Page 189 of Pucking Strong

“Hanna, look,” Karro calls in Swedish, waving her uncasted arm in the air. “It’s all better now!”

“Look at you,” Hanna coos, finding her a smile. All the while, she casts me a look of warning that has my stomach sinking.

“What is it?” I say, reaching in my pocket for the keys. “Why are you here so early?” I pause, glancing around. “And why are you waiting in the hall? Did you lose your key?”

“I umm … no. I guess I didn’t feel right about just going in.” She clutches to her phone. “Is Teddy not with you?”

“He had to cover someone at work.”

She steps back. “I can—I think I’ll come back later then.”

“No. Stay.”

Her eyes go wide at my command, giving me all the proof I need that something is definitely wrong.

“Come in,” Karro calls in English as I push her inside the apartment. “We were gonna make you kanelbulle, but then we had to go to the hockey, because someone lost an elbow glove. And then I went to play with Emma!”

Hanna glances from Karro to me. Sometimes, between the constant switching from English to Swedish, things get a little lost in translation.

“You’re welcome to come in,” I assure her, gentling my tone. “Then you can tell me what’s wrong.”

“So you haven’t seen then? You don’t know?”

“Seen what?”

She glances from me to Karro again.

Groaning, I take the hint. “Start the coffee. I’ll get her settled in.”

By the time I have Karolina on the couch with a plate of apple slices and a princess movie, Hanna is in the kitchen, clutching to a mug of coffee. “What happened?” I say again, taking the other prepared cup.

“Oh, Henrik,” she cries. “It’s so awful. How have you not heard?”

“Show me.”

Setting her mug of coffee on the island, she unlocks her phone and hands it to me. On the screen is an article:

“On Thin Ice: Inside the Public Free Fall of the NHL’s Most Private Player”

My frown deepens as I read. It’s a scathing exposé article on me. In the first paragraph, the author calls me a “loose cannon” anda “PR liability.” There are pictures from Rip’s last night—Teddy tucked under my arm, grainy photos of Lamont exiting the bar with a bloody face.

Between my fight on the ice with that rookie during the Golden Knights game—yes, there are pictures of that too—and my brawl with Lamont last night, they’re calling me “violent” and “dangerous.”

Somehow, the author even tracked down evidence of my recently broken endorsement deal. They argue “inside sources” say the brand broke ties with me because I was bad for their image. No mention at all of our scheduling conflict. Every word of the article is malicious, salacious, and completely unfounded.

“There is no truth to any of this,” I say, holding the phone out for Hanna, but she shakes her head.

“Keep scrolling.”

I flick with my thumb, letting more of the story zip past. I stop on a new set of images. One is of me, Hanna, and Karro at the ice cream shop a few weeks ago. We meet there all the time for her to take Karro before I headed off to practice. The pictures make it look like I’m kissing her.

Well, Iamkissing her, but only her cheek. And only in greeting. There’s a shot of us laughing together. Us smiling, each holding one of Karro’s hands as we walk down the pier. We look like a happy little family. Our outfits are different in every shot, which plays perfectly into the narrative that Hanna and I must be secret lovers, engaging in a weeks-long tryst.

I sigh. “Hanna, I’m so sorry.”

“Why are they doing this?” she says through her tears.

“To make money, I imagine. Why else?”

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