Islands
Lars
December 2, 2010 Capitals 1 @ Stars 2
December 4, 2010 Thrashers 3 @ Capitals 1
We settled on a café that Nicky and I were both familiar with, close enough to Georgetown’s main campus that I could walk back to the dorms afterward. It was a place that the two of us had been to, but not one either one of us frequented. We sat together in a corner booth, heads down as we poured over our menus. I wondered if anyone would recognize Nicky and approach our table, asking for an autograph or picture. I’d never been out to eat with anyone remotely famous before.
After we’d placed our orders, we drilled each other on our favorite places in Georgetown. There were few places we actually agreed on. Some of the places Nicky brought up were places I’d never even heard of, and vice versa. He thought it was a wild coincidence that we’d never even crossed paths before the fan skate. I reminded him that he was a professional athlete who came to my neck of the woods to chill out or have a good time, while I was a math student. I partied on the weekends when he had games, and he hung out in Georgetown when he was in town during the week, when I was in class or studying for my classes.
Awkwardness arose between us for the first time as the conversation about Georgetown fizzled out. Nicky was great, but also pretty quiet like all the articles about DC’s hockey team in the Washington Post had advertised. But there was something about him that made it easy to sit there comfortably without words. He didn’t strike me as the dark and brooding type, but he was mysterious. I realized that the very little that I did know about him was hockey-related.
What’s your favorite city to play in? Do people in Sweden really shop at Ikea? Have you already thought about the 2014 Olympics in Sochi? Ugh. Every question that I could come up with, sitting there, sounded stupid in my head as soon as I’d even thought of it.
“Erin,” he said, “you look angry.”
I looked over at him briefly, realizing that I had spaced out. “Sorry. Nicky…do you mind if I ask what your brother’s name is?”
“It’s Kristoffer,” he frowned at me, confused. “Why d’you want to know about my brother?”
“I don’t,” I shook my head, looking down at the table, “but I—I feel like you know a lot about me after just, like, an hour. You even know where my sister lives. But I don’t really know anything about you, other than you’re a hockey player. You told me that story about your brother earlier and I didn’t even know his name.”
Nicky looked at me thoughtfully, processing my words. He spoke, “My proper name, my first name, is Lars.”
I snapped my head up, and he was staring back at me. His head was aligned at just the right angle with the light, and it was the first time I noticed exactly what color his eyes were. I’d never spent any time thinking about what color eyes Nicklas Bäckström had. But he was a blond Swede and I assumed his eyes were a light blue to match. Instead, they were a mix of yellow, green, and brown—the color of a Bosc pear.
“Really?”
“Yes,” he nodded. “Lars Nicklas Bäckström.”
I tilted my head to the side and smirked. “You don’t look like a Lars.”
“I know,” he laughed. His teeth weren’t perfect but they were pearly whites. “Is why I go by my middle name.”
Our server brought our drinks to the table, distracting us momentarily. She promised that our food would come soon. I told her thanks and Nicky nodded at her with half a smile before she walked away. In our corner booth, we were each sitting against an adjacent wall. It wasn’t a curved booth and the space between us was a triangle, literally a corner, where the two walls met. I accidentally brushed Nicky’s sweater-clad arm with my elbow when I went to unwrap my straw from its white paper packaging. I didn’t say anything about it and he didn’t either.
I sat back against the padded seat once I’d taken a sip, folding my hands in my lap. Under the table, Nicky and I were both wearing dark washed jeans, our knees mere inches from touching. If I crossed my legs, I would bump into him. Our earlier flirting had cooled off nearly as soon as it began, so I didn’t know if it would be wise.
“You have other questions for me?” Nicky asked after he’d taken a large gulp of his diet Coke. “I’ll answer for you, anything you want.”
Anything? I shook my head, afraid I would ask something completely stupid or inappropriate.
“I have a confession,” I said instead.
“Uh oh,” was Nicky’s answer with a grimace, teasing me, before he smiled again.
I sighed before I spoke. “I’m…I’m not really a Capitals fan.”
He blinked. “You don’t like hockey?”
“No—I mean—yes! I definitely like hockey. But—”
He cut me off with an exaggerated gasp and clutched at his heart dramatically. “Oh no. You’re a Penguins fan?”
