Page 8 of Pucking Strong (Jacksonville Rays #4)

A fter an epically long day of travel and sitting vigil at the hospital, I’m ready to brush my teeth and fall into bed. Any bed. Hell, I’ll sleep in a dog bed on the floor. I’ll sleep on the floor. Anywhere I can stretch my body out in a fully horizontal position.

My fatigue aside, it was a good day. Karlsson got to talk to Karolina’s doctors and hear their rehab plan. She’ll be in the hospital for a few more days, at least. She gets her arm casted tomorrow for the broken ulna, but they need the swelling in her leg to go down before they’ll cast that too.

The hospital kicked us out a little after eight o’clock, declaring visiting hours over.

Karlsson put up a fight, demanding he get to stay.

Ultimately, I made a show of putting Teddy the Bear in charge of security for the room, which Karolina found funny.

Teddy the Bear kicked Morbror Henrik out for being a noise nuisance, and I set him up as sentinel at the foot of her bed before I left too.

She’s a tough little kid. Sweet and smart, if super shy.

But with Karlsson as her uncle, that only makes sense.

She knows her mother is dead. She knew without Karlsson having to say a word.

I pray I’m wrong, but I think she might have been conscious when they pulled her from the car.

Who knows what she saw that night? She’s desperately sad about it all.

They both cried on and off all day, holding each other and whispering soft words in Swedish.

I gave them space to grieve as best I could.

Around lunchtime, I found my way down to the hospital cafeteria.

I bought Karlsson and me salmon salads and a couple bags of chips.

I also found a coffee cart. Too nervous to try to order my fancy oat milk latte with a double shot of espresso, cold foam, and a drizzle of caramel, I just got us boring coffees.

Karlsson usually drinks his black, but fuck that.

I added two creams. We ate in silence, Karlsson not leaving his niece’s side.

Now we’re sitting in the back of a taxi, heading to what I hope is a hotel.

I’ve just been on autopilot all day, following wherever Karlsson has led.

Somewhere in all the chaos, I lost track of my duffel bag.

Did it even make it off the plane? Am I going to be wearing this underwear for a week?

Shit, my head scarf was in the duffel too.

The taxi pulls over, and Karlsson says a few words to the driver, flashing his phone on the card reader to pay for the ride. Slinging my backpack over my shoulder, I step around the taxi and up onto the curb. “This doesn’t look like a hotel.”

Karlsson is already headed for the double glass doors. “It’s not,” he calls over his shoulder.

“Well, then where are we?”

“My apartment.”

Of course. Why wouldn’t the multimillionaire professional hockey player own real estate in both the U.S. and Sweden? Here I am, ready to stay at a backpacker’s hostel or a motel with a shared bathroom. But no, Karlsson keeps a pad in downtown Stockholm.

I follow him inside the lobby. It’s sleek and modern, very Swedish.

He leads the way over to the elevators, and we ride up together to the fifth floor.

The doors open to reveal a narrow hallway.

There are only four units. Karlsson leads me to the last door on the left, unit 5B.

The door unlocks via an electronic keycard, then he’s swinging it open.

“I can’t be sure what state I left it in,” he warns, standing back to let me through first.

“I’m sure it’s great.”

He cuts on the light, and I do a slow half turn.

Okay, this might be the coolest apartment I’ve ever seen.

It has a massive, slanting glass wall that offers a great view of the city.

The main floor is all open concept, with a kitchen, dining table, and living room all leading to a perched loft area.

That must be the bedroom up there. There are no walls to close the area in, just sleek metal rails that frame the space.

Under the bedroom platform is a room that looks like a mix of office and library, with bookshelves lining the back wall.

I turn to Karlsson with a wide grin. “You’re a maximalist.”

He raises a brow. “A what?”

I look around again. He’s got stuff everywhere, but it’s not messy.

It all feels super curated. Stacks of books on every subject rest on more shelves and teeter in piles by the couch.

Framed modern art prints are stacked along the wall, too many to hang.

So much camera stuff. He has an impressive vinyl collection too.

And don’t get me started on the textures.

It’s a total mix of metals and woods, soft blankets in muted colors.

A wide leather sectional looks plush enough to dive into.

I turn back to face him. “Does the IKEA Council know about you?”

“The what?”

“Karlsson, this apartment is awesome. I thought all Swedes had, like, four straight-backed chairs, exactly one pour-over coffee pot, and a MALM bed frame. This place looks like a thrift shop had sex with a library and made a baby. The vibe is so cool.”

