She laughs. “My prudish friend.”
“I can’t argue that,” I counter.
“Okay. I’m glad we had time to talk. This weekend is going to be hectic. My dad is staying with us and Mom is checked into a hotel in the city. They’re coming to dinner tonight. Do you think you want to come? Your fake boyfriend will be there.”
“Do you invite him for every family thing you do?” I ask.
“Yes, hon. I’ve always wanted to invite you, too, but I knew he was a sore spot for you. Though, now that you two are a fake couple, it totally works,” she says, and I ponder her words.
“I’m not sure how to act around the rest of the gang. This thing with Nils is new.”
“It will be fine. I wouldn’t be surprised if Nils told Oli, Myles, and Dave. They’re good guys; they would take his secret to the grave,” she says.
“It would be a relief if they knew,” I admit.
“Either way, you’re in. Right?” she asks, and Quinn’s whining becomes louder.
“I’m in. Thanks for including me.”
“Mom also really liked you,” she adds. Oh dear. I hope I’m not put on Mata duty again.
“Your mom is sweet,” I say, through clenched teeth.
She scoffs. “Always so polite. Mom was high as a kite at the rehearsal. I’m expecting the same thing tonight. Please don’t let her convince you to get high with her.”
“You know it isn’t my thing,” I assure her.
“Right, okay,” she answers.
“Bye, babe.”
“Bye.”
I’m about to hang up when Sloane shouts, “Just try not to think of his big stick too much.”
My eyes become round saucers. “You’re a terrible person. You know that?”
She knows I’m playing with her, but I don’t exactly want to be thinking of Nils and his big stick every time I look at him.
“I’m bad to the bone,” she says. “Bye, again.”
She ends the call.
She leaves me thinking of a hot Swedish player with a big stick.
Ten
Nils
I’m driving to the arena when my phone rings. I press the answer button on my steering wheel without looking at the number.
“Heellooo,” I say.
“Nils, good. I’m glad I caught you. This is Fisher,” he says. Just great. It isn’t even nine a.m. yet and I have to deal with anger management.
“Hi, Fisher. ”
“I was thinking . . .”
I keep my sarcasm to myself. “I’m all ears.”
“Coach sent me some of the games from last season. I just wanted to get the gist of what angers you, and why you tend to fight on the ice.”
“Okayyyy.”
“I also asked Coach if you get along with your teammates and it seems that you do. In fact, he says you’re close friends with a lot of them,” he continues.
I want to ask him if it’s professional of him to check up on me behind my back, but I hold my tongue. “I do get along with them.”
“So, you get angry with people from other teams?”
I snicker. “That’s usually the case with hockey.”
“I understand that, but you fight more than your team mates and it seems according to the footage I’ve seen that you take the fights a little too far.”
He has a point. I get angry and see black. My adrenaline spikes and I lose control. Admitting those words out loud is too hard. “I fight with assholes. It’s not me who takes things too far.” My words carry no conviction. They are a copout.
“I watched your plays. I’ve watched you fight. You don’t like when other players try to intimidate you. And I get that because no one likes it. But what strikes me as odd is that players on other teams know, and please excuse my analogy, that you are a hot head,” he says. Fucking hell. “They try to draw reaction penalties out of you and you fall for it every time,” he says. Anger builds in my chest, as my blood runs faster through my veins, feeding the anger inside me.
“Look doc. . . “ I grit my jaw, trying to stop the expletive words trying to escape me. “I don’t need some fucking know it all to tell me I’m a fucking idiot. I know that some players have beef with me. I’m a strong player and it’s to their benefit to get me in that penalty box. Problem is that I fucking love the high of a fight. I like defending my teammates, knowing that I can. I don’t put up with any shit because I don’t have to.” I grip the steering wheel in a vise grip and quickly glance in the rearview mirror. My face is beat red.
“You’ve still got to learn to rein in your anger,” he says.
I know that, Einstein. “I’m short-fused. Doesn’t take much to set me off.”
“Why do you think that is?”
