Okay, maybe that factors in a little bit.
Then again, after I opened my last remaining razor blade this morning, I ordered a beard trimmer instead of blade refills.
Damnit, I’m no closer to my reluctant goal of getting over Luke.
Whatever.
After a smooth drive across Stockholm, I park at the Alvik Rink and head inside with the requested gear, my footstepsechoing along the hallway. The team has the day off after coming back from Gothenburg yesterday, so the place is quiet except for a few muffled voices in an office at the end of the hall, which I make a beeline for.
As soon as I stick my head in, the team manager Anders Henriksson waves me over. “Erik! Welcome. Let’s get you started on the shoot.”
After he hands me a uniform, I duck into the deserted locker room to get changed before lacing up and sliding onto the ice. A small entourage of the media team is waiting for me with a comically large light setup, and I settle into a plastic chair. I know the drill: face the camera, tilt my chin down, and adopt a neutral expression with the faintest trace of a smile. A couple of clicks and flashes later, the photographer reviews the shots with the media director. They both give me a quick glance before putting the camera away, not saying anything else.
That means I either look good or ridiculous, and I hope it’s the former. There’s no time to overthink, though, because a separate group of photographers is gesturing for me to skate over and take some action shots. This whole routine is a far cry from the assembly-line intake that I went through with Toronto’s AHL team, but it’s all part of the role.
The next hour consists of me making repetitive, highly choreographed skates around a small section of the rink while someone throws ice shavings at my feet for “effect.” A short briefing from Anders comes next, then a tour of the facility and a lightning-speed review of the raw photos of me, where I’m able to confirm that my headshots thankfully aren’t awful.
Anders sends me off and I’m on my way, but right when I leave his office, I collide with something and stumble onto a bench.
“Oh shit, sorry,” someone says, and I tilt my head up. I ran headfirst into Nils Enlund, one of Alvik’s forwards. He stretches a hand out and I shake it.
“Hey, I’m Erik,” I say.
“I’m Nils, but let’s get you standing first.”
Right. He extended his hand to help me up, not to introduce himself. I’m an idiot.
Rising to my feet, I get a better look at Nils. He’s around my height with a solid build and perfectly scruffy brown hair—attractive, but he isn’t Luke,andhe’s my teammate. That’s a line I’ll never cross.
“Again, sorry for crashing into you,” he says, sticking his hands in his pockets. “You’ll get to know that I’m clumsy as hell, at least off the ice.”
“Don’t worry about it, at least I didn’t lose any teeth from the impact.”
“You’re a left-winger, right?” Nils asks, chuckling and changing the subject. “We might end up on a line together.”
“Yeah, that’d be cool. What brings you to the rink today? There’s no game.”
Nils freezes for a moment before his cheekbones pinken, and I purse my lips together, not sure if I walked myself into a touchy topic.
“So, that’s a funny story,” Nils starts, “I’m picking up a new uniform so I can break it in before tomorrow’s game. I need it for a ritual.”
I stay silent. That doesn’t sound funny at all.
“Can you guess why I needed a new uniform?” he asks.
“Did it tear or something?”
Nils’s face lights up and he points at me, trying to hold back laughter. “You’re right!” he says. “But it’s even better than that. When I was changing for the game two days ago, I tore the pants along the damn crack!” He proceeds to turn around, stick his assout at me, and proudly point his thumbs at it, clearly expecting me to check out the cause of his clothing mishap.
“Shit, no way,” I say.
“Oh yeah. The team had to issue me a larger size because my ass got too big for my uniform!”
I’ve played hockey and dealt with locker rooms for most of my life—I can look at a guy’s behind with purpose and not have it be weird. “Yeah. That’ll… be good on the ice,” I comment in a deadpan. What do you even say to that?
“You bet, these are some game-winning glutes right here, Norre.”
This guy is certainly a character. He reactivated my old Swedish hockey nicknameandspilled about his ass problems within two minutes of meeting me, but it’s funny.
