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“Hello Varg.”
I drop my head into my hands, pulling at my hair so she doesn’t see I’m laughing.
“Now can I know the plan for today?”
Our first few videos didn’t break the internet, but they garnered some attention. I knew Tristan was good at her job. I knew she had single-handedly turned the organization’s social media accounts into something to watch, but even I was in awe when I saw the edited clips she posted. Not that I looked for them. I didn’t have a chance. When her final proofs hit my email, I was lacing up my skates in Miami and about to hit the ice. I barely had time to send her a thumbs up response before I had to funnel out into the other team’s tunnel. The first video went up during the first intermission, and by the time I made it back to my phone after a resounding win and a quick shower, my mother had sent the links to me too.
So had my brother, his fiancée, Quinn, and her best friend, Jen. Even my sister and her wife had emailed saying they’d seen the clips. Each message came with a healthy dose of affectionate ribbing, but also recognition of Tristan’s skill and I can’t help but hope that the powers that be are also noticing her hard work. My tour of the Stand had included the offer of a personal tour for one of our followers. We picked an afternoon face-off that still had unsold tickets available, saying we’d pick one lucky attendee. Within forty-eight hours, the arena was sold out, and the team had gained several thousand new followers.
My numbers had grown too, not that I care too much about notoriety. I prefer to be known for my speed on the ice, for my points per game, for my reputation as a leader and team player. Those are the things that pave the way to the best contracts, the best teams, the best chances at the cup. And that’s what I’m doing here. Showing my commitment to my team, to my city. Taking the job no one else wants and doing it with a smile. Keeping the peace as best I can.
I spread my arms wide and look around at the wood paneling and leather stools. The framed black and white photos of Quarry Creek from bygone decades, the jukebox flickering like an inebriated street sign in the corner. Nothing about this place fits and everything does all at the same time. The blue checked curtains and the maroon velvet booths. It’s an interior designer’s worst nightmare, standing-in-front-of-the-whole-school-naked level horrifying, which is why it’s perfect.
I look at the shimmer of blonde hair that Tristan has twisted at the base of her neck, the razor-sharp pleats where her silky shirt tucks into a pair of painted-on navy slacks, the delicate bump of her ankle bone where it’s visible between the hem of her pant-leg and the sheen of her heels. Every single piece of Tristan Grant is selected and coordinated to say she’s more put together than anyone else could ever dream of being, and seeing her standing here in one of my favorite places… well, maybe I have faith that she might just love it the way I do.
“Ms. Grant,” I say with mock seriousness, dipping my chin to pretend that I can look her in the eye, “Welcome to Magic Mangoes.”
The snort escapes her along with a look of horror I assume is in reaction to the momentary loss of her ice queen persona. I know what she’s thinking. It’s the same place my brain had gone when Ragnar, our goalie, first dragged me in the front door during my first week in Quarry Creek. It’s the same thing that’s further exacerbated by the fact that the interior of this place looks nothing like what anyone would expect it to look like.
Tristan narrows her eyes and her right heel twitches as though she wants to tap her foot against the worn floor.
“This better not be something inappropriate,” she says and I’m pretty sure she’d castrate me if it was. Right here. With her bare hands.
That shouldn’t be a thought that I find interesting, but it clearly is because I lean into her and decide to poke the sleeping bear. “Get your mind out of the gutter, kitty cat.” She bristles just like Loki does when Erik brings out the cat carrier. “Magic Mangoes is Quarry Creek’s finest juice and smoothie bar.”
I swear I can see the cogs spinning in her brain, clicking together as she ruminates on what I have just said. Her brows pinch together, a tiny divot between them, and the middle of her bottom lip puckers as though her teeth have sunk into the soft-looking curve. I can also see the moment the meaning sinks in because her eyes flash and the wrinkle in the middle of her forehead smooths out, replaced by tiny lines at the corners of her eyes. Smile lines. I may not see her do it often, but there’s the proof that she knows how to smile.
“Okay Varg,” she dips her chin as if bestowing an honor upon my household, “You got me. We both know I wouldn’t have guessed that.”
“Were you thinking strip club?” I turn an eye on the tiny stage where the owner hosts periodic poetry and children’s book readings.
“The lack of a pole only stumped me,” she admits. “I can’t imagine those aren’t bolted to the floor. They need to be… sturdy.”
“You’d be surprised,” and I grin, thinking of the time Spaeglin insisted on hitting a club on his first away game. Only to find out there were no great options close enough to patronize.
“Go to a lot of clubs, Varg?”
It’s one of those questions that she thinks she already knows the answer to. I can see it in her smug smirk, and she’s not entirely wrong, but not for the reason she’s thinking.
“I tag along when the guys go. Team building is important to me.”
She snorts through her nose and turns her head away. As if I’ve just verified some belief she had about pro-athletes in general, and me in particular.
“If the guys told you to cut off your hand with a rusty chainsaw, would you do that too?”
“Well no,” I tell her, “I need my hands to play hockey and that sounds like a recipe for infection.”
The look she gives me would drop a lesser man to his knees, but I’m a sick puppy. Heat is curling down through my chest, pooling in my stomach and dripping lower. She’s so fucking fun to needle. I wonder if I could list this as a hobby every time someone asks what I do for fun besides skate.
“That’s the only reason?” I’m pretty sure Tristan Grant has fantasies about smothering me. Or throwing things at my head. And I know I love to piss her off, but I don’t know why I’m so successful at it.
“The NHL isn’t friendly to amputees.” My mood sours as I think of my twin and the dreams he lost, along with his illness and his leg. “But we aren’t here to talk about depressing shit. We’re here to make people like us.”
Deflect, deflect, deflect. Smile and joke and don’t make things weird or uncomfortable.
“Like The Arctic.” Tristan corrects me, but she’s frowning again. Not glaring, just giving me that look like she’s trying to tear apart my layers and see the inner workings of my mind and body. It’s scarier than when she tries to act mean or tough. I hold my smile steady, refusing to break.
“It’s okay sweetheart, we both know it’s really all about me.”
