Page 12 of Love of the Game
“You want a beer, Jon, or water?”
“Oh, water, please. Thank you, Ella.”
“You got it.”
Then he was sitting across from me, pulling takeaway boxes out of the paper bags. “I don’t know what you like, so I just grabbed some of everything they had tonight.”
From the post-game spread, I realized, as he opened the boxes to reveal different items. Salad. Fish. Chicken. Steak. Vegetables. Pasta. Sure, it wasn’t the sushi that sometimes appeared after Lions games, but my stomach rumbled loudly enough that Jon’s smile widened.
“How…” But it really didn’t matter how he knew I hadn’t eaten, so I changed my question. “Why are you doing this?”
He stilled and watched me, blinking a few times. His not moving was almost unnatural. Then he settled into the booth a bit more. “A couple reasons. I’m captain and I like to make sure my teammates are in good shape and not doing anything silly, like punishing themselves by not eating.”
I flinched. Maybe I had been doing that. I didn’t know anymore. I reached for my water glass.
“But also, I like you. I wasn’t flirting with you last night just to be an ass, you know.”
That had me sputtering, trying not to choke on the water I’d just sipped. “What?”
That smile was coupled with a hint of flush on his cheeks. “I’m not going to lie about it.” Then he pushed a few of the paper containers toward me. “Please eat.”
That was a redirection if I ever saw one, but I was hungry, so I took up the biodegradable bamboo utensils he also pulled out of the bags, and got to work on some of the pasta with chicken and broccoli and the salad.
Ella brought water for Jon, and then retreated, so it was just the two of us again.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“For what?”
“For being a shitty hockey player.” I paused, then added, “And a shitty teammate.”
“Ah, well, the latter, thank you for realizing it, but what you did with Alfie went a long way there.” He grabbed salad and dropped some steak on it. “For the former, you aren’t a shitty hockey player.”
I stared at him. “Dude, did youseeme out there tonight?”
“Absolutely.” He took a few bites, then added, “Not your best night, clearly. But I’ve watched you play. You’re good.”
I shook my head. “Not anymore.”Useless.
Jon seemed amused as he watched me, though not in a malicious way. There was warmth to his mirth and a friendliness—or more—that was confirmed by the faint color he still had in his cheeks. Hedidlike me. Finally he put down his fork, folded his hands, and asked, “Do you know who my father is?”
Hisfather? Why would I know that “No, I—” Wait. He spoke Swedish. His last name was Eriksson. “Holy shit, are you Gunnar Eriksson’s kid?” He’d been a Hockey Hall of Fame player, a number-one draft pick, and one of the best centermen to ever play the game. He was also blond and blue eyed. But studying the sharp angles of Jon’s face, I could see a resemblance.
Eriksson was a common enough name that I didn’t put two and two together. There were three Erikssons in the NAPH alone, and I knew none of those guys were related to the Shifty Swede.
“Yeah, I’m Gunnar’s kid. One of them. I have a sister, too. She’s a research biologist working on curing cancer.” He shrugged, “And I’m an okay PHL hockey player everyone’s forgotten about.”
Now my cheeks heated, but he waved that away. “No, seriously. How often do you hear about Gunnar Eriksson’s kids?”
Never. People still occasionally talked about Eriksson when another Swede got drafted high or had a breakout year as a forward or something like that. “I honestly didn’t remember he had kids. I mean, I was eleven when he went into the Hall.”
Jon flinched slightly. “I was eighteen,” he murmured. He was unusually silent after that, peering out into the bar like he was looking into the past.
His words caught up to me. “You’re more than an okay player.”
At that, his good humor came back, and he laughed. “No, I’m just okay. My skills are fine, but not NAPH quality. I belong here.” He pointed at the table. “Youdo not.”
I skewed up my face and looked down. “Maybe I should be in the HLENA instead.”
