Page 56 of Pucking Strong (Jacksonville Rays #4)

“ T hat’s a pretty dress.” Karolina traces her finger over the lines of a purple ballgown in her favorite princess book.

“It is a pretty dress. I like this white one too.” I point to the Black girl on the page. She’s wearing a strappy gown with glitter on the bodice.

“Som en brud,” Karro murmurs, her eyes heavy with fatigue. I always know she’s exhausted when she stops translating her Swedish.

I’m sitting on the edge of her bed, reading to her by the glow of her twinkle lights.

We got home from Henrik’s game about forty minutes ago, having left before it was over.

Karro was getting pretty cranky. When she dropped a piece of popcorn to the ground and burst into tears, I knew it was time to go.

Her Karlsson jersey is slung over the top of her Barbie playhouse. She wouldn’t let me take the streamers out of her hair. But I got most of the glitter off her cheeks. And we brushed her teeth. If this girl gets cavities, it won’t be my fault.

Now she’s snug as a bug, surrounded by her stuffed animals

“Hey.” I brush a hand over her hair. “What does ‘Door minman’ mean?”

She blinks her eyes open, fighting sleep. “Vad?”

“What does ‘Door minman’ mean?” I repeat, trying to say it the way Henrik did. I’m probably getting it wrong. When I plugged it into Google Translate earlier, it asked me if it was Dutch.

She mumbles something in Swedish, which is completely counterproductive. But then why am I asking the five-year-old?

“You know what? Never mind.” Closing the book, I slip off the side of her bed. I glance down at her and smile. She’s toast. Lips parted, she breathes in and out, totally lost in dreamland. I put her book back on the shelf, click off her twinkle lights, and tiptoe out, leaving her door cracked.

I stand in the corner of the living room and look around at the mess of the day. Toys everywhere, coloring books, the apple peels from Karro’s snack. I click on a few lamps and dim the overhead lights.

The apartment feels too quiet after the roar of the arena crowd. And I feel like I have a hive of bees in my chest. I check the time on my phone. Henrik should be coming home soon. Any minute, really. And then what?

He wants to practice wanting me, whatever the fuck that means.

And tonight, he kissed me. Did he even like it?

I think he did, but maybe I’m just projecting how much I liked it.

He said he’s never felt sexual attraction before.

When he’s gone through the motions in the past, he said he felt nothing.

My god, nothing?

I can’t even imagine—

Wait. What if he was kissing me and he was, like, running back game tape in his head?

What if he was counting by fives or making a grocery list?

What if he felt nothing ? I don’t think I can let him tell me.

We’ll have to develop some kind of hand signal instead, and I’ll just disappear into the sunset.

Squashing down my scary thoughts, I try to make myself busy by cleaning up Karro’s art supplies.

We’ve been working on her fine motor skills in therapy, so I got her a gem art set.

It comes with all these premade designs, like rainbows and five-layer cakes.

She uses a stylus to pick up the gems and place them in the right color order to make a picture. She’s obsessed.

And yes, we used some of the gems to make fairy wings on our faces while I introduced her to the magic that is Spirited Away .

I shuffle all the papers together, put them in her art box, and close the lid on the gem kit. I’m still on my knees, reorganizing her colored pencils, when I finally hear the click of a key in the lock.

Oh god.

I refuse to do anything but act cool, even if inside I’m aching to be at the door when it opens, shouting, “What does this mean?!” Instead, I start separating the coloring sheets, setting aside the ones she’s already finished.

The door opens, and Henrik is there, looking like a god in a tan linen suit, white shirt, and no tie. His eyes lock on me, and my heart starts to thrum. “Hey,” I say on a breath.

“Hej,” he replies, hanging his keys on the hook by the door.

“Did y’all win?”

“No.”

Fuck. I was really hoping they’d pull out a win so his mood would be elevated. A good thing with Henrik is that he’s not the type to wallow. Wins happen, and so do losses. Even as an intern, I admired his ability to just focus on the next game.

“I looked for you after the game.”

I wince. “Yeah, sorry. We left early. Karro was turning into a pumpkin, and Colin had an early morning. The Jags play tomorrow.”

He glances down the hallway towards her room. “Is she well?”

“Oh, she’s fine. Just too much sugar. I washed most of the stickiness off her hands and put her to bed. And I’m throwing away the rest of the cotton candy … unless you want it?”

“No.”

Okay, this is easy. I can do this all night.

But talking about Karro is always easy. It’s talking about us that has me feeling like I want to take a running leap through the glass wall.

