by Chloe Liese
But as I adjusted to the realities of life with arthritis, frigid northeastern weather became painful to contend with. When my dream job located in balmy SoCal fell at my feet, I snatched it up and moved cross-country. And even though saying goodbye to Gabby and Tony, Ma and Nonna hurt like hell, I felt relief. I was no longer a burden or worry. I was a weekly phone call. A bi-annual visit to ensure we didn’t feel totally estranged and to pester me about getting regular X-rays. A country between us, I became a person to them once more.
Since moving here, I’ve made two friends in LA, through water aerobics class and book club, Annie and Lorena. Other than that, my Kings family is my family. Their victories are my victories, and their losses are my losses.
Which is why before every game, I feel as close to shitting myself with nerves as all the guys probably do.
After another trip to the porcelain throne thanks to my anxious tummy, I head into one of the exercise rooms reserved for the visiting team. Everyone’s in various states of physical activity, still in shirts, shorts, and sneakers, warming up their bodies.
“Frank the Tank!” Andy calls.
I salute him, then turn to Tyler who’s doing lateral rotations with a medicine ball. “Johnson. Don’t forget you’re live on Instagram in half an hour.”
Tyler grins. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Schar.” Kris looks up at me while completing hip circles. “Kindly stop engaging the trolls on Twitter. It accomplishes nothing, and Minnesotans hate you.”
He nods.
“Good.” I turn, take a step, then freeze because Jumping Jehoshaphat, Ren Bergman is doing T-stab push-ups.
Shirtless.
Let me help you picture this. You’ll thank me, I promise. It’s a push-up. Until he straightens his arms, and instead of dropping back down for another rep, he swings his arm up to the sky by rotating his waist. It looks like trikonasana for the yoga nerds out there. The key takeaway is, every muscle in that man’s torso, back, shoulders, and arms ripples and knots as he dips, then swings up, dips, then swings up.
My eyes drag down his body, mesmerized by the rhythm of his hips lowering to hover above the floor, before they thrust upward. Thrust up, then down, thrust up, down.
I’m rooted to the floor, hypnotized. As I’ve said, I’ve only seen Ren shirtless a few times. Even while doing dry-land practice, he’s always modest, consistently wearing shirts while exercising.
Today is apparently a day for glorious exceptions. “Lose a shirt, Zenzero?”
Ren freezes mid-push up, which doesn’t help the state of affairs in my panties as his ridiculous triceps pop, along with every muscle in his back. Tonight, I’m wearing my lucky Hedwig boy shorts, meaning, as the Ren Effect takes place, this time it’s Harry’s beloved pet owl that gets caught in the rain.
Finally, Ren straightens and leaps to stand as effortlessly as a big jungle cat. Snatching a towel from nearby, he drags it down his face and chest, then turns and faces me. I startle when I get a look at him. His eyes are glassy, his cheeks pink. Stepping closer, I feel his forehead, before he quickly pulls away.
“You look like shit.” I put the pieces together. “That’s why you’re shirtless. You’re hot with a fever.”
Ren glances over my shoulder at the other guys. I realize too late I wasn’t discreet when I should have been. Another something I’m not stellar at: sensing during conversation when I should be subtle and hush-hush.
“I’m fine,” he says quietly.
“You’re not.” When I reach for him again, he backs away.
“If I’m not, you shouldn’t be touching me. I could get you sick.”
“You won’t get me sick.” Concern knots my stomach. I want to cover him in cold washcloths, ply him with popsicles, and shove his ass into a hotel bed.
“Your meds, Frankie. They weaken your immune system.”
“How do you know that?”
He blinks away. “I-it’s common knowledge.”
“No, it’s not.”
Ren shifts his weight and folds his arms. “Frankie. My dad’s a doctor. My older sister’s a physical therapist. One of my brothers is pre-med. I have to sit at family dinners and listen to them nerd out on anatomy and the latest therapies and pharmacopeia. I know that most RA treatments work by suppressing the immune system, meaning you can get sick easily.”
I stare at him, feeling my heart do a backflip in my chest again. Just like the other night when he gave me the shirt.
