All You Need, Page 4

  right people.

  LI’s small PR department had always been stuck under the purview of Marketing. I recognized that PR was a vastly underutilized entity. At that time, Bud Tschetter, the head of PR, was one of those old-school guys whose idea of company PR was hosting an annual community golf tournament and distributing money to charitable causes. He had no plan to promote the Lund Industries products—so the Marketing department was equally frustrated with him and his outright refusal to do anything differently.

  Fortunately, Bud’s second-in-command, Victoria Bass, had been hired by my cousin Ash, who was on the fast track to the COO position. He enacted major changes at LI, including offering Bud early retirement, splitting PR and Marketing into two different entities and naming Victoria head of PR. PR’s focus would be increasing visibility of the vast array of LI products.

  But giving back to the community had always been a cornerstone of our business philosophy. So with that in mind, Ash established Lund Cares Community Outreach—LCCO for short. For years, Ash’s mother, Priscilla, married to my uncle Monte, president of the LI board of directors; my aunt Edie, married to my uncle Archer, CEO of LI; and my mother had run the Lund Foundation from their homes, so creating one organization with dedicated office space and full-time staff fulfilled another goal.

  With Victoria in charge, the scope of the PR department changed drastically. I was still in college when the transformation began. It thrilled me to be a part of it. It really thrilled me when Victoria named me department VP as soon as I received my degree, because I’d truly earned it. And since I’d documented everything from the very beginning, I used that as my thesis project for my MBA—which I received a year after my bachelor’s degree.

  With the diversity in LI’s products and subsidiaries, every day presented a new challenge. I didn’t even mind working with my family most days.

  Except today I really could’ve done without my mother’s surprise visit.

  Selka Jensen Lund swept into my office, coiffed in an ivory-colored linen jacket and matching pants she’d paired with an open-collar silk blouse the same frosty blue as her eyes. She had secured her hair back from her flawless face with a scarf patterned in magenta, pale blue and orange swirls. A thin patent leather belt in orange-and-magenta pumps completed her ensemble.

  “Mom, is there ever a time when you don’t look like you stepped out of the pages of Vogue?” I complained good-naturedly in Swedish. I was the only one of her children who preferred to converse with her regularly in her native tongue.

  “Fresh from the bath I wear nothing but water.” She’d skirted the desk and angled herself over me to cup my face in her hands. “Come. You need tea.”

  I didn’t bother to buzz Deanna to bring it in. Knowing my mother, she’d already requested it before she waltzed into my office. I followed her to the seating area in the corner and flopped into the club chair. The unladylike move put a tiny wrinkle between her eyes.

  Her gaze started at my feet—taking in the tan-colored suede-fringed bootees—and then up to the olive green slim-fit khakis I wore. She scrutinized the pale peach blouse, shirred chiffon from the Empire waist down that hit at hip level, with the upper section composed of delicate lace dotted with tiny, shimmering seed pearls. The three-quarter-length sleeves were sheer on the underside, and the lace pattern trailed down from the shoulders to the bend in the elbows. Her eyes met mine and she smiled. “The hipster chick outfit looks very good on you.”

  Whew. Mom wasn’t ever . . . mean-spirited about my clothing style, but she did consider my appearance a reflection on her. Maybe because everyone went on about how I was her mini-me. Or that we could be sisters. For whatever reason, even at age twenty-eight I held my breath for her approval so I didn’t point out that hipster chick and hippie chic weren’t interchangeable. “Thank you. I assume you’re here to talk about my fake relationship with Axl Hammerquist?”

  “I dislike the word fake.”

  I narrowed my eyes at her. “You can’t possibly hope it’ll turn into a real relationship?”

  “No. He is a brute. Not your type at all. I’m concerned that it’ll appear as a blatant publicity ploy. So, how are you going to playact this?”

  My temper flared. PR was my job, not hers. This fake relationship—I’d call it that because that was exactly what it was—would affect me, not her. I had to dig really deep to find a look of confusion that would mask my anger. “Playact this? Didn’t you and Peter already decide everything without my agreement?”

  She waved her hand as if my concern was no concern of hers.

  I loved her. I had to remind myself of that, especially right now when I knew she’d manipulated the hell out of me. Did her sweet baby boy Jensen mean that much more to her than I did? Maybe I sounded like a petulant child, but it didn’t feel as if I was out of line. She was playing favorites. She’d get precious Jensen what she thought he deserved—even if she had to offer up her only daughter as a pretend girlfriend to a bad-boy hockey player to seal the deal.

