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The reporter smiles, waiting for me to say more.

I clear my throat. “She is good.”

Chase, standing several feet away, makes a sound that might be a cough if I were born yesterday.

The reporter’s smile widens. “Will you be spending the off-season here in Denver, or heading back to Sweden?”

“Both,” I say. “Denver for now, Sweden later.”

“With your wife?”

The word hits different in public, it always does.

“Yes. With my wife.”

The camera turns a little toward Heidi, and my stomach clenches. It’s small, but it is there. A reminder that when I speak, people listen. When I turn my head, cameras follow. When I say my wife, the room looks for her.

Heidi chose this marriage with a clear head for reasons that made sense for both of us. She chose me in bed with my wrists tied in rope and my mouth against her clit. She chooses me in small and big ways every day, with coffee orders and teasing, and that unguarded expression she gets when she thinks I’m not looking.

But she did not choose to be swallowed by my spotlight, and the thought stays with me after the cameras move on. By the time the fans leave, the arena feels hollow. Heidi steps onto the ice in a pair of skates, holding the boards with both hands. I stop dead, watching her.

She looks over with a grin. “Don’t laugh.”

“I did not laugh.”

“You looked like you were about to.”

“I was just concerned.”

She scoffs, waving a hand, then pushes off with grim determination, wobbling only a little before clinging to the glass again. “I want to do the big shot.”

“The big shot?”

“You know, the dramatic one.” She gestures at the net. “The wind-up. The smackedy smack. The very loud, very hot one.”

“Slap shot.”

“Yes. I wanna do that.”

“You need to learn to skate first.”

“I can skate.”

She moves forward ten inches, and grabs my arm.

I look down at her hand. “You have traveled far.”

“Mockery from a man with knives on his feet is unkind.”

I offer my hand, and her fingers curl around mine, trusting me with her balance in front of an arena that still smells like stale air. I skate backward slowly, holding her hands and drawing her away from the boards. Her gaze drops immediately to her feet.

“Stop looking down,” I say.

“Bold suggestion from someone who’s probably been skating since infancy.”

“Four.”

“Exactly. You were a baby.”