Page 185 of Top Shelf

Another request comes through later in the afternoon, then one from a podcast I pitched six weeks ago and never heard back from. None of them mention Viktor. At first, I assume the story has simply moved on, but Zoe pops into the studio while I’m going through a stack of admin.

“I should probably tell you something before you find out accidentally.”

I look up at her from the stack of waiver forms in front of me. “That sentence has never improved anybody’s day.”

She sits across from me, opens her laptop and turns it around. “Storm PR has redirected every studio request since Tuesday last week.”

I place my pen down. “What?”

“Anything mentioning Return To Play gets sent to us. Maren emailed me directly with two reporter contacts and said Viktor has requested they make no further comment about the studio without your team’s approval.”

For a second, I only stare at her, and Zoe’s expression softens. “He’s also apparently refusing questions himself.”

My chest clenches. “How do you know?”

“Chase told me—and one of the reporters.” She clicks another tab. “And because this exists.”

It’s a short clip from a post-practice media presso. Viktor is still in training gear, hair damp around his face while microphones crowd the space in front of him. A reporter asks about opening night, and Zoe turns the volume up.

“You and your wife have had a pretty big few months. Marriage, now this studio. Is Return To Play becoming a bit of a Karlsson family venture?”

“No.” The answer is immediate enough that the reporter blinks. “Return To Play is Dr. Grant’s.”

“Sure, but with your profile and the Storm connection—”

“Dr. Grant does not need my profile or the Storm to make her work important.” Viktor eyes the camera and leans in. “She built Return To Play from years of working with athletes. If you want to understand it, ask her.”

Someone tries another question, but Viktor only shakes his head.

“You should ask Dr. Grant.”

Then he moves on to a question about hockey. The clip ends, and I stare at the frozen image of his face. He hasn’t told me any of this, not once. Our texts have been about broken reformers, whether I remembered lunch, and Chase mixing disgusting protein shakes for him to try. He hasn’t said a word about this.

Zoe watches me carefully. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” My voice sounds strange, so I clear it. “Yeah. I’m good.”

But for the rest of the afternoon, I keep thinking about the clip and him redirecting every question. I wish he’d understood before his interview, though. Before my success became about him, and investors started talking about the Viktor angle, before my parents told the media that I’m so much more grounded since marrying a man, and I had to leave our apartment carrying a fucking lamp because I couldn’t look at him without being furious and wanting to be held by him at the same time.

None of that disappears because he’s getting it right, now. But he’s fixing what he can without telling me about it, and without making it into some grand gesture, and it makes me miss him even more. It gets worse when I’m tired.

At ten-thirty, Mila finally leaves after I threaten to lock her phone inside the supply cupboard if she edits one more reel. Zoe went home to Chase a few hours ago. The light outside the studio has faded into night, and I’m standing alone in front of the mirrors staring at tomorrow’s schedule when something inside me simply runs out.

My shoulders drop, and for an aching second, I can almost feel Viktor’s palm settle at the back of my neck. He would tell me to eat. Then he would tell me I’m doing well, and that he’s proud. He would probably feed me whatever was closest while pretending this was not an act of service because he’s allergic to making a fuss about being devastatingly good to me.

I want his arms around me so badly my throat burns and I let a single tear slip free. But I pick up my bag and go back to my apartment because I’m stubborn enough to know missing him doesn’t automatically mean the problem is fixed.

By the following evening, I’ve spent fourteen hours at the studio, eaten dinner over a spreadsheet and answered enough emails that the words have lost all meaning. I shower, climb into my old bed and immediately hate it because the mattress is too soft. The room is too warm.

The pink lamp throws the same glow it always did, but the bed feels enormous without Viktor taking up half of it while insisting he doesn’t.

I pick up my phone and reread our last messages from earlier.

Viktor: Have you had food?

Me: Yup, can tick that off my list.

Viktor: What did you eat?