Glitz & Goals (Venom Next Gen #2)

Prologue

Prologue

Grady

Sweat trickles down my back beneath the heavy gear, but my focus is sharp. Venom versus Thunder. A hard-fought battle on the ice every time we clash. I see Abbott in my periphery—cool, collected, damn near impossible to rattle.

Normally, the rink is home. The place where time slows down, instincts take over, and nothing else matters but the game. It’s where I belong, where I’m meant to be.

The puck sails toward the crease like a bullet, and I push off hard, determined to get there first. It’s a split-second decision, the kind I’ve made a million times before. I can already see the shot, already envision the move that’ll send the puck past Abbott and into the net. My body surges forward, muscle memory taking over.

He’s a goalie with reflexes like a cat, always in the right spot at the right time.

Until he isn’t.

Abbott moves.

I don’t see him. Not until it’s too late.

We collide. Flesh meets unyielding padding, and then—crack. The sound doesn’t register at first, not over the roar of the crowd or the pounding in my ears. But the pain? The pain hits all at once.

My knee gives out beneath me, twisting in a way it never should. I hit the ice hard, sliding across the surface as the world around me blurs. Abbott’s sprawled on his back, looking as shocked as I feel. No malice, no intent. Just pure, bad luck.

And a life-altering mistake.

An emotionally charged moment that will be forever suspended in time.

I try to push myself up, to stand, but the second I put weight on my leg, the pain shoots through me like a hot knife, jagged and unforgiving. I collapse back down, the cold sting of the ice doing nothing to numb the agony.

“Metcalfe!” The trainers rush toward me. Abbott’s already on his feet, moving my way, his face pale beneath the mask like he knows exactly what’s happened. He drops to one knee beside me, his hands hovering awkwardly, like he wants to help but doesn’t know how.

“Shit... I didn’t see you,” he mutters, his voice tight with regret. “I didn’t mean to—”

“I know,” I manage through gritted teeth as the trainers test my leg. But I already know. The knee’s done. This isn’t something you bounce back from. I’ve been on the ice long enough to know the difference between a minor sprain and a career-ending blow.

And this? This is the latter.

My entire leg is about as useful to me as a wet noodle.

I hear the scrape of skates before I see them. My teammates swarm around me, forming a loose huddle, their faces tight with concern. Dan’s the first to reach me, dropping to one knee.

“Hang in there, Grady,” he mutters, his voice barely masking the worry.

Behind him, the rest of the guys hover, looking helpless, their sticks clutched in tense fists. No one says much, but I see it in their eyes—the fear, the silent prayers that it’s not as bad as it looks.

“Can you put any weight on it at all?” my trainer asks, but I just shake my head, gritting my teeth against another wave of pain. They know the answer before I give it. I’m not getting off this ice on my own.

The guys who’ve been like my brothers stand close, their presence a barrier between me and the crowd, shielding me as the trainers work, as if their sheer willpower can somehow keep this from being as serious as it feels. But deep down, we all know.

As they lift me onto the stretcher, I catch Abbott’s eye as he hangs in the crease. There’s no hate, no anger in my gaze. Just... devastation. The realization that everything I’ve worked for, everything I’ve bled for, is over. And it’s not anyone’s fault. Not really.

But that doesn’t make it hurt any less.

The trainers rush me down the tunnel and into the treatment room, the cold air of the arena replaced by the sterile scent of antiseptic and worn leather. The head trainer, Mick, is already there, waiting, along with the team doctor, who stands at the ready with a grim expression. No one’s saying the actual words, but I know. They know. My knee’s a ticking time bomb.

They shift me off the stretcher and onto the exam table with practiced precision. The pain is relentless now, a steady throb that beats in time with my pulse. Dave gets to work bracing my leg while the doctor pokes and prods, testing my range of motion—what little of it I have left. My knee is stiff, swollen, and the second they press on the side, I have to bite down on my tongue to keep from crying out.

“I’m ordering imaging,” the doc says, his tone clipped and professional. “But based on what I’m seeing… this isn’t just an ACL tear, Grady. It’s worse. Likely a full knee dislocation with damage to multiple ligaments—and we need to check for vascular involvement.” He pauses, locking eyes with me. “This is serious. We’re looking at surgery, a long recovery… and even then, getting back on the ice might not be possible.” He meets my eyes, and I see it there. The unspoken truth.

This is probably the end.

I nod, swallowing hard, trying to keep it together. I’ve seen enough careers end in this room to know what’s coming. I don’t need to hear the specifics right now.

