"

  "I don't know..."

  "I don't want to reminisce with you with everyone watching us."

  "Neither do I," she conceded.

  "Then let's meet later. " His words caressed her, undulating along the curve of her neck and trailing down her spine. "There are so many things I want to say to you."

  Before she could even respond, some of the children approached Jonas and asked if they could take a picture with him and the Cup.

  "Anything for you guys" was his response and Mariam...she couldn't help it. That fluttery excitement of her youth--it was back.

  She barely noticed Åsa joining her. If she had, she would have noted her friend's "I told you so" expression. But now she didn't care. Watching Jonas ham it up with her kids reminded her of why she'd wanted to work here instead of in a soulless office in Stockholm,
trawling through files for cases that inevitably were settled before they ever made it to a courtroom. Making these kids smile again and reminding them there was a life that wasn't riddled with war...the laughter and squeals of delight he elicited from them even reminded Mariam of why she'd fallen in love with him so many years ago on that night when he'd taught her to ice skate.

  "You're hooked again, admit it." Åsa didn't bother to couch her assertion as a question.

  "He's good with the kids."

  "You two still look good together."

  "Åsa..." she warned, but there was no censure really behind her warning. She stole another glance at him. Despite his injured shoulder, he was taking turns lifting the younger children so they could get a closer look at the cup. Some of them reached out to touch the shining surface of the legendary trophy.

  "Don't 'Åsa' me," her colleague laughed. "You two are practically eye-fucking so I know that the feeling is mutual."

  "You're insufferable."

  "True. It's one of the reasons why we've been friends for so long," Åsa reminded Mariam as they followed the gravel path that would take them even closer to the children and the towering presence of the Cup...and Jonas. "I say what you wish you'd say."

  Mariam gave her friend a sly side-eye, but she couldn't contradict her. What was the point when she spoke the truth?

  Even now, she felt how Jonas was watching her, and when she noticed him wince a few times, she reminded the children that Jonas might be tired from his long flight, that perhaps it was time to show him the inside of the center.

  "No running, though," she reminded them as the children pulled him inside. The photographers followed too, each eager to get the money shot while their sparse staff and one of the guards made up the tail end of the entourage. The other guard stayed behind with the man who'd introduced himself as the Keeper of the Cup.