  But what would be the point of standing up to her and refusing to fulfill this favor? Jensen’s last agent was horrible. The only endorsement deals he’d received were borderline pornographic and utterly humiliating. His contract terms sucked. Maybe Peter could propel him to the next level. I’d talked to Jens last week and he was still pumped about Peter signing him as a client.

  Yet I knew if Jensen got wind of the crap Mom had pulled, he’d be livid. He’d walk away from Peter’s agency, just to prove a point. Then no one would be better off than before this had all started snowballing. I wanted to make sure Jensen had this opportunity. So I’d just suck it up.

  “Are you even listening to me?” my mother demanded.

  I glanced over at her. “Oh, were you including me in a conversation?”

  Sarcasm and sniping are not the way to deal with this.

  “Yes. I watched the YouTube videos. You and this Axl . . . so angry with each other.”

  “If you watched, then you know that my anger was justified.”

  She shrugged. “So I am here to tell you to let go of it. Call a press conference. Tell the media that you and Axl are working things out behind closed doors and you’d appreciate them respecting your privacy.”

  “Excuse me?”

  Deanna popped in with the tea set.

  Mom poured the tea while I stewed over what to say about her suggestion—one I knew she hadn’t run past Peter.

  She was wrong. She knew nothing about PR.

  But her suggestion prompted me to follow my gut about how Axl and I should handle the repair/reveal of our relationship: one hundred percent in the public eye.

  Otherwise, what was the point? There was no reason for Axl and me to get to know each other privately. There wasn’t an “us” behind closed doors.

  That actually lifted a huge weight off my shoulders. “Thanks for the insight, Mom.”

  She smirked at me from behind the rim of her china cup. “You are welcome. Now, Edie and Priscilla and I were talking . . . and we think you need to consider changing venues for this year’s coat drive.”

  Maybe she had solid reasons, but I wasn’t in the mood to hear them today. This was my LCCO project. I had the final say, and damn it, she couldn’t steamroll me on everything.

  “No.” I offered her the same type of smile she’d given me. “It’s handled.”

  “Annika—”

  I waved her protest off. “Please. Let’s fika and have no more talk of business, yah?”

  Four

  ___

  AXL

  Brutal practice.

  Hard skating.

  Puck-handling drills.

  Three-on-one drills.

  Three-on-three drills.

  Then we suffered through the two-hour endurance workout with cardio, weights and agility training.

  We hit the showers, and I ignored the trash-talking frat-boy antics until I heard my name.

  “Hammerquist didn’t invite any of us,�
� Flitte, a four-year veteran forward, complained.

  “That’s because none of you bother to speak to him off the ice,” Kazakov, our team captain, said. “Most of you don’t speak to him on the ice either.”

  “Because he doesn’t speak English,” Dykstrand, another veteran forward, said.

  It probably made me a tool not to admit to my teammates that I spoke English. I’d kept up the charade throughout the year and a half I spent with the Chicago Blackhawks. In my defense, I wasn’t the only foreign player who feigned English illiteracy. It’s surprising what the suits with the power to make or break your career will say right in front of you when they think you can’t understand.

  “Management has provided a translator,” Kazakov reminded him.

  “That guy? He’s gone as soon as the coaches are done yelling at us. We need a translator down here, after practice. That way we would’ve known Hammerquist had access to a hot club like Flurry,” Flitte said. “I’ve been trying to get into that club for months.”

  “Wearing your exclusive Wild team gear doesn’t grant immediate access?” Kazakov asked.

  McClellan, a fellow D-man, snorted. “You’d think being pro athletes we’d get the VIP treatment. But that club reserves VIP treatment for Vikings and Timberwolves players.”

  Grumbles followed about the unfairness.

  Then Flitte said, “Hey, Kaz, do your Russian thing with Igor. See if he got invited.”

  I ducked under the spray of water and tuned them out. After I dried off and slipped on a pair of sweats for the drive home, someone said my name. I turned around.

  Flitte, Dykstrand and McClellan were standing at the end of the bench.

  “So, hey, Axl. Good hustle out there today.”

  McClellan rolled his eyes. “Great start, Flitte.”

  “What was wrong with that?”

  “A, he can’t understand you. B, you’re being selfish. Don’t just ask him for a favor. Include him.” McClellan smiled at me. “You oughta come out with us and have a beer.” He mimed drinking.

  I said, “Yah.”

  “Cool.” He whapped Flitte on the arm. “See?”

  “Fine. I got this. So, after we go out for beers”—he mimed drinking—“then we could go clubbing . . . you know, this”—Flitte threw his arms up and swirled his pelvis in a sad parody of dancing.

