I open the front door to find Viktor Karlsson, a second-line defenseman for the Storm, leaning against the frame in his signature leather jacket, his blond hair knotted at the crown of his head. Tattoos creep up his neck from beneath his collar, starkagainst his skin tone. His expression is as neutral as always, though one brow lifts as he takes me in.
“You look like something I found at the bottom of my freezer,” he says.
His voice is deep and low-accented, clipped with his Swedish twang.
“Andyoulook like Biker Ken,” I mutter, hobbling aside to let him through.
He steps inside, whistling low as he moves into the dining room.
“I forgot how big this place was,” he says, glancing around the open-plan layout. High ceilings with concrete walls, exposed steel, and warm timber beams. It’s modern. Clean. It’s mine. “Do you have all the lights turned off on purpose?”
“I’m recovering.”
“You’re brooding. You are grumpy like a winter cow. Not dangerous, but not pleasant to look at.”
“I just had a fucking meniscus repair done.”
He hums, then wanders over to the glass doors that open onto the back patio. Beyond it, the lawn stretches to the edge of the property, just past the beehives, then drops off sharply into the view.
“You do not get lonely up here?”
“No.”
Viktor turns to face me, his head tilting. “You say it too fast.”
“It’s peaceful.”
“It’s silent.”
“Same thing.”
“In Sweden, we only go this quiet if someone is dead.” He lets out a deep chuckle. “Moreno’s expecting us,” he adds, already gesturing back toward the front door. “And I was told to not let you drive.”
I glare at him as I grab my hoodie and shuffle toward the door, following him out to his black SUV. “Why isheexpectingyou?”
“Grade one MCL. I am cleared for light activity only.” He gestures to his own knee. “Which means I am babysitter today. And you are the baby.”
I settle into the passenger seat as he starts the car. “If you call me a baby again, I’m putting you through a window.”
“No babies,” he agrees solemnly. “Only toddlers.”
The drive isn’t too far from Moreno’s clinic, even though my place feels like it’s on the edge of the city. Viktor keeps the commentary mostly factual—updates on the team, the lines, the drills. Coach Benson’s tweaking rotations, trying to make room for the younger guys. Our alternate goalie, Ethan Lee, has been stepping up. He has a good glove, but he’s not me.
“Storm is still holding,” Viktor says finally, his eyes on the road. “But it is not the same.”
I say nothing because I already know. Staring out the window, I let the ache in my leg hum alongside the silence.
When we pull into the lot outside the clinic, Viktor puts the car in park and turns to me.
“I will walk in with you.”
“I can manage.”
“Of course you can, but I am charming. The physio knows me, too. You may need that. She is… an interesting character.”
I let out a loud sigh. “Fine.”
He sidles around to the passenger door and pulls it open for me, and I gingerly slide out of the seat, situating myself with the crutches.