“Returning to my point.” Ren clears his throat and gives me a stern look. “You need to stay back. It’s bad enough that we were already in a plane together, you breathing my germs in that godawful recycled air—”
“I’m okay,” I tell him. “I take the world’s largest handful of vitamins every morning. I’m an obsessive hand-washer. I’ll be fine. But you. You look like shit warmed up. Tell Coach you’re out.”
He laughs dryly, moving even further away and lowering his voice. “You’re funny. I’m not out. Give me six to ten feet, Frankie. I’m serious. If I get you sick, I’m going to get cranky.”
“That’s not a disincentive, Bergman. I’d pay a lot to see you get cranky.”
He narrows those cat eyes at me.
“Fine,” I mutter. “But I’m going to sic Howard on you afterward.” Dr. Amy Howard is our head physician, who travels with us. She is zero bullshit, and I love her. If she decides Ren’s sick, she’ll have no problem benching his ass the next game.
“Don’t even think about it,” he says. “I’ll talk to her myself afterward, okay?”
I scowl at him. “Fine.”
For burning with a fever, Ren’s a flipping machine. He already scored in the first period, and he looks poised to score another right as we start the second. I’m wandering my normal haunt near the bench, catching shots with my phone, tweeting, posting on Instagram, engaging in real time with fans and sharing their posts, but my eyes are on Ren, and the rest of the players of course, as much as possible.
Ren streaks after a Wild defender. Right when he could easily crush the guy against the board, Ren instead deftly swipes the puck free and slips past him with it glued to his stick. That’s Ren in a nutshell. Classy. Strategic. Solid. Now, don’t get me wrong, I’ve seen him knock the wind out of a guy against the boards. I’ve watched him throw a shoulder and shove back. But he never seeks violence. He never takes the ice like a man with something to prove. He just plays. Beautifully.
Of all the guys on the team, Ren’s always held my respect the most. He’s a good person, a dependable athlete, a natural but unassuming leader. Yes, he’s annoyingly cheery and polite, but I now understand that’s more a choice to protect his private life, to be a positive presence on the team, than some indicator of a carefree existence.
Since the evening involving one generous adaptive clothing gift and excessive amounts of marijuana, I’ve been spending a lot of time trying not to think about Ren. It’s driving me crazy, but that’s how I work. Ren showed me a new fascinating side of himself. And when I find something that fascinates me, it’s hard for me not to devote inordinate time to it.
Except it is a him. And that’s a problem.
Ren soars across the ice, weaving, dodging, that puck forever anchored to his stick. With his skates on, he’s six foot six, his body powerful, but his grace rivals a figure skater. Deep in our zone, he works the puck, feinting, teasing, dropping the biscuit, then flying around the net. Defenders swarm him, their sticks smacking against his, their bodies diving for checks against the board, but he evades them every time, like a cat slipping through the narrowest opening in a door. It shouldn’t be possible. He shouldn’t be so graceful. But he is.
Ren maintains possession of the puck even while double-teamed, then slips it central to Tyler. Tyler fakes a slapshot, passes it to Rob. Rob has a shit angle for a shot, but Ren swings back around the net just in time for Rob to pass it to him. Ren connects with the puck and curls it effortlessly inside the net.
“Goooooaa
aaalllll!” the announcer shouts.
The buzzer sounds, the light glows red, and we’re all standing, yelling victoriously. With my earplugs in to dull the roar around us, it’s an oddly serene moment, watching fans explode, the swarm of players huddling in celebration. Ren, as always, just lifts his stick, chest bumps his teammates, and skates away. Calm and smiling as ever.
Matt’s not far off on the bench, breathing heavily from his shift, glaring daggers at Ren and Rob. He glances over at me and gives me a stony head-to-toe scan, before he refocuses on the game.
After face-off and in possession of the puck, the Wild sail up the center, but Ren’s racing with them, skating backward like it’s nothing. My body hasn’t moved that effortlessly in so long, but I can almost feel what it would be like, the rhythm as he transfers his weight and cuts across the ice. He’s low, his stick swinging, and when he pokes for the puck, Ren manages to steal it off of the Wild’s player again and break away into the attacking zone. Rob’s trailing right behind him, which of course Ren knows. He pulls right, flicks it to Rob, then slips behind the defender. Rob feints right, then passes it left to Ren, who slap-shots it into the net.