The door swings open, and in walks Larisse, heels clicking against the floor as if this is any other day. My ballerina wife’s face is set in a tight mask of indifference, her eyes scanning me like I’m another problem she needs to deal with. Not a husband she’s worried about, not a man whose world is crashing down around him.

It guts me in a way I wasn’t prepared for.

I remember the first time I saw her—gliding into a frat party like she was walking onto a stage, ethereal and untouchable. The kind of woman who made a jock like me forget how to breathe. I was twenty, starry-eyed, and convinced she hung the damn moon. She was elegance, refinement, everything I wasn’t, and I worshipped the ground she walked on.

I wanted her more than anything. And I didn’t stop until she was mine.

Now she looks at me like she can’t stand the sight of me. Like I’m the thing ruining her perfect life. And the worst part? I didn’t even do anything wrong.

“Larisse,” I mutter, trying to sit up a little, but the weight of the brace keeps me pinned.

When I could use a kind word, or even an empathetic expression, my fucking wife barely looks at me, used to dealing with injuries herself. I don’t think a single day has gone by that she hasn’t had some physical pain. But she dances anyway. We’re athletes. It’s just what we do.

“The MRI is scheduled?” she asks the doc, as if I’m not even in the room.

He nods. “We’ll have the results within the hour. But he’s going to need surgery.”

Larisse crosses her arms, shifting her weight onto one leg. “Fine. I’ll start making arrangements.”

There’s no softness, no concern in her voice. Just cold, practical efficiency. No hug. No gentle kiss to my sweaty brow. It’s like she’s already checked out, moving on to whatever comes next, as if my career being over is just a logistical issue that needs to be handled. She doesn’t even ask me how I’m feeling. Doesn’t meet my eyes.

The trainers finish strapping me up, and it’s Mick who gives me that pat on my shoulder, muttering something about follow-ups and specialists. I nod, my mind a fog of pain and disbelief.

But all I can think about, as Larisse turns her back to make a call, is how alone I feel.

Once they’ve done everything they can do to see to my comfort, the trainers pass me off to Larisse, with Doc’s assurance that there will be follow-ups in my future.

“I already called the orthopedic center. They can squeeze you in for a meeting with the surgeon tomorrow morning at ten. For tonight, elevate, ice, and rest. Got it?”

I nod as Doc leans down and says, “Let’s see what the specialist says.”

As if we don’t both know that this is devastating. To my career. To my fucking soul.

“You’ll get through this, Metcalfe,” he says as they load me into the passenger seat of my wife’s luxury sedan. Larisse hovers behind them, her narrow face pale and pinched, as the trainers manhandle me and stuff my crutches in the back along with the rest of my crap. “Don’t give up yet. Stranger things have happened, and no matter what, you’ve still got a future in the game.”

I wouldn’t say that I’ve given up, but I’ve certainly turned my attention to other topics. Like, how am I going to get in the house when I’m back? Larisse is a dancer, which means she’s strong, but she’s also petite. And our house isn’t exactly accessible for person with a knee injury, given the steps out front, so how am I supposed to get inside? This brace feels like it weighs a million pounds.

And I’m already tired. So fucking tired.

Larisse won’t even look at me.

At last, my wife climbs into the driver’s seat, graceful and poised as ever, like she’s floating instead of walking. She’s all long limbs and elegance, every movement controlled, refined—exactly what you’d expect from a prima ballerina who’s been dancing on the world’s greatest stages since she was sixteen. Even now, in jeans and a fitted jacket, her hair slicked back in that perfect bun she’s famous for, she looks like she’s about to perform a pas de deux instead of driving me home from what might be the worst night of my life.

I used to worship her. Larisse was everything I wasn’t—grace, refinement, beauty wrapped up in this untouchable, otherworldly package. She walked into a room, and people held their breath. And me? I was just a dumb puck monkey, all brute force and instinct, crashing into life with no finesse. I didn’t belong in her world of standing ovations and crystal chandeliers, but somehow, I convinced myself I did. I thought loving her would make me better—more than the scrappy kid who clawed his way out of nowhere to put on an NHL jersey. But now, watching her stare straight ahead, distant and cold, I feel the weight of everything falling apart.

I wish she’d say something. Anything. We’ve talked about the possibility of serious injuries before, and we’ve each had a few scares over the years, but this feels like our first big test. And maybe it’s stupid, but I’ve always thought if something like this ever happened, Larisse would be there, offering comfort in that quiet, effortless way she moves through life, giving me hope that I might not deserve.