“No, Nicky,” I laughed, feeling more at ease that he was joking about it. “But I’m from Denver. I like the Colorado Avalanche.”
He pursed his lips. “Well that’s not so bad. Peter Forsberg is my idol growing up in Sweden.”
I went on to tell him that it was out of luck my sister and her family were within a 30-minute drive of where I was attending university. Both of us had grown up in Colorado and gotten through high school there. My sister went to art school at MICA up in Baltimore. She met Tanner, who was from Ashburn, Virginia, there and they moved to the DC area together the year before they were married. I’d wanted to go to Georgetown since I was a sophomore in high school, and it became an added bonus that I already knew someone in Washington before I ever made the move, albeit eight years older than me.
Actually, the age difference between my sister and I was a blessing in disguise. I could count on her. We weren’t very close growing up because of all the years that separated us, but we’d gotten very close over my years at Georgetown. Rochelle had already been through everything I was going through as I came into my own and there was a ton of advice she bestowed upon me. In a sense, she’d become my best friend.
I wondered if I was getting too personal and delving too much information. But Nicky seemed to be content to listen to me talk. He looked at me with genuine interest in his pear-colored eyes, only breaking his gaze when he had to blink. When our food came, his knee was pressed into my leg, warmth radiating.
“It makes sense now,” he said later, three quarters of the way through his club sandwich, “why you—don’t take this the wrong way—why you didn’t freak out when I went to talk to you and Jaden on the way out of the park. Fans are more…aggressive.”
“It’s not like I dislike the Caps,” I answered.
“I hope not,” Nicky smiled briefly. “Especially after today.”
I gave him an encouraging smile of my own, sitting back, one hand on the seat of the booth and one dipping a French fry in ketchup. “Don’t worry. You just shot up into my Top 10.”
Then he surprised me again, quiet but composed and smooth. I almost choked on the taste of ketchup on my tongue when I felt his hand cover mine on the vinyl seat. His grip wasn’t tight, but the weight of his hand was unmistakable, fingertips settled gently on my knuckles. I hadn’t even noticed his hand swing under the table in the midst of our eating.
“Erin,” he spoke in an octave only I could hear. “I want to see you again.”
December 4, 2010 Thrashers 3 @ Capitals 1
We settled on a café that Nicky and I were both familiar with, close enough to Georgetown’s main campus that I could walk back to the dorms afterward. It was a place that the two of us had been to, but not one either one of us frequented. We sat together in a corner booth, heads down as we poured over our menus. I wondered if anyone would recognize Nicky and approach our table, asking for an autograph or picture. I’d never been out to eat with anyone remotely famous before.
After we’d placed our orders, we drilled each other on our favorite places in Georgetown. There were few places we actually agreed on. Some of the places Nicky brought up were places I’d never even heard of, and vice versa. He thought it was a wild coincidence that we’d never even crossed paths before the fan skate. I reminded him that he was a professional athlete who came to my neck of the woods to chill out or have a good time, while I was a math student. I partied on the weekends when he had games, and he hung out in Georgetown when he was in town during the week, when I was in class or studying for my classes.
Awkwardness arose between us for the first time as the conversation about Georgetown fizzled out. Nicky was great, but also pretty quiet like all the articles about DC’s hockey team in the Washington Post had advertised. But there was something about him that made it easy to sit there comfortably without words. He didn’t strike me as the dark and brooding type, but he was mysterious. I realized that the very little that I did know about him was hockey-related.
What’s your favorite city to play in? Do people in Sweden really shop at Ikea? Have you already thought about the 2014 Olympics in Sochi? Ugh. Every question that I could come up with, sitting there, sounded stupid in my head as soon as I’d even thought of it.
“Erin,” he said, “you look angry.”
I looked over at him briefly, realizing that I had spaced out. “Sorry. Nicky…do you mind if I ask what your brother’s name is?”
“It’s Kristoffer,” he frowned at me, confused. “Why d’you want to know about my brother?”
“I don’t,” I shook my head, looking down at the table, “but I—I feel like you know a lot about me after just, like, an hour. You even know where my sister lives. But I don’t really know anything about you, other than you’re a hockey player. You told me that story about your brother earlier and I didn’t even know his name.”
Nicky looked at me thoughtfully, processing my words. He spoke, “My proper name, my first name, is Lars.”
