Page 3 of From Helsinki with Love
Crossing my arms over my chest, I lean against the hallway wall. “I’m glad you noticed.”
“So, what are your travel plans? Are you catching a flight back home today or tomorrow?”
“Yeah, I’m heading home tonight. I managed to book one of the last business class tickets to Helsinki after the game.”
Teddy nods and asks, “How long will you be there?”
“Around ten days if all goes well. I’m not allowed on the ice until January.” I shrug and look out the window toward the practice arena.
“Enjoy—it’s rare to have that type of time with your family in the middle of the season.”
“Don’t I know it.”
And I do—I haven’t been back home to Finland since July. There hasn’t been time to go back without a damn good reason. And well, my only good reason to go was in September after my dad’s car accident, around the same time our pre-season training camp started. My coaches wouldn’t have been too happy if I had missed those practices or games, so I stayed in New York even if it killed me not to be there for my family.
The life of a pro hockey player isn’t for the faint of heart. The season is grueling with its tight schedule. The regular season alone is eighty-two games long, meaning multiple weekly games. Then if your team makes it to the playoffs, it means even more games, practices, and traveling.
My team made it to the finals last season, and we won. No words describe how mentally and physically tired I was after our Stanley Cup win. It’s still something every hockey player in the NHL dreams of winning. And I have done it twice with the Woodpeckers.
But now, the season after the win is kicking my ass. And I don’t know how to fix it.
* * *
My parents and sisters have been trying to call me multiple times—I forgot to message them after the press conference last night. No wonder my screen is lighting up like the Christmas tree my mom and sisters decorate every year. Maybe I should check my pappa’s messages first. My dad is the one I don’t want to disappoint too much, especially after what happened in September. A shiver runs through me as I try to keep those thoughts out of my head.
Once I open the message thread with my pappa Nils, I immediately regret it. I know he’s fuming when he types most of his texts in Swedish and adds some random swear words in Finnish. The joy of being raised by both a Swedish-speaking Finn and a Finnish-speaking Finn was having a mixture of the two languages floating through our home. That’s also how I was able to give Westerholm a piece of my mind in his mother tongue last night.
Taking another deep breath, I decide it’s best to call him instead of texting him back. The phone rings two times before he picks up and starts talking to me in Swedish. “Look who finally decided to wake up.”
“It’s eleven o’clock here, and I’m not needed on the ice today, so I decided to sleep in.”
“I really don’t care. After the show you put on last night, you deserve to be up way earlier than that. What the fuck were you thinking? How could you let Westerholm get under your skin like that?”
Here we go. “I wasn’t—”
“That’s right. You weren’t thinking! I thought you would’ve had more brain cells than that after your fancy college degree. Apparently, they give those to anyone paying enough money.”
I want to laugh at his words. “Pappa, you and I both know that my degree has nothing to do with this.”
“No matter what, that’s not how one of the best hockey players in the league acts. What do your coaches and the management think? Imagine my embarrassment.” He sighs. I’m fairly sure he’s holding a hand over his heart on the other end, acting hurt, even if it’smycareer we’re discussing here. “I would be on my way there if I could travel in my condition. And let’s not even forget that you fought with the same guy you always do—he’s your former best friend, for fuck’s sake.”
“But Westerholm…”
“Don’t even finish that sentence, son,” his voice rises across the line.
“Okay. I guess I don’t have anything else to say then.”
But Pappa isn’t finished. “It’s time you two stop acting like sissies and get your shit together. Five fucking games…I can’t believe it—actually, scratch that. I can, after all the other nonsense I have seen in the media since September.”
“Pappa, you don’t—”
“You better be on the next plane to Finland so I can kick your ass. Otherwise, I might have to send one of your sisters to New York on my behalf.”
I know he’s kidding about the ass-kicking, as he’s in a wheelchair after his accident, but I feel like laughing at his comment would make him more furious, so I go with a neutral response. “I should arrive tomorrow afternoon.”
“Good,” is his only reply.
“We’ll continue the conversation once I’m there.”
