Page 3 of Sven

“You used to do it all the time,” Sven said, snatching it and throwing it back.

“Yeah, but I never called it that.”

“What’s the difference?” he said with a shrug. “What do you say, Murphy? Learn from the master?”

Cash just shook his head and continued to his seat on the bus.

“Okay, I’m not the master, but the master quit the game and left me hanging,” Sven called after Cash.

Later that night,he was watching a tall leggy blonde get dressed in his hotel room. Being a hockey player was good.

“Do you want my number?” she asked.

“Sweetheart, we both know what this was,” he said as he stood and pulled on his boxers.

“Just saying I had a good time. Next time you’re in town, you could look me up.”

“Sure, write it down,” he said.

It was easier that way, but they both knew he wouldn’t be using it. He’d been upfront about what he wanted, and what he wanted was a hot piece of ass to get lost in for the night.

He walked her to the door, handed her purse, and said goodbye before collapsing in bed.

The next morning, he woke up to his phone, but it wasn’t his alarm ... No. It was much, much worse.

Incoming Call: Peter Olsson.

He was tempted to let it go to voicemail, but there was no use.

“Hey, Dad,” he said as he sat up and ran a hand through his wavy blonde hair.

“I watched your game last night.”

“I know. I got your text.”

“Then, you know the goal was sloppy.”

“Like I said, I got your text,” he said as he put his clothes on. “Was there another reason you called?”

“I just wanted to check in. You’re at that point in your career where you really need to be making a name for yourself.”

“I know... you told me all about it over Christmas. I’m trying, Dad. I got a goal. I’m one of the top scorers on our team.”

“But not THE top scorer on your team.”

Sven could feel his blood boil, but he just took a deep breath. There was no use in fighting with his father, and at six in the morning, he wasn’t thinking clearly enough to do anything besides take it.

“You’re right, but Wes is the top scorer in the league. Conner and I are right there behind him. What more do you want from me?”

“I want you to get your head out of your ass and be the player I know you can be.”

He’d been hearing this since he was a kid. He was never a good enough player to be the great Peter Olsson’s son.

“I’m trying,” he said as he started to pace his hotel room. “Can I let you go? I need to start packing.”

“You need to fix your game. You need to make a name for yourself. Mine will only get you so far.”

“I have to go,” he said curtly.

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