Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Henrik Wynn didn't spend time at Elisabet's Wynn's manor very often, so Kalle couldn't miss this chance. He'd already overcome the first obstacle and managed to shake Veiko, his attendant, for the evening by convincing the man that he was tired and wanted to take a nap. Kalle was not a good liar, and he certainly didn't take "naps", but Veiko had nodded and left his chambers. Maybe it was one of those signs his mother Elisabet kept talking about.

He walked towards Henrik's wing of the manor with his back straight, practicing what he planned to say in his head over and over. It's just servants, he told himself. Just look them in the eye and speak firmly. You are Kalle Wynn and you are entitled to speak with your father.

Elisabet also said that he should never displease his father, so it was best to stay away from him. Kalle usually did, and it was not hard. He doubted Henrik thought of him often, if at all, much less mentioned him to his servants. So there was a strong possibility that he would not be recognized by his father's staff.

Such anxious thoughts swirled in his head as passed by the manor's wide hallways. What would he do if he wasn't recognized? He looked at the portraits of his ancestors hanging on the walls. Most of them were blonds, not redheads. His own brother Alvar, who spent a lot more time with Henrik and was in line to seize control of Wynn Enterprises someday, was also a redhead, but a much more subdued hue than Wynn. Closer to a dark blond. He didn't look like Kalle at all.

What if Kalle got into an altercation with Henrik's attendant?

No, he couldn't think like that. It wouldn't do to work himself up into a state before he even made it to his father's wing.

"I will speak to my father," Kalle said to the secretary when he arrived at the anteroom to Henrik's study. He started walking past the oak desk before getting a response.

The secretary--a tall, thin man wearing a suit that looked slightly off paired with a military-style haircut, got up from his chair. "Sir, I have to announce you."

"No, you don't," said Kalle, staring at him. "I am entitled to speak to my father."

The secretary stared at him with narrowed hazel eyes. Kalle held his gaze. He knew he looked odd, not obviously related to Henrik since his hair was a red that seemed "unnatural", according to his mother, and his eyes a glittery shade of green. Kalle had looked in the mirror many times and his eyes looked plain green to him, but a girl in school had said "glittery" once, and he'd liked it. It made him sound special.

"I need to announce you, sir," repeated the secretary.

Ugh. As always, eye contact was bullshit. Kalle turned around without responding and took two quick steps that led him to his father's office. The secretary grabbed his elbow when he walked in and Kalle wrenched away.

"I'm sorry, sir!" the secretary said.

"Kalle?"

Kalle towards the voice and found his brother Alvar.

No. Was Henrik not here? Kalle looked to the side and--yes! There was Henrik.

"He says he's your son," said the secretary.

"He is," said Alvar, much to Kalle's relief.

"You can go," Henrik said to the secretary, with a light wave of his cigar.

The man vanished without another word and, more importantly, without so much as a glance towards Kalle.

Alvar paused and his lips twitched. With a smile? Maybe. He looked more like Henrik--not just because of his hair, but around the face. His eyes were blue, which was more common than green, at least according to Kalle's research on human phenotypes. Henrik's eyes were also blue; the same shade as Alvar's, or so their mother liked to say.

Their beards were similar too, but Kalle supposed that was just grooming. Their mother had tried to make Kalle grow a beard of his own, but facial hair made him want to peel his own cheeks off. Thank goodness he could hardly grow any. Alvar still teased him about it, never mind that Kalle didn't want a beard.

Alvar's figure cut closer to Henrik's as well. He was short, stocky, and had the same famous sweet tooth as their father. Once, he'd complained that it wasn't fair that Kalle had an "effortless athlete's build".

What do you mean effortless? Kalle had said. I am an athlete.

"This one looks like your mother," said Henrik, drawing Kalle's attention back to the present.

"That's because he is my mother's son," said Alvar. "This is Kalle, Father. My younger brother."

"The special one?" said Henrik, raising and eyebrow. "Haven't seen that one in a while."

Three years and a handful of weeks, to be a little more precise. Probably best not to bring that up.

"Come closer," said Henrik.

Kalle listened and came to stand in front of the larger oak desk and held his head high. Hopefully not too high, but high enough that he looked confident. Kalle always felt confident, but he'd learned that it would signal the opposite if he hunched in on himself. Besides, it wasn't good for his posture.

He also learned that if he picked a spot close to someone's eyes--their cheekbones, their ear, their nose--it would look like was staring straight at them. Confidently. The trick was not to spend more than a couple of seconds in one specific spot, because then it was somehow too confident. Or creepy. It was also a bad idea to stare behind someone, even if whatever was behind them was more interesting, like the fancy books on Henrik's bookshelf.