The light beams red, the horn blows, and Rob wraps an arm around Ren’s neck with a proud-papa smile on his face. I catch it on my phone and immediately tweet it.
My eyes traveling down the bench, I see Coach still isn’t smiling, but his usual scowl is nowhere to be seen, which at this point I’ve learned means he’s positively fucking blissed.
Ren crosses the center line and squares up, looking focused and relaxed, like a hat trick in the playoffs is just part of the job. His ruddy red-blond hair curls under his helmet, his beard shines copper behind his mask, and right before the puck drops, Ren glances over at me with those icy eyes and grins.
A flood of warmth pours through my body, cutting the chill that always seeps into my clothes when I’m in the rink.
None of that, Francesca. Don’t make something of this that it isn’t. He smiles at everyone.
But does he smile at them like that? A tiny, preposterous part of me hopes not.
I distract myself from those unsafe thoughts by tweeting the video of Ren’s goal, with a quick caption and the relevant hashtags. When I glance up, Lin’s working on clearing the puck and sends it flying up to Tyler. Tyler dumps it to Ren who charges down the center, dekes, then passes left to Kris. Number 27, who’s been up Ren’s ass the whole game is flying toward Ren from behind, and I have to swallow the impulse to yell, Watch out!
Lifting his stick, 27 deals a brutal hit to Ren from behind. Ren surges forward and smashes into the boards, his head connecting with the plexi and bouncing back, too loose and unanchored for my comfort. I gasp as he drops to the ice like a felled tree.
A good portion of the crowd boos as the whistle is blown. Coach and half the team are screaming, the noise dulled by my earplugs, as if in a faraway tunnel.
“Illegal hit!”
“Dangerous play!”
“Throw him out!”
Noise fades even further until I only hear my pulse. My nails dig into my palms as I stare at Ren’s immobile body. Anxiety, my old familiar friend, creeps up my spine, making my legs weak. I drop onto the end of the bench, my eyes glued to Ren.
My breath echoes in my ears. I use yoga breathing, long, slow inhales and exhales through my nose. The pound of my heart slows marginally, but my hands are shaking badly. I shove them between my knees and focus on my breathing some more.
He’s okay. He’ll be all right.
Anger chases anxiety, tearing through my system. I squeeze my phone, flagrantly ignoring my job for the moment. I don’t want to tweet or reassure fans. I want to run out on that ice and punch 27 right in the face.
The ref’s bent over Ren, who’s out cold, his body splayed helplessly while his arm juts at an unnatural angle. Amy heads out on the ice and is soon hovering over him, too. He doesn’t move. There’s no sigh of relief or consciousness. Just ringing, frightening silence.
Then comes the thing I hate to see. The stretcher on wheels. EMTs shuffle out, quickly stabilizing Ren’s neck while leaving his helmet on, and carefully transferring his massive body to the stretcher. Everyone stands in the arena and claps as he’s wheeled out. As Amy passes by with him, I see his eyes are shut, his mouth slack. I wipe my nose and feel wetness on my cheeks. When I lick my lips, I taste salt.
Fucking fish sticks. I’m crying. I don’t cry. Well, not often. Never publicly.
Andy pats my shoulder gently, and I rip out an earplug. “What?” I say sharply.
He’s used to my prickly delivery, so he simply pats my shoulder once again and says, “Don’t worry, Frankie. Ren’s unbustable. He’ll be fine.”
I watch Ren’s skates disappear from view as he’s wheeled away. “I hope so.”
I’ll be the first one to admit that for the rest of the game, I do a rare shitty job at in-game social media. I’m distracted, my fingers slower than normal. I keep fucking up tweets, and my pictures are shit. I use the wrong hashtags, and I can’t stop glancing over my shoulder, hoping Amy comes out and ends my worry before I give myself an ulcer.
She doesn’t.
Though I’m worried about Ren, this isn’t my first season up close with professional hockey, and I know that in all likelihood, he’s going to be okay. If something unthinkable happened, I’d know by now. I comfort myself with that bit of rationality as I focus on the post-game necessities. We won, though only because of the goals Ren gave us.
