Page 163 of Top Shelf

“No. I don’t wanna answer that.”

We listen to it ring out, but then it calls again. I glance at the screen.

Zoe Carlson

“She is calling twice,” I say.

“That means she has news.”

“Good news?”

Heidi’s mouth twists. “Zoe doesn’t call twice for good news. She sends voice notes at an alarming speed and volume.”

I let her go because I am a good husband and because we have eighteen minutes now. She answers while I put eggs on plates and cut fruit.

“Hey,” she says, already turning toward her laptop. “Please tell me nobody died.”

She listens, and her expression changes. Not by much, because Heidi is good at keeping her face calm while the rest of her absorbs a hit. But I know her too well, now. The corners of her mouth settle, and then her shoulders rise a fraction, too small for most people to catch, but I have spent months learning her body.

I set the plate down.

“Okay… what did they say?” she asks.

Zoe’s voice is too low for me to make out, but the rhythm is sharp. Heidi reaches for the pen and starts writing on the corner of the launch schedule. “Okay. No, that’s fine. That’s not unreasonable, honestly. Annoying, yes, but not unreasonable.”

This means it is very unreasonable. Her gaze flicks to me, then away. “We have the waitlist numbers and the Moreno referrals. We have Carina’s ACL group and the adaptive strength cohort, and we have the athlete testimonials coming. Mila filmed content yesterday, so we can pull proof of demand together.”

Proof of demand.

I stay where I am, hands braced on the counter, listening to my wife.

“No,” Heidi says. “I don’t want to delay it—we’re not delaying. The launch date is the launch date.” A pause. “I know they need confidence before they confirm the sponsorship, but isn’t the whole point of a launch to create demand? Asking me to prove it before we open is—” She stops. Breathes. “Sorry. Yes. Okay, fine.”

I look at her hands. The pen is pressed too hard against the paper. Zoe speaks for another minute, and Heidi writes fast notes. Her major sponsor wants pre-launch demand proof before committing to the full promotional package, enough to show this is not only Heidi with a dream and a pretty room full of reformers.

My chest tightens, because I understand sponsors and media, and the type of businesses that require numbers before they believe in something. In hockey, it is easier. You have goals, hits and saves, plus-minus, market value and jersey sales.

But for Heidi, it is harder to prove this to people who have never watched an athlete cry because they trusted their knee for half a second. She should not have to spend the week before opening convincing people her work matters. It simply does.

She hangs up, stands very still, and I wait. This is something I am trying to learn—letting silence belong to her before I fill it with my hands and my arms.

“Pulse wants proof of demand before they lock the full launch promo with sponsors,” she says finally. “They’re still in, but not as big as Zoe thought unless we can send them numbers by Friday.”

“You have numbers, and you have people coming.”

“Yeah, and testimonials. Mila’s already pulling clips and engagement so Zoe can package it. It’s fine.”

It is not fine. Heidi picks up her coffee, drinks, and immediately makes a face because it has gone cold.

“Min fru.” Her eyes lift to mine. “Is it really fine?”

She looks at me for a long second, then sighs. “It has to be.”

This is honest enough that I do not push, even though I want to. The urge pushes through me fast to make this okay, to make people understand she is not standing alone. I could do another Instagram post, or provide a short comment to the right reporter about the studio my wife is opening and the gap it fills for athletes after rehab. It would cost me nothing, but it might give her everything.

Heidi touches my wrist. “Hey. Your face is very serious right now. Handsome, but serious.”

“I do not like them making you prove what is already true.”