"You've gotten taller and broader," said Henrik.

"Thank you," said Kalle, in case it was a compliment. "Sir."

"He's almost eighteen, Father," said Alvar.

"Good," said Henrik. "I had wondered if he would make it that far."

An insane, utterly incomprehensible thing to say, but Kalle didn't have time to dwell on it now. He opened his mouth.

"How are your studies, boy?" asked Henrik, interrupting Kalle's train of thought.

Kalle blinked carefully. He had to answer the question. He had to be polite. Up until politeness made him look weak. "They are going very well. I am close to finishing my bachelor's degree. Thank you for asking. I'm here to discuss another matter, if I could trouble you for a few minutes of your time."

"Go ahead," said Henrik.

"I would appreciate your support and permission to take a trip to Montreal, Canada in September," said Kalle. "I've been drafted to play professional hockey for the MLH."

"Really?" said Alvar.

"Yes," said Kalle. "The draft occurred thirty-six hours ago and I was invited to the Voyageurs' development camp. If I perform well, I would be offered a provisional three year contract to play for the team."

"But I've been told that you're frail," said Henrik.

"I. . . am not, sir," said Kalle. He couldn't recall anyone ever saying such a thing in front of him, and people often talked about him as though he couldn't hear them. In fact, his attendants often complained that he was too strong, certainly that he was swift. He needed to be to play hockey at the level that he wanted.

"I can confirm, Father," said Alvar.

"Still, a professional sports league. . ." said Henrik.

What? What about it?

"I will not buy you a spot on the team, boy," said Henrik.

"All right," said Kalle. "I ask only for support for the trip in September. If I'm good enough, then I will be hired by the MLH and I'm confident I will make do with the small salary provided for their players."

"And your mother knows of this?"

"No, sir," said Kalle. If he thought she would approve, he would have gone to her. "But I will be eighteen soon and I believe myself capable of making my own decisions."

Henrik looked at Alvar. Some kind of nonverbal communication occurred between them, and then Henrik looked back at Kalle. "I suppose every man deserves an opportunity to prove himself. Tell Veiko to bill me for any expenses. Be sure not to embarrass me, boy."

"Kalle, if you insist on doing this, does it have to be in September?" his mother Elisabet asked him later in a despairing tone. She was a slight woman with hair as red as Kalle's, though it was going white and so she dyed it closer to Alvar's tone. Her eyes, much like Kalle's, were an off-putting green. "The month is crucial for my philanthropic organizing. I simply can't take any time off."

"There's no need, Mother," said Kalle, without looking up from his laptop screen. "I will go with Veiko."

Elisabet went on to protest that it was simply too dangerous for him, like he was going to an active war zone instead of a famous North American city. Kalle rarely knew who she was talking about when she went off about his supposed "difficulties". So he was a little awkward around people (disinterested was a better word, in his opinion, which hardly anyone asked for). With Veiko's assistance, he was perfectly capable of handling his own affairs.

Kalle suffered from stomach pains, but only if he strayed away from the meals that Veiko prepared for him, which he supplemented with plain protein supplements designed by a team of dietitians Elisabet herself had contracted. The feeling of unusual material rubbing against his skin bothered him, but that was why he stuck to the same fabrics in the same styles. He disliked unpredictability, so he followed the schedules he had designed with his coaches.

As for his academic development, that offered no real difficulties, though it was very boring. He'd eliminated his primary educational requirements by the time he was fourteen, hoping to have more time for hockey, but Elisabet had insisted that he needed a university degree. Kalle chose statistics in order to get through his hockey analysis faster and completed the degree in three years.

"And how will you make friends?" Elisabet asked him.

"I don't need friends, Mother," said Kalle, as he scanned a detailed map of Montreal.

He'd managed to play hockey for years in Finland without learning much more than his teammates' names, and even that had been mostly superfluous. He needed to know their positions, and whether or not they were any good. There had been friction occasionally, of course, but no coach wanted to offend Henrik Wynn's son. It was at least part of the reason Kalle was so determined to go to North America and play for the MLH; he suspected his father's money would mean less there. Not nothing--money never meant nothing--but less.

It would help him learn if he was any good. Kalle had assumed so since he won so often, but then another player had spat at him that everyone in the country was afraid to beat him in case it made his daddy mad. Something about the way he'd said it made Kalle wonder if it had been more than just another empty chirp. It'd been the last push he needed to declare for the MLH draft.

