Page 93 of Crease Collision

My throat burns so much I have to swallow before I can say, “You were just lying there. And I didn’t…”

Ozzy’s expression is so soft it almost hurts to look at. He kisses the corner of my mouth. “Baby, I’m okay.”

I nod, but I don’t let him go.

CHAPTER THIRTY

OSKAR

The smell of dill and vinegar fills Kai’s kitchen, cutting through the scent of the forest candles he left burning in the living room. He got them from a Swedish store in Brooklyn, thinking they would smell like pine woods after snow. Honestly, they smell more like rich people and trees, though I’d never tell him that.

In the last few days, little pieces of Sweden have appeared all over the condo. The candles everywhere, julmust in the refrigerator, a paper star lamp glowing in the window. He even found a Swedish edition of Peter and Lotta’s Christmas, and I nearly died when he tried to read part of it to me. Very sweet and absolutely hilarious. I did not laugh because he must have practiced the words for a long time.

Chuckling at the memory, I finish slicing the cucumbers. It takes a while, but I want perfection because Kai loves them. After pressing the slices into a glass jar with the dressing, I seal the lid and slide them into the refrigerator next to the potato casserole Kai made last night.

The condo feels huge. Without Kai pacing around, the hum of the heating system and the occasional siren blaring down Tenth Avenue sound much louder. I’ve been here many times, but being alone in Kai’s space is different. It reminds me of a Swedish forest on an early morning walk—quiet and cold.

Trying to be useful, I take the damp kitchen towels to the laundry room. Nearly hidden behind a heavy pocket door, it’s a small white space full of tile and stainless steel. I turn to go as soon as I drop the towels into an empty basket, but then notice three framed photos hanging above the folding table. They show horses standing in their cross-ties, looking straight at the camera.

Kai has never mentioned horses to me, so I doubt there’s a connection. He’s one of those collectors who buys something when it appeals to him. The pictures remind me of the dalahäst I bought for my father. The clerk at the shipping store promised the package would arrive in Sweden before Christmas, but I haven’t heard from my parents yet.

I take my phone out of my pocket and check the time. It’s almost eight o’clock in Stockholm. Before I can talk myself out of it, I tap the video call button.

It rings three times before the screen lights up. My mother’s face appears, already beaming. Swedish Christmas carols are playing in the background. I smile because Kai spent half an hour last night trying to find a playlist for our Christmas dinner. He said the music needs to match our Swedish feast.

“Oskar!” Mamma cries, and then, “Fredrik, it’s Oskar!”

The picture shakes as she passes the phone to Pappa. He’s holding up a glass of wine in a silent toast.

“There he is, the star of the HFNA. God jul, Oskar. Are you eating well? You look thinner.”

“Merry Christmas, Pappa.” Hearing Swedish again is as good as having a hot shower after a hectic game. “I’m eating plenty. You know I always lose weight during the season, and the travel schedule is much heavier here.”

“Your package arrived last night,” Mamma calls out. “The gifts are beautiful, Oskar, but you spent too much on shipping.”

“It’s fine,” I say, leaning against the washing machine. “I wanted to be sure they got there on time.”

“Look here,” Pappa says, turning the phone so I can see the gifts on a side table.

I blink away the unexpected tears in my eyes.

Pappa studies me through the screen. “Where are you? I know that isn’t your apartment. You can’t stand white walls.”

It’s a simple question, but my throat tightens as I try to answer. I should tell him I’m at my boyfriend’s place. His name is Kai, I could say. He plays for the Condors. We’re getting closer every day.

But the words won’t come out. Instead, I say, “I’m at a friend’s condo. We’re making dinner, and he had to run to the grocery store.”

“Oh, a teammate?” Pappa asks.

Before I can answer, the picture shakes again, and Mamma comes back on screen.

“I’m so glad you’re with someone,” she says. “I was hoping you wouldn’t spend the holiday alone. How’s your social life in New York?”

“Social life?” My knee bounces so hard I try to hold it down. It doesn’t help. “We’re busy all the time, Mamma. My teammates are friendly. They’re treating me well, and we get along.”

“I’m glad you like them. That must make all the travel easier.”

“For sure,” I say, breaking into English. Then, in Swedish, “That means yes.”