Well, maybe the second big test. Given that we’re still waiting for the results from the fertility clinic.

I try to think of something to say, but as we pull away from the stadium, she breaks the silence first.

“I’ll start talking to home care companies first thing tomorrow,” she announces, in the same tone she uses for business discussions. I’m used to hearing it when she’s on the phone with her company director, or during interviews, but she never used to use it with me. Lately, I’ve realized that it’s the voice she uses when she’s turning her emotions off.

“Home care?” I repeat.

She scoffs and catches my eyes in the rearview mirror. “I can’t cancel my season to take care of you, Grady. Just because yours is over doesn’t mean mine is.”

I open my mouth, then close it again. Larisse is hard, and she can be brutally practical, but this is downright mean. She’s treating me like a problem instead of a husband. I don’t remember her being mean when we first got together. Am I seeing a new side of her, or did I make her this way by disappointing her? We’ve always been clear that, as a couple, we have three priorities: kids, our careers, and each other. We’re having trouble with the first, and now the second’s in jeopardy. Trials bring some people closer together, proving just how hard they’re willing to fight for one another.

Me? I’m a fighter.

I’m not so sure about Larisse.

My leg throbs in a brutal rhythm, despite the abundance of painkillers they gave me. I don’t want to fight, so I try for a joke instead. “I wasn’t expecting you to take the ballet season off. I was just surprised that you’re willing to leave me alone with a hot nurse.”

My attempt at humor is met with silence. Okay, that probably wasn’t the best thing I could have said, but I’m spiraling here. I’m in agony, and I’m not sure it’s all bodily. Some of it has to be coming from my broken heart. I’m not certain what’s going to happen now. Noah Abbott just fucked up my future, and now he’s going to walk away while I… I have to figure out how to live with whatever the doctors tell me.

“It wouldn’t matter,” Larisse whispers.

“Huh?” I must have missed something.

But no. She’s responding to my ill-timed joke. “It wouldn’t matter if you fucked a hot nurse. In fact, maybe you should.”

My heart stalls in my chest. “Larisse, what—?”

“The tests came back, Grady,” she whispers. “You’re the problem.”

I go limp against the seat of the car. “I’m shooting blanks?” I whisper. Shit, when was she going to tell me? Couldn’t this have waited for another time? I get that our fertility issues have been weighing on Larisse, but we’ve got other problems right now. I take a deep breath. “Well, shit. Maybe once I’m in PT for this injury, we can make an appointment to talk about IVF.”

“I don’t want that,” Larisse says.

“Fair enough. I’ve heard that the process can be really rough, emotionally speaking. And physically.” I’m babbling now, and I know it, but I can’t stop myself. “Maybe surrogacy would be a better idea. Or adoption. Anyway, the clinic should be able to tell us our options, so how about we just—”

“I know this isn’t the best time to say this, but,” Larisse says, staring straight ahead, elegant hands gripping the leather-wrapped steering wheel, “I want a divorce.

A strange whining sound builds in my ears, as if a million summer mosquitos are descending on me, and I’m too weak to fend them off. “Just like that? Jesus, Larisse, aren’t we at least going to talk about options?”

“What’s there to talk about?”

The car has come to a stop. We’re stuck in post-game traffic, and I wouldn’t be surprised if the roads are still being salted after the big storm. I stare out the window at the faces of the other drivers and their passengers. Some are smiling and chatting. One guy is singing along to the music. A few cars ahead, a woman is twisted around to scold her kids who are acting up in the back seat.

They’re normal people, living their normal lives, and they have no idea that my world is falling apart in front of me.

“We promised to love each other, for better and worse,” I whisper, so low that I’m not sure she’ll hear it.

Larisse sighs and grips the wheel tighter. “I fell in love with a man who promised he could give me the things I wanted. Apparently, I was wrong.”

I feel like a fool for arguing with her. For believing that I mattered to her all these years. I can’t believe we’ve come to this, but at the same time, it feels inevitable.

I turn my face away from her and sink lower in my seat, pretending that I’ve fallen asleep. There’s no way she’d buy that I fell asleep that fast, but like me, she seems content to let the conversation die.

Just like our marriage.

Just like my career.

Just like our hopes for the future.

All the things I’ve poured my whole damn life into, unraveling at the same time.

In the ensuing silence, punctuated only by the rumble of engines and the honking of horns, I let my mind go quiet, making room for the despair I didn’t feel earlier. This morning, I was on top of the world. In the span of only a few hours, I’ve lost everything.