I snapped my head up, and he was staring back at me. His head was aligned at just the right angle with the light, and it was the first time I noticed exactly what color his eyes were. I’d never spent any time thinking about what color eyes Nicklas Bäckström had. But he was a blond Swede and I assumed his eyes were a light blue to match. Instead, they were a mix of yellow, green, and brown—the color of a Bosc pear.
“Really?”
“Yes,” he nodded. “Lars Nicklas Bäckström.”
I tilted my head to the side and smirked. “You don’t look like a Lars.”
“I know,” he laughed. His teeth weren’t perfect but they were pearly whites. “Is why I go by my middle name.”
Our server brought our drinks to the table, distracting us momentarily. She promised that our food would come soon. I told her thanks and Nicky nodded at her with half a smile before she walked away. In our corner booth, we were each sitting against an adjacent wall. It wasn’t a curved booth and the space between us was a triangle, literally a corner, where the two walls met. I accidentally brushed Nicky’s sweater-clad arm with my elbow when I went to unwrap my straw from its white paper packaging. I didn’t say anything about it and he didn’t either.
I sat back against the padded seat once I’d taken a sip, folding my hands in my lap. Under the table, Nicky and I were both wearing dark washed jeans, our knees mere inches from touching. If I crossed my legs, I would bump into him. Our earlier flirting had cooled off nearly as soon as it began, so I didn’t know if it would be wise.
“You have other questions for me?” Nicky asked after he’d taken a large gulp of his diet Coke. “I’ll answer for you, anything you want.”
Anything? I shook my head, afraid I would ask something completely stupid or inappropriate.
“I have a confession,” I said instead.
“Uh oh,” was Nicky’s answer with a grimace, teasing me, before he smiled again.
I sighed before I spoke. “I’m…I’m not really a Capitals fan.”
He blinked. “You don’t like hockey?”
“No—I mean—yes! I definitely like hockey. But—”
He cut me off with an exaggerated gasp and clutched at his heart dramatically. “Oh no. You’re a Penguins fan?”
“No, Nicky,” I laughed, feeling more at ease that he was joking about it. “But I’m from Denver. I like the Colorado Avalanche.”
He pursed his lips. “Well that’s not so bad. Peter Forsberg is my idol growing up in Sweden.”
I went on to tell him that it was out of luck my sister and her family were within a 30-minute drive of where I was attending university. Both of us had grown up in Colorado and gotten through high school there. My sister went to art school at MICA up in Baltimore. She met Tanner, who was from Ashburn, Virginia, there and they moved to the DC area together the year before they were married. I’d wanted to go to Georgetown since I was a sophomore in high school, and it became an added bonus that I already knew someone in Washington before I ever made the move, albeit eight years older than me.
Actually, the age difference between my sister and I was a blessing in disguise. I could count on her. We weren’t very close growing up because of all the years that separated us, but we’d gotten very close over my years at Georgetown. Rochelle had already been through everything I was going through as I came into my own and there was a ton of advice she bestowed upon me. In a sense, she’d become my best friend.
I wondered if I was getting too personal and delving too much information. But Nicky seemed to be content to listen to me talk. He looked at me with genuine interest in his pear-colored eyes, only breaking his gaze when he had to blink. When our food came, his knee was pressed into my leg, warmth radiating.
“It makes sense now,” he said later, three quarters of the way through his club sandwich, “why you—don’t take this the wrong way—why you didn’t freak out when I went to talk to you and Jaden on the way out of the park. Fans are more…aggressive.”
“It’s not like I dislike the Caps,” I answered.
“I hope not,” Nicky smiled briefly. “Especially after today.”
I gave him an encouraging smile of my own, sitting back, one hand on the seat of the booth and one dipping a French fry in ketchup. “Don’t worry. You just shot up into my Top 10.”
Then he surprised me again, quiet but composed and smooth. I almost choked on the taste of ketchup on my tongue when I felt his hand cover mine on the vinyl seat. His grip wasn’t tight, but the weight of his hand was unmistakable, fingertips settled gently on my knuckles. I hadn’t even noticed his hand swing under the table in the midst of our eating.
“Erin,” he spoke in an octave only I could hear. “I want to see you again.”
Great story!
11/16/18