I said nothing. If I defended my tailor, my father would lecture me on the opportunities I was missing out on in Italy by being loyal to a “nobody designer.”
“Your mother is well?” he asked.
“Yes, as far as I know. It’s hard to keep in touch with the time difference and my travel schedule.” Besides, do you truly give a damn? You’ve never been her favorite person—and she never asks after you.
“Do you still go to Sweden after the season ends?”
“Still up in the air for this year. I’m focused on playing and not thinking beyond that.”
“I’ve been keeping up with your games. Decent statistics. I hope that Peter can leverage that during contract negotiations and find you a winning team.”
“I have a two-year contract with the Wild.”
He waved his hand. “Those contracts are made to be broken. You’d be better off with a more visible team. If you’re going to build a reputation as a brawler and a beast—”
“I’m happy to be in Minnesota.”
“See? This is what I was trying to get you to avoid, being satisfied with what you have when there’s so many other possibilities.”
I laughed, but I doubted he noticed the sound had a bitter edge. “Nothing is ever good enough. Is that your philosophy with women too?”
He smirked at me over his wineglass. “Ah. A philosophy we agree on, since you’ve been through your share of women—or so I’ve read.”
“Don’t believe everything you see online.”
“But the stats don’t lie. You’ve been distracted by women in some form or other since you reached pro status. I remember those days. So very, very hard—near impossible—to say no to the opportunities women throw at your feet. And even when you’re a young man with stamina to spare, or you believe that to be true . . . you find it isn’t. You find that when you cut out everything that doesn’t matter and focus solely on the sport, it is a game changer.”
I’d memorized my father’s stats in my childhood and I knew he’d reached his peak performance level when I was age four—so his comment about cutting out everything that didn’t matter included me. His son.
He’d played football for six more years after that. Never at that same level again, but it wasn’t because he’d suddenly become an involved father.
How I wished I could tell him the joke was on him. The exact opposite was true for me. I’d found Annika and she provided the focus I needed because I wasn’t out looking for something that I already had with her.
I wasn’t anything like him. For possibly the first time in my life, I truly believed it.
My phone buzzed. Normally I ignored it in a social situation, but I welcomed the interruption. Especially when I saw it was a text from Annika.
AL: Are you getting stitched up again, Ax-hell?
Me: No. I’m free-bleeding to show them how tough I am. Why?
AL: The front desk put me through to your room and you didn’t answer.
I frowned. Why would she call the hotel?
Me: Did you try my cell?
AL: No. I hoped the hotel would put the hotshot hockey player and the Midwest heiress who just KILLED her presentation to Haversman in Belize on the same floor . . .
Me: YOU ARE IN NYC RIGHT NOW?
AL: At the Ritz, room 312.
I jumped up so fast I knocked the chair over.
My father looked at me. “Is something wrong?”
“No, everything is finally right. Thanks for the beer.”
I was so pumped up that I could’ve sprinted back to the hotel, but I was beat-up from the game. And I needed to get control of the adrenaline that’d hit me like a shot of nitrous at the starting line or I’d take Annika up against the door like a beast with barely a fucking hello.
She’d like that.
No, she’d love that.
Later I couldn’t remember the cab ride. Or even how much money I threw at the cabbie. I was striding across the pavement, then through the lobby and into the elevator. When the elevator doors opened on the third floor, I sprinted down the hallway.
Then there it was. Room 312.
I knocked, like a hundred times.
Or maybe that was just my heart.
She opened the door and stood in front of me, the wintry gray New York skies a backdrop in the window behind her, and not even that gloom dimmed the pure joy on her face when she looked at me.
I almost fell to my knees in my gratitude for this bond that I’d built with her. Instead I slammed the door shut behind me. But I didn’t take a single step toward her.
“Axl? What’s wrong?”
“I am trying to do the right thing. Taking a minute to tell you I love you. To tell you I missed you. To tell you that you are the most beautiful sight I’ve ever seen after not seeing you for three weeks. To tell you that this might be the greatest surprise anyone has ever given me.”
“Okay. If that’s the right thing, what’s the wrong thing?”
“Tearing your clothes off and fucking you against the wall.”
Her eyes went hot with lust. “I definitely encourage you to do the wrong thing.”
And . . . I was done.