“Um . . . well, my dad has a short temper. Used to get drunk and slap my mom around. He was abusive to me, too. Probably get my short-circuit from him,” I say.
“Did he hit you, Nils?” His voice softens.
My jaw is about to snap, it’s wound so tight. “Yes,” I answer firmly. “Hitting wasn’t always enough. He poured boiling water on me once when he was angry, and he put a few cigarettes out on my arm.” I laugh it off. Maybe because I am surprised I just said those words out loud. I’ve never gone into detail about the abuse before.
“Sorry. That sounds terrible,” he says softly.
“It was. It’s not something I like to talk about or remember,” I say curtly, feeling sweaty and anxious.
“Did you ever witness your father hitting your mother?” he asks.
My patience is waning. I’ve had fucking enough of this conversation. I take a deep intake of breath. My fucking job is on the line. “Many times,” I answer, grinding my jaw. My blood boils at the memory.
“And how did it make you feel?”
“Fucking angry,” I grit out. “Fuck. It doesn’t take a genius to put two and two together.” The minute the words leave my mouth, I instantly regret them. “Shit. I’m sorry.”
I apologize, not only because my job is on the line, but because I’m not blind to see what he just did there.
“You aren’t angry because you got genes from your dad. You’re angry because you felt helpless when your dad hit you and your mom.”
“If you say so.” My harsh grip on the steering wheel loosens and I stretch my neck from side to side. “Shit, doc, this is a little intense for a morning call. I’m driving.”
“I’m glad we cracked your code. How about you come to my office early Monday morning and we talk about those feelings some more?”
“My good friend is getting married this weekend. Is it possible we make the appointment for Tuesday instead?”
“You got it. See you then, Nils. Don’t be so hard on yourself. We’re going to get you under control faster than you think,” he says.
His words bring me some relief, like a heavy weight has lifted from my chest. He’s a professional and he doesn’t think I’m a lost cause.
“Enjoy the wedding,” he says.
“Thanks, Fisher. Bye now,” I croak.
“Bye.”
He ends the call and I head into practice.
As I get ready for dinner at Oli and Sloane’s tonight, I remember that I need to call Sierra. She doesn’t have my number, and it’s not like she would call me anyway. She tolerates me because she needs the money, which makes me feel bad because it was never my intention to take advantage of her bad situation. And maybe a part of me remembered our first fake relationship and I wanted to feel just a small piece of the serenity I felt when we hung out together back in the day.
“Hello,” I say.
“Nils,” she says, sounding unhappy to hear my voice.
I chuckle. “Don’t sound too excited there.”
“Sorry. Hi, Nils,” she repeats, sounding chipper.
“Okay, cut the crap. You don’t like me, I get it. Oli mentioned that you’re coming to dinner tonight. Do you need a ride?” I ask.
“That would be great, thank you. My
car is spending the weekend at the mechanic.”
“No problem. Does an hour work?” I ask.
“I’ll be ready,” she says. A male voice laughing in the background causes my blood to boil.
“Who is that?” I ask too quickly. Shit! I don’t need her thinking I care if she has a guy over. Maybe she decided to hook up on the side and be discreet. My gut churns at the idea.
“It’s Sunny’s boyfriend. He’s over here a lot.”
“Right, okay.” I rake my fingers through my wet hair. “See you in an hour then.”
I stop at the grocery store to pick up chocolate and flowers. Might as well start off as the model fake boyfriend.
Reaching her door, I’m internally laughing at myself. I’m not a chocolate and flowers kind of guy.
A pretty blonde opens the door. Her jaw drops.
“Holy shit,” she says, and smacks a hand over her lips.
“What is it, babe?” A guy says from behind the blonde. He makes his way to the door.
“Holy shit,” he says. “Nils fucking Karlsson. What an honor.” He extends a hand to shake mine.
“Nice to meet you. Sorry, I have my hands full.” I smirk.
“I’m Sunny, Sierra’s roommate. This is my boyfriend Declan.”
“Good to meet you both.” I nod.
