Page 170 of Top Shelf
“Please tell me you have thirty seconds before I launch myself through a window.”
A laugh catches low in my chest, but I hear the tiredness beneath her voice. There’s noise behind her—a clanging and Mila talking to someone in the distance, and the faint drag of equipment across flooring.
“What happened?”
“Okay, so, good news first. Waitlist numbers are actually better than Zoe projected, and Moreno referrals look solid.”
“This sounds like good news, yes.”
“It is. I’m thrilled. Could French-kiss the spreadsheet.”
My mouth curves. “I would rather you did not.”
“Possessive over Microsoft Excel. Interesting development.”
“He cannot give you what I can.”
She barks a real laugh, and I lean against the concrete wall while it fades.
“Unfortunately,” she sighs, “Pulse still wants more external visibility before they commit the entire launch package. Two media pieces have fallen through and apparently testimonials we sourced ourselves count as owned promo rather than independent coverage.”
“So they want media.” I look down the empty corridor. “What do you need?”
“Honestly?” Papers rustle at her end. “For one sports journalist in Denver to wake up tomorrow with a passionate and inexplicable interest in post-rehab performance continuity.”
I swallow. Heidi has spent months building something athletes need, and now whether enough people will give it a chance depends on a couple of sponsors changing their minds.
She exhales. “Zoe’s pitching replacements and Mila’s cutting more content. I’ve got three calls this afternoon, and Carina is going through the referral data with me tonight. So, we’ve got options.”
“How can I help?”
“You already are. I just needed thirty seconds to tell my husband this fucking sucks.”
“You can complain to your husband whenever you want.”
“Hm, that sounds like an unlimited service.”
“It is.”
For a moment neither of us says anything, and I can picture her rubbing her forehead to ease a tension headache, teeth worrying the inside of her cheek.
“I love you,” she murmurs.
The words still hit me with the same force every time she’s said them since Sweden.
“Jag älskar dig också.”
She hums. “Okay. Back to capitalism.”
“Do not punch it without me.”
She chuckles, and the call ends. I’m still looking at her name when someone down the corridor calls mine.
“Viktor.” I lift my head to see Maren from PR hurrying toward me. “You still good for the Altitude spot?”
I frown. “What spot?”
“The pre-season sit-down to talk season reset, leadership, and recovery blah blah blah. Nothing intense, just fifteen minutes—maybe twenty. We flagged it with you a few weeks back.”