“Frankie,” Rob calls from his side of the locker room.
I weave my way through the guys, careful not to catch my cane on a rogue skate lace or piece of clothing. When I get to Rob, I feel winded with anxiety. This has to be about Ren. At least I hope it is. “Yes?”
“He woke up,” Rob says.
“Concussion?”
He sighs. “Seems so, yeah.”
“Shit.” That means Ren’s out for the next few games, at least.
“Hurt his shoulder, too, but he’s okay.”
“His shoulder? Does he need surgery? Is he—”
“Hey. Take a breath. He’s all right.” Rob gently squeezes my arm. “See? Behind that grumpy front is a soft heart that cares about us.”
I scowl at him. “Don’t let word get around.”
Rob grins. “Your secret’s safe with me.” When I make to turn away, Rob stops me. “I actually called you over because he asked for you.”
“What?” Ren asked for me?
“Just go see him. Humor the guy. He’s with Amy, and he’s comically disoriented.”
“That’s not very reassuring.”
He chuckles as he yanks off his jersey. “Come on. He’s always so well-behaved. Ren unfiltered is a rare treat. You should be thanking me.”
Grumbling, I stroll down the hall, take a few turns, and find my way. Ren’s propped up on an angled mattress, an IV, which I hope is just saline, in his arm. Amy’s chatting with Coach. They don’t notice when I walk in. But Ren does.
“Francesca.” He flashes a big, wide grin. Like a Loony Tunes big, wide grin. Holding up the arm that’s not bound in a sling, he waves.
Okay, then. There’s clearly something else in that IV drip.
“Francesca,” he says again, his eyes tracking me as I walk up to him. Nobody has the balls to call me by my full name. I made it very clear to everyone that my name is Frankie. But if anyone could get away with it, it’s concussed, delirious Ren. It helps that I have his full name to wield in retribution, too.
“Søren.” God, I love his name. It’s more Swedish than IKEA. Rather fun fact, his spelling is actually Danish. Being a bit of a foreign languages and linguistics lover—it’s a special interest of mine—I can tell you that ø is not in the Swedish alphabet. On one of our many flights, Ren told me its spelling was debated extensively between his Swedish mother’s preference for Sören and his American father’s love of the Danish philosopher Søren Kierkegaard.
Obviou
sly, no one’s wondering where Ren gets his dorkdom. Ren’s naming process involved an existentialist theologian and multilingual debate. Pretty sure my parents just pulled an Italian name out of a hat and threw it at me.
“Got yourself good and banged up, there, huh?” I ask.
His eyes dart over my face. “Uh-huh. But I didn’t piss myself, and I know my birthday, so Amy said I’ll be okay.”
At hearing her name, Amy breaks her conversation with Coach and smiles at Ren. “Oh, he’s in rare form right now. Had to give him Percocet for his shoulder.”
“No social media!” Coach warns.
I lift my hands, demonstrating my innocence. “Not a camera in sight, I promise.” I glance at Ren. “You needed a narcotic for a bruised shoulder?”
“Give him some credit,” Amy says gently. “It’s slightly separated, and that hurts like hell.” She leans in and grins. “He also passed out when I inserted his IV.”
“Wow, Judas.” He narrows his eyes at her, then turns back toward me. “Redheads have been scientifically proven to need higher doses of pain relief, Francesca. We’re sensitive.”
“I’m teasing you, Ren the Red. I can’t imagine how much it hurts. That check was dangerously late and high.”
Coach grunts in agreement as he swigs from his water bottle. “Absolute bullshit. Glad they threw him out.” Patting Ren’s good shoulder, he tosses his water bottle in the recycling bin. “Time to round up the boys. Take it easy, Bergman. You did good, as always.”
“Thanks, Coach.”
When the door bangs shut, Ren clasps my hand suddenly, fingers curling around it. “Francesca, pay attention. This is important.”
He’s like a kid right now. Wide-eyed and deeply sincere. I let myself stare at his features, knowing he probably won’t remember. His hand holding mine feels oddly familiar. It’s warm and heavy, the scrape of his callouses soothing my skin.
