Page 18 of Left-Hand Larceny

He can’t fool me. I literally work for the team. Pro-athletes or not, these guys need a lot of fuel. I’ve seen several players wipe out a pound of fries in under thirty seconds. It’s not a meal plan that stopped him from ordering something, but I feel better if he’s sharing. Maybe because I’m no longer worried that he’ll feel like he needs to hang around just because I’m not done eating. Or worse, that he’d leave me here to finish by myself.

Teach me to be friendly.

That’s what he said back in the gym. In hindsight, I don’t know if I find it hilarious that we both ended up on the sticky rubber floor, staring at each other as we both tried toclaw our way back from miscommunication central, or if there’s something wrong with the two of us. A round of prophylactic antibiotics might be in order too, judging by what’s probably on that floor.

He’s barely said a word since we sat down. A simple “no thank you,” to the waitress might have been it. Come to think of it, he doesn’t say a lot in public. Ever. It took ages to get him to open up to me. Ages, and patience, and a million word puzzles dangled in front of his beautiful face.

“Would you prefer that I ask yes/no questions? That we text? Or do you just want to break down what you need from me?”

He frowns across the table, fingers shredding his paper napkin.

“I’m saying yes,” I clarify, “but I need some more specifics. I want to make sure that I can actually be useful.” Feelingnotuseful might be right up there with brain freeze, or a nasty Charlie horse.

The lines on his forehead deepen, as if he disagrees I might ever be un-useful. His faith in me is flattering. Cute. But probably also misplaced.

One big hand disappears under the table and reappears with his phone. He taps at the screen, texting with his thumb, glancing between the screen and my face over and over. I know he’s sending me a message, even before my phone buzzes against the tabletop. I smile and reach for it, holding his gaze even as he tries to drop my eyes.

Ólaffson:

Ask whatever you want to know.

I can text my responses. Make things easier.

This time I frown. It almost sounds like he means easier for me. I don’t need that. I want this to be comfortable for him. I shake my head.

“I’ll ask, but you answer however you want to. It doesn’t bother me.” His throat bobs as he swallows, his head turned to look out the dirty window across the asphalt of the parking lot. “I like talking with you, Ragnar.” When he whips around to pin me in place, I shrug and my smile widens. “In whatever form it takes.”

“I n-need you to h-help m-m-me be m-more comfortable a-around other people. In p-p-public.”

I nod.

“Right, so you’ll help me with statistics—that’s the class I’m struggling with—and I’ll help you be in public?” I shake my head. “I’m not sure that’s a fair trade for you.”

His head tips to the side like a puppy.

“It will be obvious if your help works. My grades will go up.” If my skin was lighter, I’m sure I’d be tomato-red right now. I bite my lower lip, scraping the soft skin with my teeth. The sting is grounding. I do it again. “Being social, or comfortable in crowds, is a less… tangible thing.”

He nods once, like he understands, and then lifts his phone, waving it at me. This time he holds the phone in both hands, using his thumbs to type out the words. His hands are big, his fingers long. I pop another fry into my mouth and watch the sinews flex under his pale skin. There is a smattering of freckles along the tops of his knuckles, but they don’t extend down his fingers. His nails are short and neat. I curve my own hands under so he won’t see my ravaged cuticles. I can’t seem to stop myself from chewing on them. No matter how hard I try.

He puts his phone face-down on the table as mine buzzes, watching me as I open his message.

Ólaffson:

Being in the spotlight is uncomfortable for me.

I don’t know what to say or how to act. It doesn’t come naturally to me, and by the time I figure out the correct response, it’s too late. Everyone has moved on.

Instinct has me reaching across the table, gripping the fingers of his left hand with my own. Instinct and something more than that. Kinship. Understanding. I keep reading.

Ólaffson:

I’ve never cared what people thought of me or my actions. I like my own company. I’m here to play hockey, and I do it well. But it’s been brought to my attention that if I was more approachable, if I could better connect with fans, it would open more doors for myself which would help my family.

There’s more to the text, but I need to ask now, “What do you mean, brought to your attention?” If the anger in my voice is obvious, it’s because I’m angryforhim. How can anyone even imply that he isn’t… that he needs to…. I don’t even know. I’m just frustrated. Annoyed. Something.

“I l-lost a s-s-sponsorship,”

His words are quiet, a barely there rumble, but I hear what he isn’t saying too. He used the word “lost,” implying it’s a company he’d been working with previously. That means they’d know him, his personality, what he’s like. That also means the quiet exterior wasn’t a problem before now. I swallow past a painful lump at the base of my throat. It wasn’t an issue until he was hurt. Until they doubted he’d perform at the level they expected.

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