Page 45 of Pucking Strong

“How did you get out?”

He’s quiet for a moment, staring up at the ceiling. “Petra saved me. She threw herself flat on the ice and grabbed the end of my scarf as I went under. She risked her life to pull me to the surface just before I drowned.”

As he shares his haunting tale, my mind fills with images of my own sisters, fearless women all. I know they would brave any danger to come to my aid. “She sounds amazing.”

“She was.”

Reaching over, I take his hand. “I’m sorry I never got the chance to meet her.”

He squeezes my hand. “She would have liked you.”

His words send my nerves buzzing in my chest. “Why do you say that?”

“Because she would have seen in you the same thing I see.”

“And what do you see?”

Even in the dark, I know he’s looking at me. I feel the weight of his full attention, the deep anchoring of his soul behind his eyes. “Ett rent hjärta,” he whispers in Swedish.

If I ever knew how to breathe, I’ve long forgotten. “What does that mean?”

The knuckles of his right hand brush over the point where my heart thrums in my chest. “It means you have a pure heart.”

“Wait—no, you have to use the straw! Only the straw, remember? You gotta pop ’em quick.” I laugh, blowing another stream of bubbles over Karolina’s hospital bed.

She giggles, her casted arm holding tight to Teddy the Bear as she waves her free arm through the air, swatting at the bubbles. She’s looking much better today. Her left arm and leg are both casted in bright purple. The bruising around her eye is fading to a mottled yellow brown. The thin cuts along her cheek and brow are healing well too.

“No, like a sword. You gotta jab,” I tease, miming the movement with the bubble wand.

“Morbror, watch,” she squeals.

On the other side of the bed, Henrik smiles and hums, sipping his coffee. Fuck, he looks good enough to spread on toast. He’s wearing a charcoal cable-knit sweater. He hasn’t bothered to shave this week, which works out well for me. His cheeks that were stubbly now look bearded. And his wavy hair is sort of flopped forward, a day’s worth of product making it stylishly messy.

I usually only ever see him in his hockey uniform or in shorts and a T-shirt. Well, and game-day fits. You haven’t lived until you’ve seen Henrik Karlsson walk off a plane wearing a tailored three-piece suit. Fuck me, that’s what I want: Swedish Henrik and game-day fit Henrik. I’ll spread one on toast and down the other like a shot.

Okay, these thoughts are completely inappropriate to have while I’m playing bubble tag with his niece.Get it together, Teddy.

Henrik gets distracted from our silly game when his phone starts to buzz. Shooting me a tense look, he answers the phone and stands. Speaking in quick Swedish, he heads for the door. Fuck, what was that look? Is it the doctor? His lawyer? In this moment, I have never regretted more than I can’t understand a word of Swedish. Looking for any distraction, I blow more bubbles for Karolina.

Things have been tense since we got back to the city this morning. We made a quick stop at the apartment to change our clothes (cue the cable-knit sweater moment). Then, almost as soon as we walked through the hospital doors, Henrik was alerted that Karolina is getting discharged today.

We should be celebrating. It means all her surgeries are done. All she needs now is time to rest and heal, and she can do that from home. The trouble is that we still don’t knowwhichhome they’ll send her to. If Henrik would just stay in Sweden, they’d approve the emergency custody order. But a new hockey season is about to start. Henrik has to get back to Jacksonville.

I know the Rays have been in touch this week, asking for updates. It sucks, but I also get it. The NHL is a multi-billion-dollar-a-year industry. They’re all for supporting family emergencies, but Henrik has a contract with the Rays. The team can’t wait for him forever. Not when so many talented guys stand waiting in the wings. Henrik’s game clock is officially ticking down the last few seconds.

I’m about to blow more bubbles for Karolina when he pokes his head in the room. “Teddy, come.”

Heart in my throat, I leave the bubbles on the bedside table.

“No,” Karolina cries.

“We’ll be just outside the door, honey.” Ducking into the hallway, I stop, eyes wide. Elin Ågren is standing next to Henrik. She looks as severe as ever. Square-framed black glasses, no makeup. Her long blonde hair is slicked back in a straight ponytail. She’s wearing a black pantsuit with a cream pussybow blouse. God, she’s like the anti-Poppy. Where Poppy St. James is all color and life, Henrik’s lawyer exists only in humorless shades of grey.

I glance between them. “What’s going on?”

Henrik glares at her. “She wouldn’t tell me until I called for you.”

“As your legal partner, this news concerns him as well,” she replies coolly.

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