Page 23 of Crossing the Top Line

Chewing the inside of my lip, I consider how to proceed next. I know what I’ve seen, the way Oli and Eli are within arm’s reach of each other almost constantly. The way Eli yields to Oli’s alpha growls. The lingering looks when they almost seem to speak without words. Could they just be really good friends and close roommates? Maybe. But I’m pretty sure it’s more than that.

“Complicated?” I ask hesitantly, trying to catch his eye.

He looks up at me from lowered brows, and I shift back subconsciously from the heat in his eyes. But his expression softens almost immediately, and he lets out a long sigh.

“Yeah. It’s…we’re…yeah, it’s complicated,” he says, starting and stopping multiple times before his words fade to a mumble.

I nod solemnly, picking up a stray shrimp that’d fallen out of my po’ boy and popping it in my mouth.

“Well, I’ll be here if you ever want to swap stories of complication. And regardless of all that, whatever is between you clearly works. Y’all are something else on the ice,” I reply, casually changing the subject to something safer.

Oli considers me for a moment before nodding, picking up the second half of his sandwich.

“Thanks, Tori,” he says, tone warmer than I’d expected.

We lock eyes for a heartbeat, and an understanding seems to slide into place between us. We both have our own tragic backstories, and maybe one day we’ll get to share them. But for right now, this is a lunch date between two people who are getting to know each other. No need to trauma dump so soon.

I hum around my mouthful of food, and just like that, the awkward moment passes, and we slip into a conversation about hockey and the team that lasts through the rest of the meal and all the way back to the arena. And as I watch him head back toward the locker room to get ready for the afternoon session, I find myself surprisingly sad to watch him go.

It’s only once I’m back at my desk and working again do I realize that’s the longest I’ve spent with an alpha one-on-one since I left Michigan. And what’s more, I actually had a good time.

But he’s a hockey player,I remind myself.

And with the disappointment from that thought sitting sour in my gut, I close out Oliver’s interview footage and turn my attention to the hype posts for this weekend’s game.

There’spalpableexcitementinthe air at lunch today, and it has me bouncing on the balls of my feet as I wait in the buffet line. It’s the last pre-season game of the year, and the anticipation for our home opener builds with each passing hour. The roster still hasn’t been fully set in stone, but we’re close. And that’s doubly exciting for me and Oliver.

“You’re making me tired just watching you,” Jari Hakala comments in our shared native language, chuckling lightly as he throws me an amused look over his shoulder.

I grin bashfully, settling my fidgeting before I step up to accept a scoop of roasted potatoes.

“Are you nervous?” he asks, still speaking in Swedish.

I shrug. “More excited than anything. Haven’t played against this many major league teams since I left the Liiga,” I reply.

Jari and I have had a few conversations on the ice and in the locker room, and I’ve found he speaks more frequently in Swedish than English even though he’s fluent in both. I’d spent so long learning English to fit in on North American teams that I’d found myself struggling to remember some of the more obscure vocabulary at first, but it’s come back quickly.

“It’ll be fine, little squirrel,” Jari says warmly before turning back to the buffet.

I smile at the friendly nickname, snickering under my breath. He’d assigned it to me after he overheard my on-ice chirping during a scrimmage, and we had to stop play because he couldn’t stop laughing. A squirrel that won’t stop chattering, he’d said after the fact, the best sort of pest to unleash against your rivals.

“Flirting without me?” Oliver breathes into my ear, making me jump from the sudden proximity.

I shoot him a half-hearted glare before shuffling down to the protein station, the last on the line. I pause as I see Alexi Volkov, another winger on Dallas’s line last year, holding his almost-full plate in front of him as he stares at the warmer containing a handful of steaks. He doesn’t look up at first, but as the moment stretches and he doesn’t move, I clear my throat.

“You gonna take one?” I ask, trying to keep any judgement out of my voice.

He grunts and shakes his head. “Too many. Bad luck,” he answers, voice thick with an Eastern European accent.

I look back to the steak, brow furrowed in confusion. There are eight left, too many for the kitchen to refill the tray, but the line behind us is growing restless. I don’t know what sort of superstition Alexi has, but I’m not exactly in a place to criticize. I sigh, laying on as much fake reluctance as I can.

“I’ll take one for the team. Mymormortaught me a good countercharm,” I say seriously, reaching out and taking a steak.

Alexi looks up at me as I place it next to my veggies and potatoes, giving me a smile before plucking the tongs from my hand and taking his own steak. He doesn’t say anything else before walking off to find a seat. I step out of the way, scanning the area quickly as I try to decide where to sit.

We’re in one of the larger open spaces in the tunnels under the stands, the wide doors that allow the Zambonis out onto the ice brightening the otherwise dim area. A dozen or so folding tables have been set out with plastic chairs, with most of the team and the support staff scattered in small clumps. All the coaches are together at one table near the back, heads together in deep conversation, the broadcast team at another with Gene Robichaux holding court. But then I spot a lone figure at a table in the corner and my feet move before I consciously make the decision.

Tori looks up as I set my plate down across from her, pulling the chair out and plopping down with a contented sigh. She’s more done up today than she was at the barbecue, but it’s not an unwelcome change. Her hair falls around her shoulders in loose waves, her mismatched blue eyes bright against the warm, smokey eyeshadow she’s expertly applied. She’s wearing the team colors, but I hardly notice her clothes, as I’m so entranced with her face.

---