“Sierra,” she shouts. “Nils Karlsson is here.”
It’s funny how she says my full name.
Sierra walks toward me, and my eyes rake over her body, clad in a tight pair of black jeans and a red loose tank top. It hides the size of her boobs, but I like that it’s modest. She pushes her glasses up her nose, and my heart does this funny thing in my chest.
Her warm hazel eyes gleam as she takes in the chocolate and flowers. “Thank you so much. This is so sweet.” She bats her lashes and gives me a peck on the cheek. She’s a bad actress. I’m wondering if her friend Sunny can tell, too.
She walks into the kitchen wearing a pair of heels, and her ass sways with the movement. I force my eyes back up to a respectable level. A moment later, she walks back to the door.
“All ready,” she says, grabbing her purse off a hook at the front entrance.
“You two have fun.” Sunny smiles wide. Declan’s arm rests on her shoulder.
“I just want to say I’m a huge fan.” He waves his other hand in the air.
“Thank you,” I smile to him and shake his hand, then Sunny’s. “It was nice meeting you. Have a good night.”
The door closes, and I offer Sierra my hand. She just looks at it.
“What?” I ask.
“What?” she repeats. “There’s no one in the hall watching us.” She walks toward the elevator.
I roll my eyes. She’s become one sassy chick. I’m digging it.
“Your roommate seems nice,” I say. Can you maybe show the same enthusiasm she just did toward me?
She nods. “Sunny is great. She’s younger but totally responsible and easy to live with.”
“Cool.”
We head out to my Tesla Roadster.
“Whoa. Nice ride, Nils,” she says, sounding impressed.
“Thanks, it’s my contribution to saving the environment and I do enjoy driving her.” Another indulgence to make myself feel good. Now, I wonder if dumping so much cash into a car was smart. What if my hockey career ends next week?
I open the passenger door for her and she gets in the car. I walk around the car and get in.
I pull into traffic. “Did you give her a name?” she asks, pulling me from my thoughts. Her wide grin eases the tension I feel inside.
“No. I’m not into naming cars,” I say.
“What are you into then?” she asks. She looks at me like she’s genuinely interested.
“Hockey is number one, but that’s obvious. I play some golf in the off-season. I ended up switching my major to math after you left.”
“You did?”
“My English was shit. Without you helping me, I would have never made it. Math is a universal language; it’s straightforward. It makes sense, if you know what I mean?”
“I actually do. I take math courses as part of my Bachelor of Architecture. The calculus always gets me—that and all the computer science courses.”
“I can definitely help you with Calculus. At least, I can if I’m in town,” I say.
“Right. What happens when you’re not in town? Am I still obligated to give you three dates?” she asks. Her words feel like a sword through the heart. Why I want her to really care is beyond me.
“Yes, we can make those dates into phone calls.” Since we’re stopped at a red light, I take a minute to look at her, my right brow cocked in challenge.
“Fair enough,” she agrees. “But what will we talk about? It’s not like we are really dating.” This woman . . . she frustrates me.
“You should really stop mentioning the fake aspect of our relationship. If the public is going to buy into us as a couple, we need to get to know each other.” The light turns green and I drive.
My eyes dart quickly from the road and meet hers. “I told Sloane about our little arrangement,” she blurts.
My brows practically hit my forehead. “Seriously? Not cool.” I’m just playing with her.
“Shoot, I’m sorry, Nils. I had to tell someone, and I knew I could trust Sloane.” Her tone is so apologetic as she squirms in her seat.
I laugh.
“What’s so funny?”
“Myles and Oli know too, which means that Flynn knows. We have a lot of people in the know right now. They’re like my family and I trust them but please don’t tell anyone else.”
She punches me in the arm.
“Ow.” I use one hand to rub my arm. “Don’t you know it’s unsafe to hit a person while driving?”
“That’s what you get for making me feel bad,” she says, and I quickly glance to see her pouty lips turned down. That mouth of hers looks luscious. I fantasize about her sliding over the console and pressing those luscious lips of hers to mine.
