“I didn’t care about colors that much, I guess. But I had this blue hockey stick when I was little, and I remember thinking it was the coolest thing in the world.” He adjusts his grip on the wheel. “So my answer is blue.”
“Mine was purple. Still is.”
“Purple,” he repeats. “That tracks, even if I first thought it would be red.”
The heat rises up my neck when I realize he’s referencing what I was wearing the night we met. I shift to face him. “Okay, childhood pets. Did you happen to have any?”
“My grandparents had a dog. His name was Hans. I always thought it was a weird name for a dog.”
I laugh. “Hans? That’s so formal.”
“Right? He was a scruffy little mutt, but my grandpa insisted on calling him Hans after his friend who died young.”
“That’s kind of sweet, though.”
Rasmus exhales, a hint of wistfulness flashing in his expression. “Yeah. He was a good dog.”
“I had a dog, too. Biscuits.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Biscuits?”
“Yeah. He was a golden retriever, and I named him when I was three. I was obsessed with biscuits and gravy at the time.”
He chuckles at that. “That also tracks.”
I poke him playfully. His lips twitch, holding back another laugh. There’s something about the shared moment between us that pulls me in, and I admire him. Not in a creepy way, but in a way that appreciates this easy back-and-forth we have going on.
“What about books?” I ask. “Were you a reader, or did you rather spend all your time on the ice?”
“Yeah, I enjoyed reading.”
My smile grows a little. “Same. People are often surprised when someone athletic or outgoing says that, as if the two can’t exist together. But there’s something nice about disappearing into a story, you know?” I glance at him. “Especially when real life feels a little too hectic.”
Tapping absently against the steering wheel, he shares, “We didn’t have a lot growing up, but I could get books from the library for free. I used to spend most of my time reading outside school and hockey practices.”
Something about his truth makes my chest ache. I grew up the total opposite, owning more books than I could ever read.
“Did you have a favorite?”
He’s quiet, as if he’s trying to find the memory from some long-forgotten corner of his mind. “That’s easy.The Little Prince.”
I blink once. Twice. Three times. “Seriously?”
“Yeah.” He glances at me, a little defensive. “Why?”
“I’m pleasantly surprised by your answer as I loved that book growing up, too.”
“What was your number one favorite then?” he asks, his expression softening.
The answer is as clear as day. “Matilda.”
“Figures,” he comments teasingly. “Purple, biscuits with gravy, and Matilda. All three things I can see you loving with your full heart.”
I shake my head, trying to suppress my smile. “What about childhood memories? What’s your favorite one?”
Rasmus turns quiet, his fingers tightening around the wheel. I wonder if I should’ve kept the conversation light. But then he exhales, a reminiscing tone in his voice when he speaks.
“The first time I skated. I was five. My grandparents took me to this outdoor rink in Uppsala. It was winter, and it was freezing. I didn’t have proper skates, only these old, secondhand ones that didn’t fit right. But the moment I stepped on that ice…” He gets lost in the memory, a small smile playing on his lips. “It was like nothing else mattered. Like I was meant to be there. I didn’t care that those skates hurt or that I fell five times that day. I still loved it with my full heart.”