I keep shuffling the papers, separating the clean coloring sheets from the scribbled-on ones.

Penguin in a scarf. Owl reading a book. Kitten on a rainbow.

Maybe Henrik doesn’t want to talk about us. Maybe the kiss was barely tolerable, and if it’s all the same to me, he’d like to forget it ever happened. Maybe he’s thought about it, and practicing wanting me just doesn’t fit in his busy schedule right now.

Sensing my mood, he sighs. “Teddy …”

I stare down at a photo of a smiling chicken holding a balloon. Its stupid, beady eyes look up at me as it waves with one wing. Oh my god, I feel so called out. Clutching the papers to my chest, I look up at him. “What does ‘Door minman’ mean?”

“What?” He steps around the end of the couch, shrugging out of his suit jacket and tossing it on the chair.

I’m instantly distracted, trying to ignore how cut his shoulders look in that fitted shirt. “The thing you said in Swedish before you—I mean, before we …” I groan, pinching the bridge of my nose. “Just what did you say?”

“Ah.” His mouth quirks with a smile as he sinks down onto the end of the couch. “Is that what has you acting so strange? I assumed you were dissecting every aspect of my kissing technique, not my Swedish mumblings.”

Oh god, he said it first. I mean, yeah, I threw the door wide open. But he said the word “kiss.” Which means we are so doing this now. “What does it mean?”

Leaning back against the cushions, he holds out his hand. “Come here, and I’ll tell you.”

Did Henrik Karlsson just spread his knees and say, “Come here”? There are a lot of ways I can play this. I could rise to my feet and saunter over like Billy the Kid. Or I could pounce like the needy puppy I am, curl up in his lap, and beg him to hold me.

My body chooses secret option three. Setting the stack of clean coloring papers aside, including the judgy chicken, I crawl around the end of the coffee table and settle myself between his spread legs. Hands on his thighs, I push up, bringing my face almost even with his.

He reaches out, his fingertips ghosting over my lips. I can’t breathe, can’t break this moment. He sits forward, his warm gaze locked on me, both hands cupping my face. Desperate for more touch, I lift my hands from his thighs, wrapping them around his wrists.

The corner of his mouth lifts with a tired smile. “Du ?r min man. That’s what I said.”

I nod, lost in the blue of his eyes. I can see just how tired he is.

Like Karro, he’s past the point of endurance.

He always leaves everything on the ice. Night after night, he gives it his all.

He doesn’t know any other way. He’s always giving everyone his all.

I won’t push him for more tonight, but he has to give me this. “What does it mean?”

“You tell me.”

I lean away, brows furrowed. “How am I supposed to—”

“Listen.” He presses his fingers to my lips. “Hear the words, mitt hj?rta. Are you listening?”

“Okay,” I say against his fingertips.

He lowers his hand. “Du ?r,” he says, rolling the r ever so slightly.

“You are,” I translate.

He nods. “Du ?r min .” Like in the locker room, he puts the emphasis on this word. As he says it, he brushes his fingertips down the column of my neck.

I close my eyes, leaning against his leg. “Mine,” I whisper. Opening my eyes, I look up at him. “‘Du ?r min’ means ‘You are mine.’”

“Almost. I said, ‘Du ?r min man,’ so the meaning changes a little.”

Heart in my throat, I drop my hands back to his thighs. “I’m your man?”

“Not quite.”

“Then what does ‘man’ mean?”

He cups my cheek again, his thumb brushing over my freckles. “To say it is to break a rule. Saying it in Swedish is already a cheat.” He drops his hand away from me, leaning back. “And I vowed I’d not break your rules.”

I follow him, pressing myself between his legs. “We’re already breaking all the rules. You sleep in my bed. Tonight, you kissed me. Now, look me in the eyes, and tell me who I am.”

He holds my gaze. “If you want the rule broken, you break it.”

Oh, this is so fucking happening. I can ponder what a mistake it is later.

Climbing into his lap, I straddle him, wrapping my arms around his neck.

His intoxicating, shower-fresh scent hits my senses, setting me on fire.

His hands brace my hips, and my fingers weave into the damp hair at his nape as I tip his head back.

“You are my husband. Henrik, you’re mine . ”

We crash together in a fierce kiss. It’s hot and needy, our hands seeking.

In his starched dress shirt, he reaches the limit of his flexibility, trying to wrap an arm around my shoulders.

But I’m just in a T-shirt and sweatpants.

I wrap myself around him, grinding on his lap.

“Tell me what you feel,” I pant against his lips.

“Please, god , tell me you feel something more than nothing—”