Page 19 of Crease Collision

He’s back to being snarky, so I point at his bag. “What’s in there, smartass?”

“I am here to save the day.” He brings out an entire fried chicken dinner.

“How do you look like that and eat like this?” I ask, trying to sound chirpy but really wanting to know.

“I do not always eat like this. Today is special.” He gives me a look. “And now I understand something else about you.”

“What’s that?”

“We have two ways of thinking about food. I bring joy. You bring punishment.”

I scoff loud enough for the frisbee guys to hear. “Yours smells like a heart attack waiting to happen.”

Oskar shows off his dimples again. “You are only jealous that my lunch has personality. Don’t worry, you do not have to eat any of it.”

My stomach growls, right on cue.

He tries not to laugh but loses the battle, and I end up joining in. Soon my abs hurt, and then my face does too. I can’t remember the last time I laughed so hard.

This isn’t part of the plan at all.

We’ve just divided the food when something wobbles at the edge of my vision. A little girl on a bike, her front wheel jerking side to side, totally out of control.

“Watch out!” Oskar calls.

We both jump up and run toward her, but she goes down with a soft thud before we get there. Luckily, she only has a bruised ego. We help her up, steady the bike while she climbs back on, and send her off again, still wobbling.

“Glad she is okay,” Oskar says as we take our places on the blanket.

The fried chicken makes my three-day-old wraps taste like cardboard. His biscuits and fries make me forget about the raw veggies I brought. The almonds remain untouched. At least the watermelon is good, but his cookies put it to shame.

He keeps looking around like his head’s on a swivel. He’s been doing that, tracking every movement, since he got here. I do the same thing, but for me, it’s goalie instinct; we read motion without thinking. Seeing Oskar do it for no reason is strange.

There’s no question he fascinates me, and I keep wondering what kind of job he has that made him move here from Sweden. I should leave his life blank in my mind because that’s my rule with guys. It makes goodbyes easier. Instead, I ignore my usual procedure and ask, “Where’s your new job?”

He drains his water bottle before saying, “Across the river. New Jersey.”

“Oh. I thought you were staying in the city.”

“They offered me a hotel while I look for an apartment, so I asked for Manhattan. Since I had never been to New York, I figured I would try it out.”

“You planning to live in the city?” I ask.

“It depends on⁠—”

A loud bark interrupts him as a golden retriever races past, eyes locked on the frisbee. The dog grabs it mid-air and sprints across the meadow. When the guys start swearing and chase after it, Oskar cackles.

Saved by a dog.

My relief quickly turns into irritation. I shouldn’t have needed saving at all. But as soon as I think that, my brain tells me to fuck off. Keep him talking, it says. Find out as much as you can.

Damn. I might go nuts before this picnic is over.

While I search for something safe to say, he taps my foot with his. “What do you do besides throw picnics?”

I never tell hookups I’m the Condors’ goalie, but Oskar is different. He’s the best company I’ve had in years.

“I work for a company in Midtown,” I say. “Seasonal work. Slammed most of the year, free during the summer. In winter, I’m on the road so much I sometimes forget what city I’m in.”