Page 10 of Pucking Strong

“Karlsson?”

“Fuck, what happened, bud?”

He lets out a wail that pierces my very soul. His expression crumbles as the phone drops from his hand, clattering to the floor. Then he falls forward off the bench, catching himself on the floor with his hands, shoulders wracked with sobs.

Fumbling the towels into the laundry cart, I cross the room to his side.

“Henrik, what happened?” Paulie asks again.

“You sick, man?”

“You hurt?”

“Everyone, get back,” I shout, dropping to my knees.

The guys all step back, casting worried looks and shrugs at each other.

I place a hand on Karlsson’s shoulder. “Hey, can you tell me what happened?”

He lets out a grief-stricken cry and a string of words in Swedish I can’t understand. Then his arms are around me, face pressed to my shoulder. All I can do is hold him, my hands splayed across the warm skin of his back.

Caleb stands sentinel at my shoulder. “Does anyone know what the hell happened? Did he say anything?”

“Nah, man.”

“I think he was on the phone,” someone says.

Woody steps up next to Caleb. “You know Karlsson, Cay. He never says a word about anything.”

The new forward—I think his name might be Tremblay—picks up Karlsson’s phone. “Hey, he was listening to a voicemail,” he announces to the room. He holds the phone up to his ear. After a moment, he frowns. “The guy’s talking in Swedish. I can’t understand him.”

There’s a flurry of talk before a tall blond steps up, holding out his hand. “Give it to me.” I recognize him from the night I haunted the team roster. His name is Christian Lindberg. They just traded him in from the Golden Knights. Like Karlsson, he’s a forward. And he’s Swedish.

He puts the phone to his ear. As I watch, his expression changes, shifting from curiosity, to concern, to horror. Slowly, he lowers the phone, muttering something in Swedish that sounds like a curse.

“Well?” Caleb presses. “What happened?”

Lindberg locks eyes with me. I already know the news is bad. Feeling protective of Karlsson, I splay my hands wider across him as I try to cover him. But I can’t keep him safe from this. The damage is already done. All we can do now is try to help him pick up the pieces.

“The voicemail is from a hospital in Stockholm,” Lindberg announces.

Paulie steps in closer. “What happened?”

Lindberg’s gaze is solemn as he looks down at Karlsson. “There was a car accident last night. His niece is in critical condition.”

“Oh, shit,” someone mutters.

“Fuck, man. I hope she’s okay,” says another.

But I’m still looking at Lindberg, studying the somber expression on his face. “There’s more.”

He looks from Karlsson to me. Then he nods.

“Just say it,” I murmur.

Lindberg holds my gaze, tears rimming his eyes. “His sister is dead.”

Ifeel numb. Nothing feels real. Not the chair I’m sitting in. Not the glass of water someone put in my hand. Not the man sitting across the desk from me. His mouth is moving. He’s speaking words in a language I know, but I can’t will myself to care.

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