I can tell he doesn’t know how to take the compliment. “There’s no guest room.”

I shrug. “The couch is fine with me.”

“You might be more comfortable at a hotel.”

“I’m comfortable here,” I assure him, dropping my backpack to the floor. “I’d be even more comfortable if I had my duffel bag though. Did you get your bags off the plane?”

“I had a porter bring all the bags here.” He points next to the stairs that lead up to his loft bedroom. There, on the floor, sits my blue duffel.

“Well, if it was a snake, it woulda bit me,” I say on a laugh.

“What?”

“Nothing. Bathroom?”

He points to the open door tucked behind a bookshelf.

I weave through his living room over to my bag. “I’m so tired, I think my skeleton might just collapse. I’m gonna brush my teeth and crash if that’s okay.”

“Fine.” He makes his way to the kitchen.

“But don’t think I won’t snoop around this place tomorrow,” I call over my shoulder. “Your secret’s out, Karlsson. You’re a total magpie, and I love it.”

“It awaits your snooping.” His back is turned to me, but do I sense a hint of a smile in his tone?

Grabbing my bag, I head for the bathroom. This is totally fine. I’m in Henrik Karlsson’s Stockholm studio apartment, and there’s only one bed. I can already hear the screams from the family group chat—

No, I can’t send this to the group chat. I mean, I told them I’m in Sweden, because that’s the kind of thing you tell your sisters. What if my plane crashed? What if I end up in a Swedish jail? Oh god, I get anxious just thinking about it.

They were all supportive of my mission. If I know Shae, she’s already put a care package in the mail for Karolina. But this? Exploring the secret mysteries of Karlsson’s inner sanctum?

Yeah, I’m not sharing this with anyone.

I wake to the smell and sound of bacon frying in a pan. Sunlight blinds me as I blink my eyes open. Where the hell am I?

Oh, that’s right. I’m stretched out half naked on Karlsson’s cloud-like leather sofa, buried under a pile of blankets that smell like him. I’ll make no comment about the state of arousal I might be in.

I sit up, gazing around at the majesty of this loft apartment.

In full daylight, there’s almost a sparkle to it.

The studio feels like one part living space, one part library, and one part storage locker.

There’s a large book of nature photography on the coffee table.

Under the table, I spy a bright pink box.

I slide it out with my foot and find stuff for coloring and a mess of tangle-haired dolls.

The box sends a clear message: Karro was here.

I smile.

“Teddy! Come!”

I jolt, eyes wide, as I take in Karlsson’s shirtless form standing in the kitchen. He’s got his phone up to his ear, spatula in his other hand. His expression is tense as he barks something in Swedish. Then he waves at me with the spatula.

“What—”

“Come,” he says again. “Mind the bacon. I have to take this call.” He sets the spatula down and hurries over towards what I now see is not a windowpane but a door set in the wall of glass. It leads out to a small terrace.

I scramble off the sofa, wearing nothing but my shorts. I trot over to the kitchen and grab the spatula. Eggs are frying in one pan, bacon sizzling in another, and I think there might be something in the oven.

Shit. I can’t cook to save my life. I’m an okay baker, but skillets and I don’t mix.

I always burn everything. My mom and sisters usually won’t let me touch anything but the salad spinner.

But I suppose this looks easy enough. I flip the bacon as it crackles in its own grease.

I don’t know a damn thing about frying eggs though.

The oven dings, and I officially panic. I rattle open the drawers, searching for a pot holder, anything to avoid pulling a baking tray out with my bare hands.

“Aha!”

I strike gold in the drawer below the oven. Pulling the door open, I’m hit with heat and the salivating smell of fresh bread. It looks like cinnamon rolls. Karlsson did all this while I was sleeping?

“Oh— shit —” I drop the tray on the stove with a clatter, returning to the burning bacon. I only just manage to save it. The ends are black and crispy but still edible. I’ll eat the burnt ends and give him the middles.

Someone must have delivered groceries while we were at the hospital yesterday, because the fridge has fresh milk and juice, assorted berries, and what looks suspiciously like cold brew coffee.

I’ve literally never seen Karlsson drink his coffee cold (and I’ve been watching).

Granted, it’s been six years, but Henrik Karlsson is the kind of leopard who doesn’t change his spots.

So … are these for me? How did he know I like cold brew?