She’d worn a bathrobe, so the tearing-her-clothes-off portion took, like, half a second.
My pants were no match for her greedy hands.
Then I was on her, holding her close. Kissing her. Bracing her against the wall as I did the wrong thing.
Twice.
Turns out two wrongs do make a right.
• • •
Later, we were lounging in bed, sated from sex and food—Annika fed both my appetites; she’d ordered just about every item on the room service menu because she knew how starved I was postgame.
I nobly did not press the woman on why she didn’t have a single tan line on her beautifully golden body.
We talked about everything.
About my father.
About her presentation to Haversman in Belize. She warned me that until she had actual confirmation about Haversman’s intentions regarding the product line, nothing changed with us; we still had to keep our relationship private. What Annika had failed to grasp was that from the very start of this I hadn’t minded our relationship wasn’t public. I liked that she was mine in all the ways that mattered. Even now when I was more confident in our ability to weather whatever was thrown at us, I wasn’t in any hurry to be the focus of media speculation again. Not that I said as much to her, because she might take it the wrong way—meaning the Annika way.
We talked about Jensen’s surgery and recovery. Jensen and I kept in touch regularly, so I actually knew more details about his rehab regimen than she did.
The hour got late and I had to be up early. I set the alarm and crawled back into bed with her.
“I missed this,” she murmured against my chest.
“Me too.”
“How much longer is the regular season?”
“Three months.”
“Then when this Haversman stuff is in the bag and you’re off the ice, we can have a coming-out party, right?”
“I’m forbidden to throw any more parties, remember?”
She elbowed me. “You know what I mean, Ax-hell.”
I kissed the top of her head. “I do. And yes, Attila. We can let the world know.” I chuckled. “I have this vision of you blasting Diana Ross’s song ‘I’m Coming Out’ when we make our first official appearance as a couple.”
“No. Way. If we’re playing a Diana Ross song? Totally going with ‘Endless Love.’ It fits us.”
“That it does.”
Twenty-eight
___
AXL
“Annika is depressed.”
Jensen grabbed a handful of popcorn and said, “No shit,” before he tossed it in his mouth.
That was his reaction? After I’d debated a week on whether to bring it up? Going behind Annika’s back was a last resort, but I’d been worried about her the past few weeks. “Do you know why?
”
“Buzz with the Lund Collective,” Jensen said, “is that she hasn’t even wanted to celebrate the fact that she nailed the pitch to this Haversman dude, and he’s going all out with next year’s spring catalogue to feature LI’s new luxury spa line.”
I froze. Annika hadn’t said anything to me about Haversman finally making a commitment to picking up her proposed product line. She’d obsessed about it for so long, and it wasn’t like her to shrug off a professional win of this magnitude. Plus, this had a significant impact on our relationship—at least the keeping-it-in-the-dark portion. Now we could change that. So why hadn’t she shared this major life-altering news with me? It went beyond me being proud of her accomplishment and expecting to celebrate with her.
Maybe she prefers to celebrate with her family.
I told that snarky voice to shut the hell up. Jensen had just told me she wasn’t celebrating with her family either . . . which was why he wasn’t surprised when I suggested Annika was depressed.
Jensen shifted sideways, repositioning the leg in the brace he’d propped up on the coffee table. “Man, I hate this couch. The cushions don’t stay in place.”
“You’re welcome to return to your two-million-dollar condo and plop your lame ass on your own couch.” Jensen had become a regular fixture at my place since his injury and surgery. It helped him to talk about his future in sports with someone who understood that sometimes choices weren’t just his to make.
“Nah. I hate that uncomfortable piece of shit, which is why I’m over here. We should get one of those leather pit-style lounge areas for in here. There’d be room for everyone. It’d be wall-to-wall puffy leather like a freakin’ cloud.”
“Lund. You do realize you don’t live here, right?”
He shrugged. “When you pull your head out of your ass and do the right thing by my sister and move in with her, I call dibs on this place.”
“Why? Seriously. Your apartment was featured in Midwest Architectural Digest.”
“So? The people in my building are dick-holes. I paid almost two million bucks for my apartment and I have to ask the resident board’s permission before I can get a fucking dog. That’s just wrong. This place? So much more my style. People are friendly. Neighborly. I have a lot more in common with Martin and Boris than I do with Duffy and Muffy.”
