Page 5 of Top Shelf

“Three blocks away.”

“Do you need me to come get you?”

I look back over at Viktor. He’s still standing there with the spare helmet, blue eyes watching me. I hate how observant this man is. Which, come to think of it, is probably why he’s such a great hockey player. He can read the play ahead of time and then he—focus, Heidi, focus.

Behind him, his death machine waits in the morning sun. A gorgeous, stupid, clinically indefensible death machine.

I close my eyes. “No. Thank you, but no.”

Carina goes silent, and I open my eyes again. Viktor still hasn’t moved.

“I have a ride,” I say down the phone.

“From who?”

“Please know I’m saying this under duress.”

“Oh my god,” Carina breathes. “The cops?”

“No… it might be Viktor.”

“How might it be Viktor?”

“He appeared.”

“Like a rash?”

A laugh bursts out of me, and Viktor’s head tilts slightly. “Exactly like that. On his death machine.”

Carina exhales, and I can hear the smile she’s trying to hide. “Get on the bike, Grant.”

“I’m a medical professional! I can’t endorse this.”

“But you can endorse being late to the meeting that determines whether Moreno invests in your studio?”

I stomp my feet on the pavement like a kid, and my fingers curl tighter around my folder, still clutched in my free arm.

My dream sits inside it. All those pages, filled with hours spent trying to build a bridge between the end of rehab and the beginning of real life. For all the athletes I have watched limp out of formal care and back into the same training with the same hungry machine that often spits them back to us six months later.

The space next door to the Moreno Clinic is so close to being mine, I can see it. Morning light on polished floors and athletes laughing through their sessions.

“Fine,” I sigh.

“Good.” Carina’s voice softens. “See you soon.”

With a nod, I hang up and take a step forward. Viktor holds the helmet out, and this time I take it from him. The weight surprises me, along with the way his fingers brush mine for a second. I have touched this man’s knee, hip, thigh, calf, and shoulders multiple times. I have measured his strength, watched his pain response, corrected his form, and pushed him through exercises he’s hated.

His body shouldn’t be capable of surprising me after all this time, but the size of his hand and the skim of his fingers do anyway.

“I swear to God, Karlsson,” I say, tugging the helmet down over my ponytail with as much dignity I can muster, “if you crash this thing, I will haunt you with an evidence-based PowerPoint.”

He reaches beneath my chin to adjust the strap, and my breath catches before I can stop it. His damn hands, again. They’re careful, which might be the worst part. Firm, tender fingertips brushing the hinge of my jaw.

“You will not haunt me,” he murmurs, his eyes locked on the strap he’s fastening. “I would notice.”

My eyes lift to his through the helmet opening, and for a terrible moment, the traffic noise thins and the morning holds still. His thumb rests beneath my chin, testing the strap, but his gaze stays on mine with that unnerving Viktor steadiness. He always seems as though he’s not looking at the mess in front of him, but directly through it to the place where I’m trying very hard to remain calm.

My thoughts are interrupted when he clears his throat and snaps my visor down. The world goes faintly tinted, and I blink at him through it.