As much as he hated to admit it, his mother's concerns were not entirely unwarranted. Kalle did not like new places, new people, or new rules. He certainly didn't like his teammates, not in any team he'd played for, but unfortunately he couldn't play hockey on his own.

And Kalle loved hockey, especially the MLH. He watched every game religiously, compared his own performance to their metrics, and asked his mother to contract former MLH players and coaches to train him. All of them had said he could potentially play professionally, but like his mother always pointed out, of course they would say that. And then they added that he would need their unique, invaluable training. They just wanted his father's money. Wasn't that more likely?

Yes, Kalle hated to admit.

Even his point production was suspect in an environment where other players were afraid to beat him. The only way to know for sure if he was any good was to go somewhere far away. Like the MLH. So Kalle had declared for the draft.

He'd been drafted by Henry Theriault in the later rounds, new head coach for the Montreal Voyageurs. The man had won led three teams to the Stanley Cup during his long career. He was known to be quite picky about which players he selected, but also prone to making wilder choices in the draft itself. Once a rookie made it past his training camp, though, Theriault tended to hold on to them for so long as the MLH salary cap allowed. In interviews, he insisted that building a winning hockey team was impossible without the patience necessary to let players develop their talent.

He was independently wealthy, though not in the way Henrik Wynn was. Few people in the entire world were. Famously, he'd taken a significant salary cut to coach the Voyageurs since he was a Montreal native. In multiple interviews, he'd said that he considered it his life's calling to bring the Stanley Cup to Montreal.

At this point in my life, more money is not what I'm looking for.

In other words, if Theriault said that Kalle was good, then it was true.

Training camp was extremely hard, the hardest thing that Kalle had ever gone through in his entire life. There had been rough moments in the past with the doctors who'd try to figure out why he was such a picky eater, why all sorts of food made him gag and vomit, but nothing quite like this. By which he meant the stink of the locker room and the . . . atmosphere of the communal showers in Montreal.

When he arrived at camp, Kalle had decided to "fit in". Not socially, of course. That was a lost cause. But he was trying not to make too many demands that set him apart from the other players in a negative way, like refusing to use the communal showers or asking for a private room to change in and out of his gear. He was even wearing the same gear that the rest of the players were using, not the custom made versions he'd been using since his early teens. Luckily, the Voyageurs forked over the money for good quality cloth.

The first week had been rough, to the point that Kalle's agility had taken a hit. The coaches had noticed; Kalle was sure of it. Coach body language was the only type he could interpret, and they had not been happy with him.

It was better by now, near the end of week two. Though the stink of body odor and rising steam in the showers was still miserable, at least Kalle knew what to expect. More or less. He made sure to rush to the showers right after practice so he could get the shower head at the farthest end--the one next to the wall--so that he only had to worry about someone taking the one on his other side. If he was lucky and showered quickly, he might make it out of there before the majority of the team filed in.

The first week, Kalle had gone for the shower head closest to the exit, but he'd had to contend with the guys walking past him. Once, one of the veteran players had reached over to pat his shoulder.

"Nice pass today, kid," he'd said. Or something like it.

Kalle had hardly heard it. The feeling of a sweaty hand on the bare skin of his shoulder, no matter how brief, had felt like being prodded with an electrified cattle prod. So. The shower head at the end of the communal showers was the better option, even if it exposed him to faint droplets of liquid when he was making his way out to the locker room proper. It was okay. It had to be okay. Kalle always took a supplemental shower the moment he made it back to his apartment. A proper one.

"You're doing well, Master Kalle?" asked Veiko, the man who'd been taking care of Kalle for as long as he could remember, one evening at the beginning of the third week.

He'd been hired by Elisabet shortly after Kalle learned to walk since, according to her, his nannies hadn't been able to keep up with him. You were always a stubborn boy, clever and mean, and prone to hiding. We just needed someone strong enough to manage you.

"Yes, everything is fine," said Kalle, sparing Veiko only a glance as he kicked off his shoes and ran to his personal bathroom. Everything had to be okay. Kalle had no plan for his life if it turned out that he couldn't play hockey.

He was as calm as he could hope for about an hour later, when he finally made it out to the dining area. Kalle would've preferred to stay in his room, but he absolutely needed to eat no matter how much his belly protested. He needed the calories for tomorrow's drills and--perhaps more importantly--he didn't want Veiko reporting to his mother that he might be having a gastrointestinal flare up.

"Master Kalle," said Veiko, as he set down a plate of steamed carrots, white rice, and plain chicken breast down on the table. "You remember that we can return home whenever you've had enough, correct?"

