Page 9 of Top Shelf

Her laugh swirls through the helmet, surprised and light before she swallows it down. My hands tighten once around the handlebars. This is poor strategy. Heidi Grant has been poor strategy for a long time.

I have made worse choices because of her than playing Roxette too loud. I have attended team brunches when there were many bad reasons to attend team brunches. Pancakes made by hockey players. Reid Hutchison’s cat, Gremlin. Chase Walton’s opinions. A small child determined to marry all the adults off under the trees. But Heidi Grant sometimes being there was not one of the bad reasons.

The clinic appears ahead, and the metal of Moreno’s name catches the morning sun on the side of the glass building. Heidi goes still behind me as we pull into the parking lot, and her hands stop fidgeting against my stomach.

I have only heard pieces about her plan. Have only heard words like reformer and adaptive conditioning. But I have seen the way her face lights up when she talks about it to others. And today is the day of her meeting to get approval.

“Heidi,” I say.

“Yep.”

“Breathe.”

“I am literally a healthcare provider. Don’t coach me on respiration.”

“Then stop holding your breath.”

I ease up by the front of the clinic doors and stop. She keeps holding onto me for a moment after the bike goes still. Her palms stay flat against my stomach, and her helmet rests lightly against my shoulder blade. Then she lets go so quickly it is almost insulting. I do not tell her this. I also do not tell her that I feel the press of her hands still there for three breaths after they are gone.

She climbs off with more determination than grace, while I lower the kickstand and swing off after her as she fumbles with the helmet strap. She lets out an irritated breath.

“Stupid, tiny—”

“Here,” I say.

“I can get it.”

“You cannot see it.”

Her mouth presses flat behind the visor, but she holds still. I step closer and unfasten it before she can argue herself into losing more time. Tendrils of hair come loose when I lift the helmet off, chocolatey brown strands falling down to frame her face. There is a pink flush across her cheeks from the ride, but her blue eyes are clear. She looks late, and beautifully furious about it, and alive enough that my chest thumps hard.

She blinks up at me. “You’ve got that little face again.”

“I have one face.”

“No, you have several tiny variations of one face. This one says you’re thinking something at me.”

“I am wondering if you will be late enough for Moreno to become one full eyebrow.”

Her mouth opens, then closes. “Wow, you heard me say that before?”

I retrieve her folder from Priscilla’s storage compartment, carefully brushing my hand over the bent corner. It is a little worse for wear, but the pages are safe. Heidi takes it from me with both hands, and the way her fingers grip the cover makes me pause.

She is brave with other people when there is something to do. A man to cut down or a car to photograph. A phone call to answer before fear can make a home inside her.

But this is different. The clinic doors wait behind her with a future held in the balance by a man with opinions over whether her dream becomes real.

She looks down at her outfit. “I’m a mess.”

“No.” I shake my head. “You are Dr. Heidi Grant. PT, DPT, OCS, CSCS.”

Her eyes lift to mine, and the morning noise eases enough for me to see the words land. They were not smooth. I am not smooth. I have never understood the appeal of saying something curved when the straight line is true. And she is impressive. She should be reminded when it matters.

Her face softens and then quickly rearranges itself. “That was dangerously close to a compliment, Karlsson.”

“Hm. I will be more careful.”

“Please do.” She hugs the folder tighter and glances at the doors. “I need to go inside before Moreno combusts and refuses to listen to me at all.”