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I should set the record straight. I should remind Maria and my dad that Erik and I are not a couple. We’d spent twenty-four hours in with each other—and yes, we had some fun without our clothes, and I hope neither dad nor Maria know about that—but we both agreed that there is nowhere else for this thing to go. Flirting is just flirting. This crush is just a crush. I look from my dad’s wide grin to Maria’s matching one. Maybe I can let him down after the game. Erik can tackle his mom on his own.
Maria and Sean fall into conversation as if they’ve known each other for years and it makes me smile. They’re debating plays like old friends, and I could kiss Maria for not letting her gaze stray to the hat covering my dad’s bald head or his missing eyebrows. She throws her head back in another laugh, and her hand comes down on the top of Dad’s thigh. How many people have I seen shrink away from him in public as if cancer is contagious or as if he’ll break in a strong wind? I once offered to pencil eyebrows on him, but he turned me down flat. He said his lack of hair didn’t embarrass him. But there’s a difference between disguising his condition out of shame, and disguising his condition to protect his marshmallow heart.
“We’re probably good to head down,” Maria says. She waits as I hold my arm out for my dad. He gives me a look from under his team hat but hooks his hand on my elbow. “We’re going to head up and out to the concession area,” Maria says and leads the way up the stairs.
The crowd is thinning out now that the game is over, but the joy is still thick in the air. It sizzles and pops over my skin like champagne, thrilling, energizing, sweet. A few stragglers sling their arms over each other’s shoulders, grinning and warbling off-tune eighties rock hits. The wide hallways carry the sour, yeasty scent of beer, the buttered sweetness of popcorn, and the smoky char of brats. It’s not as off-putting as the last time I was here.
Maria walks with purpose, cutting through revelers with ease. She’s clearly familiar with the layout of The Strand, but she slows her steps to match my dad’s stride. Dad is practically vibrating down the hall.
“You’re sure Varg, sorry, I mean Vic, won’t mind an introduction?” He’s just being polite. Vic is his favorite player. I’m pretty sure my dad would consider selling me for the chance to meet him.
“Not at all,” Maria waves at a large man standing in front of a nondescript door. The only clue that he works for the Arctic is the clear coil of an earpiece snaking down the side of his thick neck. He’s taller than me, wider too, and he doesn’t even blink as we go past him and down a flight of stairs. “Victor loves meeting fans, especially on good game nights.”
“I must admit,” Dad says, “I knew Vic had a brother, but I never knew he was a twin. Imagine my surprise when he showed up with my daughter.”
His surprise? How about my surprise?
I’d looked up at the Jumbotron and my seatmate had been in two places at once. I’d walked into my dad’s hospital room and seen that same handsome face next to him. I had wondered how Erik stayed off the radar. Sharing a face with someone well known doesn’t offer a lot of opportunities to remain incognito. I’d assumed I hadn’t recognized him because I didn’t know Vic’s face well either. I’d met Erik first and had zero expectations.
“The boys keep it quiet for privacy reasons. It’s not easy being the brother of a professional hockey player.”
Especially when they’d once shared the same dream.
“Did Erik ever play too?” Dad asks before I can stop him. He misses my panicked face, too. Then again, my dad is anything but subtle, and it wasn’t like he knew about Erik’s amputation. We haven’t discussed it at all. I doubt Erik’s past is something that’s on the interview docket. I’d sat with him for hours and hadn’t noticed until he’d shown me, and dad had been a little out of it with nausea when I’d found the two of them at Grace Hospital. “Is it strange for him to see his brother going pro?”
Maria’s steps hitch and her smile dims for half a second.. If I hadn’t known that this was a hot topic, I would have missed her reaction altogether. Losing his hockey career had been an immovable elephant in the room once, but Erik had indicated it was better now. Getting easier every day.
“They were going to be the next Sedin twins,” I say, my words echoing in the dim hallway.
Maria stops walking. She turns, eyes searching my face.
“Where’d you hear about the Sedin twins? You don’t even like hockey,” Dad bumps my shoulder with his.
I don’t look away from Maria. The moment feels heavy, a weight sitting down on the tops of our shoulders and pressing us down onto the rubberized floor.
“Erik told me,” I say to my dad, but the answer is for Maria. I know it is. “They both got invited to something.”
“The United States Hockey League.” Maria nods. “They both got drafted to play with the USHL.”
“Amazing,” Dad says as we continue down a wide hallway. “That’s the only Tier I league in the country. Players who don’t go pro right away are almost always recruited by Division 1 schools.”
“Both boys planned to play in the Junior League for a few years and put their names in the draft when they were eighteen.” Maria’s smile doesn’t reach her eye and I look away before the twisting in my gut gets worse. We shouldn’t be talking about this. Not without Erik here.
Team banners line the walls and sections are cordoned off where fans can stand and watch the team take the ice. I’ve seen enough televised games to recognize this entrance to the tunnel. They always show Ólafsson thundering down the walk, his black and blue goalie pads eating up all the space, as fans cheer and slap high fives against his blocker.
“Maybe,” I poke my dad in the ribs, “we can consider the fact that some of our questions can have off-putting and tender answers before we ask them of someone kind enough to take us to meet one of our hockey idols, Dad.”
Maria’s still staring at me, not even pretending to be subtle. She keeps her eyes on me over her shoulder as she walks down the dim hallway, and her brows are furrowed in a familiar frown as she eyes me. It’s not an angry frown, more contemplative. Like I’m a puzzle she’s trying to figure out. I’ve seen the same look on Erik. I stare back, and the corners of Maria’s mouth tip into an actual smile this time.
A few yards down the hall is a set of large wooden doors. The right one is open and through it I catch glimpses of people milling about. No, not people. Players. The gold plaque over the top of the frame has a wealthy benefactor’s name and the words “Player’s Lounge” stamped out in fancy script. Maria raps on the closed door and calls out Vic’s name. I hear a chorus of “awes” and several male voices shout “mama’s boy.” Maria steps into the room and motions for me and Dad to follow.
I expect the large open stalls for pads and equipment that I’ve seen on tv, and the wide wooden benches overflowing with hockey players, but this room looks like a college common room after an HGTV make over. An enormous flat screen TV hangs on one wall over an even more impressive stereo system. There are plush couches big enough for eight pro-athlete-sized people, and a bunch of tables and chairs at the back of the room. There’s a wet bar built into one wall and a sub-zero fridge.
Milling around the room are a handful of hockey players. Most of them are in casual team clothing, their hair damp. The room smells better than I’d assumed a hockey locker room would, but I guess this isn’t the locker room at all. It’s a place for the guys to hang out. I’d expected them to still be in their game attire.
Vic is lying sideways on one couch, but he stands up when he sees his mom. In his gray sweatpants and Arctic hoodie, he looks so much like Erik that I suck in a breath. The minute he’s close enough, Vic wraps his mom in a tight hug. I feel like I should look away, give them some privacy, but Vic meets my eyes over his mother’s head, and I’m rooted to the spot. It’s Erik, and it’s not. Vic’s hair is longer on the sides but even wet from his shower, I know it’s the same dark blonde as his twin’s. His hazel eyes are the same, even with a line of stitches through his eyebrow. He didn’t have those in the last game. He’s broader than Erik, his muscles probably more defined, but not by much.
“You must be Quinn and Sean,” he says. His voice is the same deep rumble as Erik’s, but the cadence is off. Like a tiny sliver of laughter rolling in his words. “I’m glad I finally get to meet you both.”