“Sorry, babe,” I say.
“What in ever-loving hell, Nils? Do not call me babe. I’m not one of your whores.” She scoffs, sits back in her seat, and shakes her head repeatedly.
“Sorry. I need a term of endearment. For the record, I know you aren’t a whore. Far from it. I respect you, Sierra. I want you to know that,” I say, and I watch her shiver for the briefest of moments.
I pull into Oli and Sloane’s driveway. I walk around the car to open Sierra’s door but she beats me to it and leaves the car. We walk to the door side by side and she rings the doorbell, but no one comes to answer the door.
“Sloane said dinner was tonight, right?” Sierra turns to me and asks.
“Definitely.”
After we wait a few minutes, Oli finally comes to the door cradling a crying Quinn. His hair is mussed and he has spit up on his dark shirt.
“Hey. Come in,” he says, rocking the baby back and forth.
“Hey.” I give him a half bro hug and smile to the crying baby. She looks at me and stops crying. “Hey there, Quinn,” I coo. I’m not good at baby stuff but I’ve watched my friends interact with their kids before, and it seems that making little funny voices works. Oli gives Sierra a peck on the cheek.
“Glad you could make it,” he says to her sounding out of breath.
“Thank you.” She smiles. “Hi, Quinn.” Sierra takes the baby’s hand. Quinn smiles at her, too.
Oli’s brows furrow and he looks down at his baby girl. “Seriously? You stop crying for them?” he says, and he turns her, so she is upright and facing me.
I take her hand, bounce it up and down. Quinn gives me a giggle. “What can I say? I’m good with the ladies.”
“No way my girl is ever going to date a hockey player.” Oli scoffs.
“Yeah, man.” I nod. “Can’t say I blame you on that.”
“Follow me,” he says. We follow him to the kitchen. They moved to this mansion three months ago, since Oli’
s apartment was cramped with all the baby toys they’d bought Quinn.
“Oh hey, Nils, Sierra,” Sloane says, walking over and giving me a peck on the cheek and Sierra a hug. She dashes back to the stove where she has lots of pots full of bubbling liquids. One of them is boiling over.
“Shit,” she curses.
“Baby, we got to stop with that,” Oli says.
“Don’t start parenting me now. The guests are starting to arrive, and dinner isn’t fully cooked,” Sloane says. She looks like she is sweating. Her short hair stuck to her face like she just finished a workout.
“Sorry, man. I told her to hire waitresses and order catering, but she refused. Would you mind holding Quinn so I can help out?” Oli asks.
“Um . . . me?” I turn around to see if he meant Sierra. He surely wouldn’t want me to hold his cute little baby.
“Nils.” His voice is distressed. “Please.”
“Oh, okay. Sure, yeah . . .” He passes Quinn, but it’s awkward, because where do my hands go?
Oli moves my hands. “Just like that. She should be comfortable. If she gets tired, she likes to be turned around so her head is on your shoulder.”
“Ookay.” I hold little Quinn facing outward. “What now?”
The doorbell rings.
“I’ll get it,” Sierra chimes.
I stand off to the side. Oli has a pot in his hand that’s boiling over and he’s walking it to the sink. I’ve time-warped onto another planet.
“Maybe take her over to the couch,” Oli suggests. “She has a bunch of toys in the family room.
I feel nervous about dropping her. I head over to the family room, where a chair thing, play mat and swing, along with other little toys, takes up most of the floor space. I lean forward and try to place Quinn in the chair that has dolls hanging in an arch above it, but the minute she leaves my arms she begins to wail.
“Okay, okay.” I pick her back up and do a rocking dance.
“OMG, you’re so adorable. This reminds me of that Friends episode where Ross and Rachel sing ‘Baby Got Back’ to baby Emma,” Sierra says, smiling wide her voice too excited. At least she’s happy about something. She starts to rap those infamous lyrics while shaking her fine behind.
Dirty Swedish Player: A Big Stick Novel Page 8
