Page 204 of Pucking Strong

The first three rows of the press are all seated, while the cameras are clumped behind in two rows. Floaters with cameras stand around the edges, snapping pics, while ancillary staff like me stick to the edges.

Poppy catches my eye and waves, miming a relieved wiping of her brow. Then she points to Henrik and gives two thumbs-up. What, are we playing charades right now? What the heck is going on?

“Okay, folks,” Coach Johnson goes on. “Before we get down to brass tacks and talk about the game, Henrik Karlsson is going to make a quick announcement.”

I hold my breath as Henrik leans forward, his forearms folded on the table. Like the other players, he’s fresh from a shower, dressed in his Rays warm-up kit. “Thank you, Coach.” His deep voice is like a balm. “I felt it was time to break my silence about the events that have been unfolding for me personally over the last few weeks.”

There’s a shuffle amongst the press as they eagerly await the chance to snag a useful sound bite.

“At the start of the season, I announced my marriage to Doctor Teddy O’Connor,” he begins. “I said then that I would only make one statement regarding our marriage, and I meant it. As an exceptionally private person, I consider any details about my life with my husband to be off limits for the press.”

He looks slowly down the lens of each camera as he speaks, moving from left to right. “That you have tested this again, and again, crafting your baseless stories, making a mockery of us, even dragging our friends and family into your schemes, is inexcusable. I think I speak for every person in professional sports when I say that keeping our private lives from the press sometimes feels like afull-time job. A thankless job at that. And it’s a job I’ve been failing at for weeks.”

Finally, he catches my eye. Offering me a quick nod of reassurance, he looks back to the front row of the press. “You all seem determined to get a story out of me. But the truth is, I’m a painfully ordinary person. I work hard and have no time for hobbies. I eat overnight oats for breakfast every morning, and I go home to my husband every night. Ours is not a wild life of parties and drunken debauches … unless the parties are tea parties, hosted in our niece’s closet with her dolls.”

A few people chuckle.

“If you want a story that’s really worth telling, I’m here to give you one. It’s about a brave, compassionate, willful woman named Maria Karlsson … who just happens to be my mother. She also happens to suffer from dementia.”

There’s a new shift in the crowd as they all wonder where this is going. I’m wondering the same thing.

“I’ve never made this public before,” he goes on. “With my parents’ blessing, I do so now. I do it as a warning and a plea. You see, in your rush to print salacious stories about me, you all seemed to forget that I am someone’s guardian, someone’s husband, and someone’s son. And my mother is in a precipitous decline. Anyone who has any experience with dementia knows what it’s like to watch the person you love fade away before your eyes. She has not been immune to the gossip these last few weeks. How can she, when one of you crossed the line, going to our house and forcing your way in?”

There’s an uncomfortable stir at this. Some of the press shift in their seats and start to look around.

Henrik continues to stare them down. “My mother no longer has the mental faculties to reason away the lies being told about me. So, to say these last few weeks have been devastating for us would be an understatement.” Leaning into the mic, he looks right down the lens of the closest camera. “I pray you hear this message and heed it: Our families are not here for your entertainment.”

“Well said,” says Novy, tapping the table with his fist. Next to him, Coach Johnson nods.

“I am the public figure,” Henrik goes on. “My husband is off limits. My niece, an innocent child, is most certainly off limits. And, yes, even my mother. Especially my mother. Anyone who meets her now cannot doubt that she has trouble with her memory. And yet, not two weeks ago, a member of the press forced their way into my family home, sat at my kitchen table, and used her. I will not forgive, and I will never forget.”

An echoing silence follows his remarks.

He glances my way, and I nod. God, I’m so proud of him.

Leaning one last time into his mic, he keeps his eyes on me and declares, “In honor of my mother and the scarifies she’s made to support my long and successful hockey career, today I announce that I’ve partnered with Ray of Hope, the new philanthropic wing of the Jacksonville Rays, to offer a matched donation of two million dollars for dementia care.”

A gasp goes around the room as cameras flash. I’m smiling, radiant, so full of love for this man, I could burst.

“Two million dollars will be donated to the Alzheimer’s Association,” he continues. “We aim to offer grant funding for Florida-based families like mine in need of in-home care support. Poppy St. James intends to take over the management of this fund, with plans to grow it in the future through additional donations.”

There’s a smattering of applause at this announcement.

Henrik’s smile for me is warm as he gives a nod. Then he looks back at the front row of press. “An additional two million dollars is being donated to assist in the building of Sweden’s first dementia village. This is an innovative and thoughtful approach to memory care that prioritizes autonomy as a key measure of quality of life. Autonomous living has been the sole focus for my own family as we make necessary transitions, providing the best care possible for my mother.”

Clearing his throat, he sits up and gestures to Poppy. “More details regarding these new partnerships will be made available byRay of Hope in the coming weeks. At this time, all further questions can be directed to Poppy St. James.”

“That’s me,” Poppy calls from the corner, waving to the press.

Her exclamation pops the tension in the room. Most people laugh. There’s a much more generous round of applause. Then everyone settles back into their chairs. To my surprise, Henrik nods once to Coach Johnson. Rising from his chair, he quietly leaves the stage.

Coach Johnson sits forward. “Right. So, were there any questions about the game?”

Idon’t stay for the end of the press conference. I know Henrik left to come find me. Slipping from the back of the crowd, I make my way through the tunnels, jogging towards the double doors that lead to the WAG room. Rolando, the security guard, waves me past the checkpoint with a nod.

I turn the corner to find Nat and Jayla standing with the girls in front of a brightly painted mural. A local artist crafted it to look like a watercolor painting of a school of rays on a coral reef. The girls are each exclaiming, pointing out the different fish.

Jayla sees me first. “Where did you go?”

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