Page 15 of Off the Post

Wyatt pipes in with his not-so-helpful suggestion. “I think Wolf should dress as Frosty the Snowman because he’s ice cold!”

A snort of laughter escapes Dante’s lips and then he pulls a face. I fight to suppress the laugh that bubbles up my throat as the image of Soren in a snowman costume comes to mind. While there is some truth to Wyatt’s wisecrack about Soren’s temperament, there’s also an inexplicable reason why Soren’s frigid gaze, when fixed on me, can shoot flames to my core and melt me into a puddle on the inside.

I surreptitiously glance at him from the corner of my eye and notice the strong, coarsely stubbled jaw clench tight and the grooves in his frown deepen. Yet even with the combative stance and stern expression, there’s still a softening in his golden-hazel eyes.

Soren shares an uncanny resemblance to an actual wolf when his intense gaze is narrowed in on someone. It’s meant to frighten and intimidate.

To push people away.

I suppose that’s the nature of goaltenders. Their job is to defend—to protect the net at all costs and keep the pucks from getting through. It’s what makes him a standout. But that guarded quality doesn’t bode well off the ice.

Soren’s unwitting smile nearly takes my breath away. It tips up at the corners of his lips as he responds to Dante and Wyatt. “Fuck you both.”

And when he turns back to me, he pins me with a softened expression. “It doesn’t make me uncomfortable. I just want to get this over with.”

“Okay, we can do that. As I mentioned last night, I was thinking you might be interested in posing for the January shot? It’s a winter scene.” My eyes search his imploringly. “If I recall, you grew up in a small mountain village in Austria, right?”

Something flashes across his face that I can’t quite read, but it’s gone just as quick. Then he nods and waves his hand. “Ja, that’s fine.”

The sound of an incoming text on his phone interrupts us, and he pulls out the phone and drops his eyes to the screen. Without another word, he spins around and stalks off in the other direction, leaving me baffled by our interaction.

That man is the most mercurial human I’ve ever met.

But also, the most intriguing.

8

Soren

“Vhat are you doing here?” I ask, blinking several times at Anna and the kids’ smiling faces. They look like an apparition so far out of context. “You were supposed to go directly to my house.”

My brain is foggy after my exchanges with Ali this morning, and an inexplicable tingling sensation lingers in my stomach. Everything is off-kilter, as if I just stepped off a carnival ride that messed with my equilibrium.

To find Anna, Clara, and Heinrich standing here in the studio unannounced is a complete mindfuck. I could’ve sworn I told them to have the driver take them to my place.

Both kids rush toward me, wrapping their gangly arms around my waist in dual hugs. A jolt of love courses through my body from the contact, and I return the affection by tugging them into me.

I stare blankly at Anna, who appears beautiful and regal as always—tall and athletic, with long limbs that have helped her on many rock climbing and downhill skiing adventures. That’s how she and Günther originally met years ago. They were two peas in a pod, both born to pursue the riskiest sports known to humans.

Which is precisely why she’s a widow and single mother today.

She shrugs helplessly and places her hands on the tops of both children’s heads. Heinrich and Clara bounce with excitement.

“Sorry to mess with your plans, but as you can see,” she says in German, her voice light with amusement, “the children were too excited to wait to see their uncle Soren.”

Quelling the irritation building inside me over the disruption in my plans, I breathe deeply and work a smile on my face before locating the spots underneath the kids’ ribs that I know are ticklish. They squeal in delight and wiggle and squirm in their attempts to get loose, but I clutch them tighter as a rush of love suddenly overcomes me.

How can I possibly be upset by this surprise?

These children mean the world to me. Although we are an ocean away much of my hockey season, I’ve worked to stay close to them in other ways. Countless hours of video chats, gifts sent from every city where I play, and weekly scheduled online gaming sessions with eleven-year-old Heinrich, who is obsessed with gaming and LEGO. Clara is almost nine and loves her dolls, books, and ice skating.

Someday when I have children of my own, I will be a happy man if they turn out half as great as my brother’s kids.

“Uncle Soren,” says Heinrich, gazing up at me with his inquisitive baby blues. The gap left from a missing tooth captures my attention when he grins broadly. “Can you take me to your hockey arena to play while we’re here? I told Coach Rudy I would practice.”

Clara chimes in. “Ja, and I want to ice skate and show you my jumps!”

I lift a brow and look to Anna. She nods.