Page 51 of Off the Post

In the years that I’ve known him, Rossy’s always been an amiable kind of guy. There’s little chance that he’s ever met someone he doesn’t like. The guy enjoys having fun and is the life of every party. He serves as our team clown and resident jokester. In fact, if he didn’t play hockey, I could see him as our team mascot, Leif the Viking. He’s a goofball with a big heart.

On the ice, Tanner is a quintessential D-man. His role is to attack the opposing players to prevent goals and protect our own. In that respect, we are simpatico.

On the other hand, my guess is he could just as easily employ those traits against any man who dares to make a move on his sister.

If he knew what I want to do with his sister, it could ruin my friendship with him and create tension on the team.

I contemplate this as I turn the water off and shake the excess water from my hair. I grab the towel on the hook outside the shower and wrap it around my waist. The bathroom is steamy and I wipe away the fog from the mirror so I can examine my face. I had planned on trimming my beard or possibly shaving the whole thing off for the summer, but as I rub my fingers over the light-colored bristles, I choose to keep it. I like that the scruff hides my mouth, leaving me with a look that the media has described as an intense, predatory scowl.

Fierce and formidable. Why not keep with that reputation?

Finished with my post-shower routine, I head into the bedroom. The curtains and windows of my third-floor bedroom are open, displaying the slow setting of the sun across the western horizon, which casts an orange, pinky glow in the sky, making the water glisten like diamonds under the light.

The view from up here is spectacular and one of the reasons I chose this home. When I was first looking at real estate listings, I’d sent him this one to my brother, looking for his advice.

He responded first with the question you’d expect to get from a big brother. “Are you sure you can afford it?”

Yes, I could easily manage the payments with what I signed for in my initial four-year contract.

The second message he sent was more sentimental and less fiscally conscious. “Mama and Papa would be proud, Ren.”

As a kid, Günther had not been able to pronounce Soren, so he simply lobbed off the first syllable and called me Ren. No one else has ever called me by that nickname, not even Anna when she became part of the family. It was solely tied to Günther, and the name died with him.

The memory feels painful and disabling.

I let my towel drop to the floor and sit on the edge of my bed, rubbing my knuckles over the sore spot in my chest, the one that flares up whenever I get emotional about my brother.

It’s been four years and I’m still drowning in sorrow. I can’t let go of the grief that, for all intents and purposes, has turned me into a shell of a man. I’ve felt numb for years, just going through the motions, pretending to be alive, when in reality, my heart stopped that day when Anna called to tell me the news.

The sound of the doorbell breaks through my wallowing self-pity. I figure it’s the food delivery, so I jump from my bed and grab a pair of jeans from my armchair. After slipping them on, I pick up my phone from my bedside table and slide it in my pocket. Then I take the stairs two at a time down to the main floor.

My wallet sits on the hallway table. I rummage through to find some tip money for the delivery driver and swing open the door open to find it’s not my food delivery at all.

Ali stands on the sidewalk, on the other side of my gated entrance, a shy smile across her face, her red hair backlit by the sunset.

“Hey.”

25

Ali

You know those amusement park rides, the ones where the centrifugal force literally takes your breath away, levitates you off the ground, and leaves you so dizzy you might pass out?

Well, that’s the rush I experience when Soren steps out his front door. Shirtless, casually barefoot, and wearing only a low-slung pair of jeans.

I stare, slack-jawed, as he sweeps a hand through his damp hair, slicking the wavy blond locks away from his face and tucking them behind his ears. There’s a slight shadow of stubble coloring his upper lip and his jawline, and his cheeks are flushed.

Have I been transported into my fantasies starring a gorgeous blond Viking?

My eyes immediately graze over his light dusting of chest hair. Of course, I’ve already had the pleasure of running my hands over his broad shoulders and strong pectorals at the photoshoot. But the view is just as good.

“Hey, yourself,” Soren replies, breaking me free from my thoughts. He leans against the doorframe, a slow smile stretching across his face, the very picture of sexy and confident, while my nerves betray me. I pluck at my eyebrow. “I wasn’t sure if you’d be coming over.”

I gesture with jazz hands. “Ta-da. Here I am.”

He unlocks the front gate, which encloses a small front stoop, and ushers me in with a sweep of his hand. I step inside the small courtyard and wait for him to lock up behind us. While he enters a code, I take in what appears to be a main entry. It has a narrow concrete floor hallway and at the far end is a small dormer window with a hall table.

Soren brushes past me, and I get an intoxicating whiff of his freshly showered scent. He motions me forward toward the staircase, and I notice a wood-paneled elevator door.