Page 84 of Top Shelf

“I would, but it won’t.”

She rises onto her toes and presses a quick kiss to my mouth. It’s automatic. Warm and quick and easy, as though we’ve been doing this exact routine for years. She’s already settling back onto her heels when she freezes as though she’s only just realized what she’s done.

I catch her wrist before she can make it strange and tug her back into me.

The second kiss is still brief, because she has somewhere to be and I have not slept enough to trust myself, but it is very deliberate. It has nothing to do with cameras or contracts or household stability. I kiss her because I simply want her lips on mine. Her mouth opens for a breath, and my thumb strokes the curve of her waist before I make myself let go.

“I have to leave,” she says, palm on my chest. “And that wasn’t a horniness emergency.”

“No.” I brush a strand out of her face. “I just wanted to kiss you.”

A surprised laugh slips out of her. “Pretty sure that wasn’t an agreed reason in our contract.”

“Make it one, then.”

I can almost see her deciding whether to turn this into a joke, but her fingers flex against my shirt instead, then she turns toward the door.

“I’m gonna be late.”

“And I’m gonna make you come later.”

She pauses in the doorway at that, and the smile she gives me is smaller than usual. Softer.

“I'm glad you’re home, Viktor.”

The door closes behind her, and I stand in our apartment with the season over, her coffee warm in my hand, and the taste of my wife still on my mouth.

A moment later, my phone buzzes on the counter. Mamma. Then another from Freja, and one from the lawyer in Sweden.

This time, I do not ignore them.

Chapter thirteen

Heidi

“Ifeel fine.”

Leila Keller stands on the turf lane at Moreno with her hands on her hips, dark ponytail swinging over her shoulder, and sweat shining along her temples.

She’s twenty-one, fast and stubborn, and the Denver Dynamite FC’s rookie right winger. She’s also nine months out from an ACL reconstruction, which means she’s entered the highly dangerous stage of rehab where the body feels better before it should really be trusted.

I like her. I also want to wrap her in cotton wool and put a small bell on her cleats.

“And I passed the strength tests,” she adds.

“You did,” I agree with a nod.

“So why are you making the face like you’re about to ruin my day, Dr. Grant?”

I ignore her and instead rewind the video on my tablet, angling it so Leila can see the frame I paused on. She watches herself land from the lateral hop, with her right knee dipping inward for half a second before she steadies it. Most people would see the speed and the confidence and the way she pops back up ready to go again, but I see the hitch.

“There,” I say, tapping the screen. “You’re strong enough to hide it a few times, but fatigue will eventually catch up. If your hip drops and your knee chases the midline, then you’re late getting your foot under you… I just want you to have all the information.”

Leila’s mouth flattens. “Information that says I’m not cleared.”

“Information that says you’re close enough to get impatient, which is the worst time to be careless.” I set the tablet down and pull a cone closer with my foot. “You don’t need another month of boring stuff, so we can make it fun.”

Her eyes narrow. “That still sounds like a drill.”