“Your father and I used to talk at two in the morning. That was back when calling was expensive, but nights and weekends were free.”
“Okay, nowthatisn’t helpful,” Dad says, and then it’s Mom’s turn to tut.
I place my empty glass back down on the table, and Dad fills it up again without any hesitation. “Look, I can’t quit cold turkey, but it’s been a week.”
“Yeah, it’s still fresh for you two. As harsh as it sounds, one of you will lose your feelings first, and that’ll make it easier for the other to follow.”
Dad’s tough truth makes my insides knot up. The thought of Erik grumbling at my texts is hard to swallow, but for me to dismiss him like that? Or worse, ignore him? Getannoyedby him? That’s straight up unimaginable. My brain rejects the notion the same way it rejects an intrusive thought like driving my car into a snowbank.
I can handle wanting him, but I don’t want to see how I react to losing him altogether.
“Yeah,” I mutter. “Still, what if that doesn’t happen?”
Mom sighs. “If he loses feelings for you and you can’t shake yours? Then you go to therapy for attachment issues.”
“Claire!” Dad hisses, and Mom shrugs her hands.
“If the two of youdon’tdrop your feelings,” she continues, “thenthat’swhen you’re screwed. Not even the best psychologists can fix that mess.”
“Oh my god, how is it possible to feel worse than I did before?”
“You came home to sulk in front of your blunt parents,” Dad says. “It has to get worse before it gets better.”
Standing up with shaky legs, I set my empty glass down on the coffee table and face my parents. “Alright, this has been… great. Excuse me while I go upstairs and cry into my pillow.”
“Luke.” Mom stops me in my tracks. “If a man makes you cry, then he isn’t worth your time.”
“The stupid thing is, it isn’t anything he did. He’s a great guy who moved away for work, and I was enough of an idiot to catch feelings for him.”
“You’re a sensitive guy, Luke,” Dad says. “There’s nothing wrong with that.”
I scoff to stave off another rush of negative emotions. “Yeah, I get it, but look where I am now.” I gesture to myself, my parents sigh, and that’s my cue to leave. Once I’m upstairs, I brush my teeth and get into bed, but instead of falling asleep like I should, I decide to stalk Erik’s social media for the fiftieth time this week. Because clearly, I hate myself.
His profile doesn’t give off typical hockey boy vibes—his main picture is a cropped group photo in front of a lake, and there are only two pictures of him in hockey gear. One of them is his most recent post, from a week ago. It’s of him in his AHL uniform, helmet off, hair damp with sweat, and so damn attractive with his usual shy smile that never fails to make my heart clench. The post was to announce his last-minute transfer to the SHL, and I sigh, realizing that I’ll keep getting updates on his new life through snippets like this.
And then my traitorous brain gets a boneheaded idea. I switch to my browser to search for“SHL stream.” It’s not out of the question to support your friends, which is what I tell myself as I navigate to something called SHL+, the league’s exclusive streaming platform. Their website is entirely in Swedish, but a red button that says “aktivera” probably means what I think it does. A subscription sets me back 300 in Swedish money every month; I don’t know how much that is, nor do I care. I pull out my credit card and enter my details, tapping the metal against my phone while I wait for the payment to go through.
Then I download a VPN because the streams are location-restricted to Scandinavia.
Am I being desperate? Yes.
Am I being stupid? Also yes.
Am I feeling happier now that I can watch Erik’s games and support him?
Hell yes.
10
ERIK
Alvik HK gives me a week to recover from jet lag, and the team is on the road for most of that time. The day before my first game, I drive over to Alvik for some interviews and to get my picture taken for social media. In preparation, I got a haircut and shaved because in my experience, teams like to recycle the first picture you take with them forever.
Last night, I sent a selfie to Luke for his thoughts, to which he replied, “Looking good but why’d you have to shave?”
I think being clean-shaven is sharper, but maybe I’ll try growing my scruff out a bit since I’ve always kept my facial hair in check. Who knows? I might end up liking it a little longer.
Not because Luke told me to, of course. That would be absurd.
