Page 3 of Left-Hand Larceny

“Please? You can’t let me lose my streak.” I bat my eyelashes at him as his face flushes, but he holds his hand out and I slide my pen into it. I close the distance between us, scooching closer on the bench. His muscles tense and I slow down.

Ragnar Ólaffson is skittish. I don’t take it personally—he’s quiet, reserved, with everyone—but over the last few months working together, he’s been getting more comfortable with me. It’s the whole reason I started bringing crosswords. My dad does one every day and I’m not sure when he started comparing answers with me, but I can’t skip a puzzle and disappoint him. After a week of barely speaking to one another this summer, I thought it could be the perfect way to break the ice between me and the goalie. And Rags surprised me with just how good he was at picking out clues.Really good. Miles better than me.

His shoulders shift as he takes a deep breath. I try not to let my smile be obnoxious. We’re close enough our thighs are practically kissing-close. I wonder if he’s as focused on that almost-contact as I am. Ragnar avoids most situations that involve sharing physical space with others. I know I’m pushing the limits here, but he can’t ignore me when I’m in his space and, for reasons I don’t fully understand, I can’t let him ignore me.

I hold out the paper, waiting for him to have a firm grasp before I let go.

“Great,” I grin at him. “It’s your problem now.”

I shift my weight, putting another few inches between us, and I can see him relax as the space widens.

“It’s moonshine, isn’t it?” I pull my knees up, trying to get comfortable on this stupid wooden bench. Seriously. Who decided this should be the seating option in the trainers’ wing? It’s a park bench. Literally. And sure, there’s a name engraved on the back, someone important to the organization, but I maintain that this monstrosity would fuck up anyone’s back. No matter how many bronze plaques they mount on it.Maybe it’s job security? Fix the players up, have them take a seat, fix them up again…

I hear a whisper of sound I’m ninety percent sure is Ragnar Ólaffson trying not to laugh andclose my eyes so I don’t stare. If I make this uncomfortable, I bet he’ll never laugh in my presence ever again.

“…Brennivín…”

I smile even at the pause. A month ago, he wouldn’t have said the answer out loud. He’d have written it into the tiny boxes, his handwriting slanted and spiky, but dark. Confident. A line of capital letters. I know it drives him insane when I mix upper and lowercase letters in a puzzle. Or when I randomly throw in a cursive loop. Not that he says so—I think he’d rather gag himself with a pair of Spags’ hockey socks than say something negativeabout someone else—but I can recognize the way he takes a deep breath, presses his eyes closed. The same look he gave me over my blatant attempt to get him involved today. I love it.

I resist the urge to ask what the drink is, instead whipping out my phone and typing the name into google. I spell it wrong—there’s an accent over the second letter i—but I find a tourist-guide website explaining the history of the drink. And no, it’s not cheating. He literally already told me the answer.

“Flavored with caraway and dill,” I read from my phone. “Have you ever tried it?”

A nod.

“It says the best way to drink it is in a frozen shot glass. That’s like the best drink for a professional hockey player. Ever.”

Another nod.

“I-it is b-best with n-non-alcoholic b-beer.”

I smile, turning my face toward his.

“That seems incredibly counter-intuitive. Isn’t it called ‘Black Death’ because the alcohol content is so high?” I wave my phone at him.

“Iceland—” he leans into the first syllable, turning the country name into something beautiful, foreign, eee-sland. I sink down onto the bench, eyes closed, ready for whatever fun fact he’s going to give me next. “H-had a p-prohibition.”

“Oh my god.” I clap a hand over my mouth to stop my snort, “Brevvinín—”

“Brennivín,” he corrects.

“—Is literally Icelandic moonshine.”

He shakes his head, but he’s fighting the smile at the corners of his wide mouth. “The ban d-d-didn’t last for long, but…but… beer was still not l-legal until more recent t-times.”

“So, it’s less about the moonshine illegality of your Black Death, and more about the availability of non-alcoholic beer?”

He nods, eyes flickering from me back down to the paper in his hands. His brows tip together as he reads more of the clues.

“I can’t figure out number seven, either.”

I could. The phone is right there in my hand, but this is more fun. Not to mention I’m no cheater. Phoning a friend to finish a crossword is acceptable, googling the answers feels less so. And okay, fine, yes, I google them frequently, but that’s a deep dark secret we keep close to the vest and never admit to my dad. Not unless he admits it first.

“The s-second most popular l-language in Iceland?” He frowns, and I shiver slightly at his words. Even with the stutter, with the hint of an accent, this man could narrate erotic audio. His voice melts over me, warming me up from the inside out.

“I don’t want to sound all obnoxiously self-centeredly American, but English didn’t fit. Neither did Swedish, Finnish, Dutch doesn’t end in -ish, neither does Norwegian so…”

I hear the scratch of the pen first as he fills letters into the boxes.

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