“And you were stuck with that new sports reporter.” Tanaka shakes his head sympathetically, which is weird, because I would never consider him sympathetic.
“It wasn’t terrible. Prescott was actually great.”
Tanaka stiffens, then a smile that verges on a sneer spreads over his face. “You are being overly nice.”
“Well.”
“Americans are nice.” Tanaka nods multiple times. “It’s a great part of your culture.”
“I guess.”
“And you’re from Minnesota,” he continues. “Midwesterners are happy people.”
Tanaka sounds like he’s been reading a guide on American culture. Which honestly, maybe he did.
I don’t tell him that Dad and Gramps might know how to flash big smiles but that I probably wouldn’t call them happy. Neither is Mom. Not really. I thought the house would make them be happier than they are, but the purchase didn’t work, just like most things in my life.
I miscalculated.
Dad appointed himself boss of Mom a long time ago, an expert in cooking and cleaning techniques, even though I’ve offered to pay for that too, even though, to be honest, Dad could pay for that himself if he wanted a professional to do it.
He enjoys telling Mom what to do, like he enjoys telling me what to do.
“Come to dinner,” Tanaka says. “At my house. I want my wife and son to meet you. It will be great.”
Is he trying toconvinceme to join him for dinner?
Tanaka has been with the team for a while. He built the Boston Blizzards arena, the flashiest, most luxurious arena in the country. But I’m pretty sure he’s never invited any player to dinner. He’s a billionaire, and his purchase of the Boston Blizzards is normally something he complains about.
I can’t believe he wants to have dinner with me.
Not Evan McAllister, team captain.
Not even wealthy, fan favorite Finn Carrington.
But me.
One thing is certain: I absolutely can’t say no to the hockey team owner. If he wants me to dine lavishly with him, I will.
“That sounds wonderful, Mr. Tanaka. I would be honored to join you.”
Tanaka’s face glows. “Excellent! Come over tonight. I have a place in Marblehead. I’ll give you the address.”
And that’s how I find myself a few hours later at Mr. Tanaka’s house an hour north of Boston.
His place manages to be more magnificent than my expectations. His house sits on a large private lot and faces the ocean. It’s wilder and less constrained than my view of the Boston harbor from my apartment, and I shiver. All my memories from the Pacific rush back, but the turquoise waves have been replaced by a murky gray green.
It’s beautiful, no surprise there, but it takes me a moment to gather my bearings and make my way up to the massive Victorian house. Snow piles around the neatly shoveled path. Snowflakes fall onto my hair and clothes, until finally I’m at the door, looking speckled.
I am not in Fiji anymore.
I inhale and reach for the doorbell. I still can’t believe I’m here.
In the next moment, the door opens, and I brace myself for Tanaka or his wife. Instead, a man wearing a black suit opens the door and ushers me inside.
“Mr. Larvik,” he says in a brisk, British-accented voice. “Let me help you with your things.”
In the next moment, he’s removing my scarf and hat, followed by my coat. I stand awkwardly, conscious of the snow drifting from my body onto the fancy hardwood floor.