  “What the hell was this?” Dykstrand mimicked Flitte’s lame dance maneuver. “You looked like you just realized you had a dick and you were scared to touch it.”

  Everyone laughed. I had to pretend to look confused. But I did join in when Flitte shoved Dykstrand into the lockers.

  “I don’t gotta touch it myself. I’ve got chicks lined up around the block to touch my dick anytime I want,” Flitte said.

  McClellan stepped in front of me. “What the two dancing queens are trying to say is call us.” Then he wiggled his phone. “Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “See!” He beamed. “Communication achieved!” Then he faced Kazakov. “If he texts us in Swedish, can our phones translate it?”

  “Maybe. Or maybe you should just communicate in emojis. It couldn’t be any more confusing than Flitte’s attempt with interpretive dance.”

  After some back-and-forth and lots of laughs and frustration, I ended up with nine of my teammates’ numbers in my phone. For the first time in the six weeks I’d been training here, I felt I’d made progress toward being accepted as a team member. I appreciated their efforts, even when I felt guilty because I could’ve made it a lot easier just by . . . talking to them. It hit me then I needed to find a way to end this English noncomprehension charade.

  But all in all, it’d been a good day.

  Then I walked out and saw her waiting for me.

  I thought I’d at least have time to go home and slip on a Teflon suit before our dinner date.

  Although I had to hand it to her, she didn’t bother going the discreet route. She’d parked at the back of the Xcel Center, where the players exited. Usually security kept fans, gawkers and the press away from us during practice. How had she received special treatment?

  Hello. Look at her. No. Seriously, dude. Fucking look at her. She’s gorgeous. Any straight man would do anything to get closer to her, just in the hopes of seeing her bat those baby blues and gift him with that million-dollar smile.

  Nothing discreet either about driving a Mercedes-Benz C63 AMG. Worth five hundred ninety-two thousand krona—a rich girl’s car in any currency.

  Behind me I heard, “Who is that?” and “Come to Papa, baby,” and “Now, that’s the kind of classy babe that I’m talkin’ about,” and “First time I’d do her against that sweet, sweet car. The second time I’d bend her over the hood.”

  I adjusted my equipment bag and started toward her.

  Then I heard, “No. Way.”

  “She’s with him? How’d he score a chick like her?”

  “Wait. I’ve seen her before.”

  “Where?”

  “Dude. She’s the one in the video who chewed his ass.”

  “Think she’s his girlfriend?”

  “Yeah. I’m pretty sure she is.”

  “Why would he cheat on her? She’s almost as hot as the car.”

  “We’ve gotta find a way to hang with him.”

  I stopped a meter away from her.

  She said, “We have an audience.”

  “You were as much of a surprise to me as you were to them.” I tightened my grip on my strap. “Why are you here?”

  “Aw. Listen to you. Is that any way to greet your girlfriend?”

  My focus briefly landed on her plush lips. “How would you like me to greet you?”

  “Not like this,” she said in English. “Sometimes when you act so cold, I believe you might actually be part cyborg.”

  Cold? How about I prove how fast I can heat you up and watch those words evaporate right out of your pretty head?

  I don’t know what compulsion came over me, but after I dropped my bag, I stepped forward and braced one hand beside her shoulder on the car. Lowering my head, I whispered, “Sexy car, Attila. You know you’re here because you’re dying to take me for a ride.”

  “Ego much, Ax-hell?”

  “You drove to St. Paul. You’re the one waiting for me. Not ego. Fact.” My being this close to her made her antsy. I liked the mix of aggravation and interest pulsing from her. But I wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of a fast retreat.

  You like the way her hair smells as it flutters across your cheek. It reminds you she’s a sexy, sweetly scented woman, not an adversary.

  “Here’s the deal, puck-face. I’m going to put my hand on your chest, but only to push you back. If you get cutesy in front of your buddies and try anything? I’ll knee you in the ’nads so hard your balls will be dangling beside your tonsils.”

  I laughed. Yeah. There was her adversarial response.

  She went still.

  I pulled back to look into her eyes. “You want a verbal confirmation that I understand?”

  “No. It always surprises me when you laugh. It’s like you’re human.”

  “I’m flesh and blood and all man. Any time you want to test that? I’m right here.”

  We stared at each other. The sudden intensity between us was as powerful as a magnet.

  “You are dangerous, aren’t you?” she murmured.

  It didn’t escape my notice that her hand was still pressed against my chest. “I’m thinking that’s more of a ‘we’re dangerous’ thing, Annika.”