Kalle held Veiko's gaze. He noticed that the crow's feet at the corner of the man's pale blue eyes were very prominent and was a little surprised. Whenever Kalle thought of Veiko, he remembered a smooth face accompanying his placid expression. Always placid, whether he was passing Kalle some food or holding him down so other people could force pills down his throat. Or inject him with something.

"I remember," said Kalle, picking up a fork.

He always thought of himself as small when he thought of Veiko, but was he? Still?

Veiko was strong, broad shouldered, and agile. During his free time, he used one of the gyms at the Wynn compound to maintain his health and fitness. When Kalle was strength training, he often served as a spotter and even helped correct Kalle's form. On the treadmill and out on the running trail at the compound, Veiko could still best Kalle's time. He wasn't a faster skater, of course, but that didn't matter off the ice.

It wasn't needed whenever he needed to hold Kalle down.

Which had not happened in years. Kalle knew how to control his reactions now. Certainly, he knew the situations when he wouldn't be able to, and he made sure to avoid them. The last time Veiko had needed to restrain him had been more than three years ago, at a school event that had grown overwhelming.

Kalle had grown into what was probably his full adult height since then, not mention put on significant muscle. He was, or at least was on the verge of becoming, a professional athlete. He wasn't a small, screaming, out-of-control child spitting at nannies or teachers anymore.

Veiko, on the other hand, had wrinkles now. Maybe Kalle would be able to fight back.

In the middle of the third week, Theriault had played him with Shane Hollander and Hayden Pike. No one was more surprised the by call than Kalle himself, but luckily, he had what some people called a "resting bitchface" when they thought he couldn't hear them. Or maybe that he couldn't understand English. Kalle hadn't understood those particular words, not exactly, but he'd liked what he'd learned when he looked up the expression.

"Hollander, center," Theriault barked. "Pike, right." He looked at Kalle. "English?"

"Yes, sir," said Kalle.

Theriault nodded and gestured at the ice. "Left."

Kalle took position and listened carefully. More than usual. Hollander was the Voyageurs' future; his spot on the team was guaranteed barring a freak accident. Pike had been a Voyageur for three years already and was one of the more promising young forwards in the Eastern conference. Being tested on the same line as them was the first clear sign that Kalle might not be wasting his time here.

It was the best day of training camp by far. They practiced against Gilbert Comeau, who had John Beaty and Aubrey Williams as his wings, and manged to score six times; Hollander three times, Pike twice, and Kalle also managed two goals. After the second one, Pike skated closer to him and threw an arm around him. Kalle was so thrilled that the unexpected contact didn't even make him want to throw up. Maybe because Pike hadn't touched his skin.

No, it was because the ice made him feel like his body wasn't a cage.

For the next couple of days, Theriault had him on the same line as Hollander and Pike to similar results. On the night of day three, Kalle stood under the spray of warm water from his personal shower at home and made himself consider the possibility that he was dreaming. Maybe he'd gotten a concussion and his mind was comforting him as he died.

Maybe Veiko had grown tired of this little stunt and put something in one of his meals. Maybe he was on a plane back home, where Elisabet would make sure he never got within ten yards of his father ever again.

No, it was real. Kalle got all the reassurance he needed the next day, when he was intercepted by a pair of CHL players at the rink's gym.

"Well, if it isn't the little retard," one of them said, cracking his knuckles.

Right, so he was angry. Kalle spared him a glance--tall and broad, mid-twenties, this was likely his last chance for a spot at an MLH team and he was not doing well. Jealousy, then. He was flanked by the other draftee Theriault had selected, a large boy who had been trying for a position as D-man. He would not get it, but since he was hardly competing with Kalle for one, it was rather unfair that he also seemed pissed off.

Kalle tried to walk around them.

The older guy grabbed his shirt and opened his mouth. Kalle elbowed him, taking advantage of the brief shock he caused to wrench away and rush towards the weights.

"Fucker!" yelled the wannabe D-man. He would be a much better fighter.

Kalle grabbed the lightest weight and stood behind the rack. The mirror was close, creating a small passageway, which might or might not work out for him. Less room to maneuver, but also less room for them both to grab at him.

"Little bitch," said the vet. "We just want to talk."

"I don't want to talk to you," said Kalle. "And I can defend myself." These assholes were nothing compared to Veiko.

Much to Kalle's relief, he didn't have to test that theory. Shane Hollander chose that moment to enter the gym, followed by his usual entourage.

"What's going on?" he asked.

"Shane!" said the vet. "We're just talking."