I’d heard the Lunds called eccentric. But after getting to know the megarich Annika and Jensen, eccentric just meant they didn’t have to put up with the usual bullshit in life.
“So back to Annika being depressed,” Jensen said. “What are you gonna do about it? Because to be blunt, it’s mostly your fault.”
I couldn’t argue with that. “As soon as the season ends, I wanna take her to the Maldives.”
“Boring. It’s gotta be bigger than that.”
“Why?”
Jensen sighed and looked at me. “I’m breaking the rules by telling you this, but you’re sort of a clueless fucker and I think you need the help. I don’t know if it’s a cultural thing or what. Annika is a romantic. She’s never been the princess in the tower who needs rescuing, but that doesn’t mean she hasn’t wanted her very own prince to sweep her off her feet and prove he can be her own true love for the rest of her life. She believes in that because she knows it exists. Our parents have that kind of love. Our brothers have found that kind of love. That’s why she’s been depressed. She’s found her man and she can’t share the happiness with anyone in her life who matters to her. She’s had to hide her joy for what . . . six months? Maybe she’s questioning whether the joy is real.”
“It’s real.”
“Prove it.” He held up his hand to forestall my question on asking him how to do that. “Figure it out yourself. But whatever you decide to do? Prove it to her beyond a shadow of a doubt.”
How was I supposed to do that? And how soon did this need to happen? We were in the last two weeks of regular season play and I was freakin’ exhausted. Although I was having a great year, the team wouldn’t have a postseason. The only upside to that? At least I wouldn’t have to grow a beard during the playoffs. I hated that tradition.
Jensen said, “Pass the popcorn. Am I kicking your ass at Madden or what?”
“Dream on, baller. One game and then we’re playing—”
“Broskys!” Martin called out as he barged into my apartment. “I thought I smelled popcorn. Whatcha doin’?”
“About to play Madden,” Jensen said. “What’re you doing? Isn’t Verily back in town today?”
Martin grinned. “She got back this morning. I’ve spent the past six hours reminding my goddess why she misses me. I wore her out.” He held his fist out to both of us for a bump. “I’m too stoked to sleep, so here I am.”
At least he hadn’t said he was “too toked up to sleep.” I glanced at the clock. Annika would be off work in half an hour. “Have fun. I’m heading to Annika’s.”
“I have a can of whipped cream left over if you need it,” Martin offered.
“Martin. Remember when we talked about TMI?”
“Yeah, dude. That’s my sister,” Jensen complained.
Just to be ornery I said, “Annika prefers chocolate syrup to whipped cream anyway.”
• • •
As soon as Annika came through the door to her apartment, I was there to greet her and sweep her up in my arms.
“Oh. Hi. I wasn’t expecting you.”
“Why weren’t you expecting me?” I crowded her against the wall. “I’m here all the time.”
“If you’re in town. Which hasn’t been all that often lately,” she pointed out.
“Then by all means, we should waste time fighting about it when I am in town,” I said right before I kissed her neck.
“Axl—”
“Bed. Now.”
“Can we do this later? I have so much work—”
“The magic is gone.” I sighed against her throat. “Seven months into our relationship and you’d rather work than let me show you all the wicked things I want to do to you . . .” I gave her one last kiss before I stepped back. “So, is there something going on at work that you want to talk about?”
Annika snagged my hand. “I’m sorry. No, I don’t want to talk about work, Axl. I want you to work me over, work me up—”
I kissed her. And kept kissing her as I backed her down the hallway. First I said, “Shoes,” and reclaimed her lips as she ditched her heels. Next I slipped her tweed jacket down her arms and tossed it on the floor. Her ivory silk blouse was next, unbuttoned and fluttering to the carpet. Followed quickly by her tweed skirt. By the time we hit the mattress in her room, a tiny lace thong and matching bra were the only barriers keeping me from feasting on her.
I pushed her onto the bed and rendered the thong useless with a hard tug. I dropped to my knees and set my mouth on her. I was relentless, demanding everything of her even as I gave her everything I had to offer. My sweet, fiery princess unraveled twice. Before she caught her breath, I rolled her over and impaled her. Setting a fast rhythm that had her arching up and meeting me thrust for thrust.