He glanced at me again, curving his lips into a curious smile. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”
I nodded. “I love it here, and this place is a part of you. It would be fun to have a home away from home.”
“You’d have to learn Swedish,” he said.
“Nah. Most of the people here speak English better than some Americans do.”
“True.” He worked his lips into a smirk. “But wouldn’t you at least like to know some naughty words in Swedish?”
I snorted. “Have to admit, that sounds like fun. Teach me one.”
“Hm. Let me think.” He tapped his chin, then gave me a smug look. “Here’s one that fits you perfectly.Rövhål.”
“The fuck? What does that mean?”
“Say it.” He repeated it slowly:“Rövhål.”
I tried, but the word that came from my mouth bore no resemblance to what he’d said.
“Keep trying.Rövhål.”
His pronunciation sounded a little like “ruhv-whole,” but I couldn’t even get that right.
Laughing as I repeated the word, he pushed the edges of my mouth around, helping me get the vowel sounds right. Eventually, he said it was close enough.
“Rövhål,”I said proudly, repeating it several times for emphasis.
He chuckled again. “Don’t say that to me. You’re therövhål.”
“What does it mean? You’d better tell me what I’m saying.”
Putting on another snide grin, he shook his head. “It means asshole, yourövhål.”
I tried for an indignant face and used a mocking tone. “For fuck’s sake.Rövhål.”
We acted like two kids, calling each otherrövhålso many times I lost count, and laughing every time like it was funny. The best part? Itwasfunny.
“I’m serious about finding a place here. Want to stay a few more days and look?”
“If you really want to.” He seemed a little dubious, then broke into his special smile.
Of course, I had to lean in and tug on his pouty lower lip with my teeth. Wrapping each other in a hug, we shared a long kiss in the birch forest.
When we drew away, he took my hand. “Come on, let’s look around some more.”
I’d been avoiding bringing up an important topic, but it seemed like a good time. He was too handsome in the diffused light to get pissed at me. “What do you think about playing again? I know you have more rehab, but how much? I don’t want you to give up.”
He shrugged. “I’ll be on the injured reserve list for at least part of next year, and maybe for the entire season. Skating in a professional hockey game requires much more stability than walking around every day. So yes, I’ve thought about quitting. There’s no reason I shouldn’t. I’ve played for a long time and made plenty of money. If I retire, I could stay home while you’re on the road.”
“Yes, but you’re too young to retire. You’re strong, Sven, and you’ll be fine.”
“Maybe, but even with all the pain and hard work in rehab, I enjoyed having last winter and spring off. If I retired, I could stay home, take care of the house, and cook for us. I could still meet you at the door with a blow job when you got home from a roadie.”
I laughed and squeezed his hand. “That was undoubtedly the best part of going back to the Cudas. But I’m serious. Don’t make any rash decisions.”
He was quiet while we stepped around a tree stump. “Tell you what. The ortho and rehab people say I won’t be able to play until at least January, but they also point out that I may never skate like I used to again. Discussing it now seems premature, so can we talk about it again when we know more? I promise to spend a lot of time thinking about it, and your opinion will be the most important one I get.”
“Agreed. Yet again, you’ve shown you’re smarter that me.”