“What are my options?” I ask my lawyer, a stand-up guy I’ve been working with since I first came to the United States. I was nineteen years old with dreams of being the next Bobby Orr. Bill Cantrell took me under his wing and kept an eye on me as I struggled in a new country, with no family, and too much money to carefully manage.
Bill blows out a sigh. I can tell he’s weighing his words carefully and his hesitancy causes me to grip the phone tighter. “You really don’t think you’re going to re-sign, Torsten? The Hawks haven’t given you any indication that they’re cutting you loose, have they?”
I lean back against the couch cushion and squeeze my right knee. Twinges of pain spark and my kneecap pops when I straighten my leg. I let my hand fall back to my side. The tough conversation I had with Scott Reland, the Hawks owner; Coach Phillips; and senior management just this morning, flickers in my mind. I clear my throat. “I spoke to Reland. I’m not re-signing, Bill.”
“What?” Surprise is heavy in Bill’s tone. “When? What did Reland say?”
The gnawing ache that has taken up residence in my stomach since the start of this season swells upward into my chest. I had my doubts about my ability to keep playing hockey since September. Now that we’re in April, I’ve had to swallow some difficult truths that I still haven’t admitted to anyone save for the small group of people in Scott’s office this morning. Now, Bill knows the truth too. “My knee is giving me issues again, Bill. Ever since I cracked my kneecap in that game against St. Louis, it hasn’t been right.”
“That was over three years ago.”
“Exactly. I’ve had too many surgeries, too much scar tissue. My shoulder, my rotator cuff, is fucked. It’s time…” I sigh. I never thought I’d see the day I’d hang up my skates. I guess none of us do but then suddenly, it’s here and God, it hurts. “I’m finishing this season. Reland and Coach agreed to give me as much playing time as possible during the playoffs. Of course, I’m gunning for a Cup win. Afterwards, I’ll break the news to the team. My contract isn’t officially up until the end of June anyway.”
“Jesus,” Bill breathes out. “Damn. I’m sorry, kid. Why didn’t you say anything sooner?”
I snort. “Wasn’t ready to admit it.” I tell him the truth. “I’ve spent the past seven months thinking through every goddamn scenario that would let me keep playing. But, after the last few games, the hits I’ve taken, the recovery that just isn’t coming, I know it’s time.”
“You had one hell of a career, Torsten. You should be proud.”
The corners of my mouth turn up at Bill’s praise. In many ways, he’s the closest male I have to a father figure since my father couldn’t give a shit about my career in the NHL. Still, his words fan the ache in my chest until it’s crawling up my throat and forming into a lump I have to swallow against. I had a hell of a career.
Except now that’s nearly over, it doesn’t seem like I have enough to show for it. I’m still alone in the United States with my entire family in Norway. I’m still single, no kids, no real legacy to leave behind. With the exception of a promise I made to my grandmother, my farmor, when I was eighteen, I don’t even have any commitments.
“You really don’t want to go back to Oslo?” Bill asks, cutting through my thoughts.
I think of Farmor. I think of Oslo and my childhood home. The last three visits I’ve made, Farmor was the only family member to see me, to speak to me. As much as I hate to consider a world without her in it, she’s nearly ninety. After she passes, there will be nothing left for me in Norway, save for hurtful memories and broken promises. “Nope. I want to stay here. So, please, what are my legal options?”
“Are you looking into coaching? We can try to file for a green card through Employment-Based Immigration. Your best bet would be to prove your ‘extraordinary ability’ through hockey. But it’s six to eight months processing time during which, you can’t travel internationally.”
I lean back in my chair and brush my fingers over my mouth.
“The last two times we went down this path…” Bill trails off.
“I had to get back to Norway.”
“Yeah.” Bill’s quiet for a long moment. “Honestly, Torsten, your best plan is to wait it out. Commit to the process. Unless you’re planning on getting married, there aren’t many viable options.”
Get married? I know Bill meant it as a joke but the words sting. My reputation as a well-versed flirt and perpetual bachelor do a spectacular job at concealing the truth. That I’d love to find the right woman, settle down, and build a home, a family, a future. Why else would someone date as much as I do, if not in search of a life partner?
Unfortunately for me, I still haven’t found her. After the sting of Bill’s words recede, I turn them over logically. In this case, marriage is a faster, more certain method to obtaining a green card than filing a bunch of paperwork that will most likely stall in the immigration process. Besides, I can’t agree to not leave the United States for eight months and Bill knows it. Farmor’s health has steadily declined over the past few years. Each time she calls, I jump on the first flight to Oslo. If she needs me, I’ll be by her side, immigration be damned.
“Torst? That was a joke,” Bill reminds me.
I force a chuckle. “Yeah, yeah I know. I was just thinking.”
“About?”
“My grandmother.”
“Ah. How is Greta doing?”
“Not that great,” I admit. It pains me to think about her. To accept that I’ve built a life so far from her. The last visit I made to Oslo, I could hardly believe the physical changes in her appearance. She looked nothing like the motherly figure from my childhood. Her hair is entirely white now, her body frail. But her blue eyes still sparkle with mischief and I hold on to that.
“Still your biggest fan?” Bill asks.
I snicker. “She’s still my only fan as far as the Hansens are concerned.” It’s not a secret that I’m not close with my family. Save for Farmor, I doubt they’d even remember I exist. Because the Hansens are practically nobility and I’m the black sheep who ran away to America and never looked back. Well, except for the handful of years I played hockey in Europe. It was at Farmor’s urging, an attempt to make things right with my father, to reestablish the close bond I had with my brother Anders as children. Clearly, it didn’t work and as soon as Farmor gave her blessing, I came back to the US.
“Do you want to start the paperwork?”
I sigh. This will be the third time I initiate this process. I wonder if my past two failures to stay put in the US will count against me. “What do you think?”
“I think you need to be sure. If we start this, you can’t back out again. It doesn’t look good. Are you able to commit to staying in the US until it’s sorted?”
I swear. “Let me think about it, okay?”
Bill’s quiet for a second before he clears his throat. “Okay. For now, just focus on the playoffs. If this really is your last season…”
“Then we need to win the Cup,” I agree with his unspoken words.
I hang up with Bill and stand from the couch in my swanky living room. I live in one of the penthouses in a luxury condo building on the Waterfront. Floor-to-ceiling windows wrap around the open concept of my kitchen and living room, offering spectacular views of downtown Boston and a bit of Boston Harbor.
Almost three years ago, when I turned thirty-five, I gained access to my trust fund. The one Farmor safeguarded as other members of my family tried to dismantle it. Every time I speak to her, she reminds me, “You’re still a Hansen. You’re just the best one.”
Being a Hansen typically means having unbelievable wealth thrust upon you.
It’s adhering to a strict set of expectations. It entails attending the most prestigious universities, being a member of the elitist social circles, and marrying into the right kind of family.
Unless you’re me. Apparently, being the best Hansen means being on your own.