Page 175 of Top Shelf

Viktor: You do not need luck.

I smile down at the screen.

Me: Say it anyway, beloved husband.

Viktor: Good luck, min älskling.

I press the phone briefly to my chest with a sigh, but then Zoe claps once, sharp enough to make Rhys flinch, and points at me.

“Founder face on,” she says.

I lower the phone and look at my studio.

“Okay,” I say, except it comes out thinner than planned.

Zoe laughs softly. “Breathe, babe. This is good.”

“I know,” I whisper.

At two-forty-five, I’m in black trousers and my fitted blush blazer that Mila steamed in the back room while muttering about wrinkles. My hair is down but controlled, and my makeup is slightly more polished than normal. Ebba’s ring sits on my finger, reminding me of strong women all over the world who build things from their own breath and blood. And every time I look at the stones, I feel Solvik wrap around me.

Viktor texts again at two-fifty-one.

Viktor: Can you talk yet?

Me: Literally about to get mic’d for the interview. Call you in an hour x

Then I turn it face down because the producer is waving me over and the camera operator is adjusting lights near the front window, and Zoe is in a whirlwind of delegation and terrifying competence.

For the first ten minutes, the producer asks about the studio concept. The camera pans across the reformers, the mirrors, the athletes’ testimonial clips looping silently on Mila’s laptop. I talk about the space between rehabilitation and performance, about women in sports medicine, accessible conditioning, and adaptive return-to-sport programming.

The reporter nods like she’s actually absorbing the message, and my pulse rate eases up. But then she glances down at her phone and shifts. It’s tiny—a message passed from producer to reporter and a look toward the camera operator. Zoe’s eyebrow raises from the other side of the room.

The reporter smiles at me, brighter now. “So, your husband’s interview from this morning is already getting a lot of attention.”

My breath catches. “My… husband’s interview?”

“Viktor Karlsson’s Altitude spot. He spoke very warmly about Return To Play. Have you seen it yet?”

The room tilts half an inch, and I shake my head.

“No,” I say, still smiling because cameras are cruel and women learn young how to bleed politely. “I’ve been here in the studio preparing for launch.”

“Of course. He credited you with helping him think differently about recovery after his own injury. Would you say his experience was part of the inspiration for the studio?”

My mouth opens, but no sound comes out. Zoe takes a step forward, but the producer gently lifts a hand. The camera light is still on, and the reporter is still smiling. Everyone is waiting for me to give a pretty story as Viktor’s wife, about his recovery being my inspiration.

My studio, folded neatly into Viktor’s name. A fun little footnote to my husband’s accolades.

I pull in a breath so careful it hurts, and the mic wire under my blazer feels like it’s pressing straight into my sternum.

“Viktor’s recovery gave him his own perspective,” I say. “But Return To Play was built from years of my clinical work with athletes across multiple sports. It’s for the person who’s been told they’re cleared but still hesitates—it’s bigger than just one athlete.”

The reporter nods. “Absolutely. And does it help having a husband with his NHL profile supporting the business?”

There it is.

My eyes sting, and my stomach rages, but my smile stays in place by force.