Kalle committed the guy's face to memory, set down the weight, and walked out from behind the rack. He left the gym without a word, not looking at anyone in the face. His resting bitchface had likely morphed into a full blown scowl. Success attracts envy, he told himself. Inside his head, he sounded like Alvar.

That day, Theriault had him play as Hollander's right wing. Kalle hated to start at any position besides left wing, but it wasn't one of the things that made him freeze up. Thank God. He didn't want to imagine how Theriault would react if some low tier prospect started arguing with him in the middle of practice.

Though starting in a different spot than usual threw him off his game a bit, the day still went well. Hockey was so fast, even during scrimmages, that Kalle had no choice but to be drawn into the rhythm of it. He wanted to be; it was the only time that being a group didn't feel like torture. It was, he bet, what most people felt like all the time.

By now, he was used to how Pike and Hollander moved. When they moved. Pike liked passing--yes, right then, he accepted a pass. Kalle skated past the D-man hopeful who'd tried cornering in the gym, passed to Hollander. And score! He arranged his face into a grin and looked at his bully.

Sometime later, Theriault called for a thirty minute break. Players broke off into their little groups. Kalle skated to the edge of the rink and fell to his knees, intending to stretch. Honestly, he wanted to take off his helmet and lay flat on his back so the ice could help him cool off, but he'd been told that it was a weird thing to do.

A few minutes later, none other than Shane Hollander himself skated over. "Hi," he said, smiling down at Kalle.

"Hi," Kalle responded automatically, looking around for Hollander's friends.

They were not with him. Pike was play wrestling with J. J. Boiziau while Patrice Drapeau and John Beaty looked on with bored expressions. At least Kalle assumed it was play wrestling. Gilbert Comeau was trying to separate them, but he was also chuckling.

"Listen," said Hollander. "The guys and I are gonna watch a movie tonight and I was wondering if you'd like to join us."

"Why?"

"Uh. . ." Hollander seemed to taken aback. He stared down at Kalle with furrowed eyebrows. "What do you mean?"

"Why were you wondering?" said Kalle.

"Uh. . ." Hollander closed his mouth. They stared at each other for a few moments. "I mean. . . it's like. . . a thing that you say. In English, it's a way to invite someone to hang out."

Kalle kept looking at him.

"I mean, do you want to hang out with us?" said Hollander.

"No," said Kalle.

It was almost funny, the way Hollander's mouth fell open. Shock. Kalle could recognize expressions sometimes.

"Um," said Hollander, raising a gloved hand, as if to touch his face. Then, he looked at the glove let his hand drop. "Wow, okay. I'll just go back to my, uh. . . group."

"No, wait," said Kalle, getting up. In all honesty, he wanted to go home and stand under his shower head until his usual headache eased, but he'd drawn some bullies' attention. If possible, he should stick with a crowd. "I misunderstood." Let Hollander think Kalle wasn't fluent in English. "What movie?"

"I don't know," said Hollander. "Comeau said something about Vikings. Or ninjas. Something like that."

"Okay," said Kalle. "Where?"

"I'll come find you after practice," said Hollander.

Hollander Family

Yuna Hollander
honey how did it go?
did you invite that boy to the movie?

Shane Hollander
yeah
it was fine

David Hollander
great
I hope you're less worried about him

Shane Hollander
yeah I think I was fretting for no reason
Drapeau looked him up and it turns out his family is ultra wealthy

Yuna Hollander
most MLH prospects come from well off families

Shane Hollander
no I don't mean well off
he's from the third richest family in Finland

David Hollander
in *all* of Finland?

Shane Hollander
yeah like third or second
something crazy like that

Yuna Hollander
is he a Wynn as in from Wynn Enterprises?

Shane Hollander
looks like
he doesn't talk much but he's mentioned an "attendant"
he said that MLH players get a "small salary"

David Hollander
that sounds wild
what does his family do?

Yuna Hollander
a lot of things but I imagine most of their money comes from owning a majority Finland's supermarkets and grocery stores

Shane Hollander
that checks out
anyway Comeau says he's probably weird because he's like modern royalty or something

David Hollander
I hope he's not rude

Shane Hollander
nah
I mean kind of?
but he's not mean or anything just really quiet
and *really* good at hockey

Yuna Hollander
he is?
I'm surprised we didn't see more of him in junior majors

Shane Hollander
I asked him about that and apparently his family made him go to college
he has a degree in statistics

David Hollander
how old is this boy?

Shane Hollander
18
anyway I think Theriault is gonna pick him
hopefully for my line because it's insane how good he is
I can't wait to face off against Rozanov with this guy on my left