Chapter 11
ELEVEN
Colton
Dear Mr. Dickhead,
Please be advised that your lawyer, who is unfortunately me, has reached the absolute limit of tolerating your recent conduct, which includes but is not limited to:
Smirking the way you do.
Speaking in a tone clearly designed to be irritating.
Existing in my immediate space with unwarranted confidence.
Despite repeated nonverbal warnings, pointed silences, and several deeply expressive eyerolls, you have failed to cease and desist. This leaves me no choice but to issue the following demands. Effective immediately, you shall:
Stop leaning in doorframes like a man in a cologne commercial.
Refrain from using sarcasm.
Return any peace you have unlawfully disturbed.
Explain why you are like this.
Looking forward to court day!
Jenna Davis.
Three hours.
That’s how long until I stand in front of a judge who will decide if I get to keep my daughter or not. Three fucking hours, and my apartment is suddenly full of people who are trying very, very hard not to talk about it.
“Koltun,” my mother’s voice cuts through my thoughts.
She’s holding out a plate of something that smells like home—real home—not this New York apartment. Like Russia. “Eat something.”
I take the plate without looking at it. “Spasibo, Mama.”
The Russian slips out before I can catch it, which happens more and more these days. My brain is too full to keep track of which language I’m supposed to be speaking apparently.
Two hours and fifty-nine minutes, to be exact.
“Your lawyer, she is good?” My father asks, dropping onto the couch beside me like he’s trying to be casual about it. The cushion sinks under his weight, and I nearly spill the beer I’ve been nursing for the last forty minutes.
“She’s...” I search for the right word. “Tough.” It’s not the one I want, but it’s the only one that feels safe with all these people listening.
Across the room, Riley’s throwing darts at the board I hung a couple of months ago.
He’s missing on purpose; I can tell by the way he’s holding his wrist. Professional athletes don’t miss that badly unless they’re trying to.
I guess he’s listening to what I’m saying, in case I do spill more about the case.
“You should see the other lawyer she destroyed two months ago,” Jay says, dropping onto the arm of the couch.
He’s the only one drinking water. He had serious alcohol problems after his injury that cost him his hockey career.
After, we almost lost him because he almost drowned himself in liquor.
But he got over it and Rosie, Riley’s sister, helped him a lot with it.
We’re all happy she saved him. “Sent him running back to whatever fancy law school he came from.”
My mother’s eyes light up. “This is good! You need...” She turns to my father, rapid Russian flowing between them as she searches for the word.
“Pit bull,” my father supplies, and everyone laughs except me. Because my lawyer isn’t a pit bull—she’s the girl I used to call Blueface when we were sixteen and I was too stupid to know how words could stick.
The doorbell rings again, saving me from having to keep talking about Jenna. It’s Liora, Riley’s fiancée, trailing the scent of expensive perfume, and carrying a bakery box that makes my stomach turn. More food I won’t be able to eat.
“Sorry I’m late,” she says. The height difference between Riley and his fiancée is wild. She’s like tiny against him and has to stand on her tiptoes as she presses a quick kiss on Riley’s lips before turning to me. “How are you holding up?”
The petite blonde is always straightforward.
The others have been dancing around the elephant in the room since they arrived.
Not Liora. No, she’s studying to become an attorney herself.
But her question hangs in the air for a second too long.
I shrug, the universal athlete response to any emotion more complicated than “hungry” or “tired.”
“Fine. You want a drink?” I stand before she can answer, needing the movement more than anything.
“No, thank you,” she says, looking me over with that familiar worried expression.
From the kitchen, I can see everyone—my mother, arranging yet another plate of food, my father, watching a baseball highlight on mute, Jay, showing something on his phone to Riley that makes him laugh—normal Saturday afternoon things.
Except for the court date. The reason everyone’s here.
Livy is playing in her room while everyone tries to comfort me even though no one can. Not today.
Riley follows me, grabbing a beer from the fridge without asking. We’re all like family and I love that about my friends. “You need to eat something that isn’t beer,” he says, nodding at the bottle in my hand.
“Not getting drunk,” I tell him.
Back to short answers. Neat, contained, impossible to misread.
It’s how I talk around everyone else—even my friends, the best people I could’ve ended up with.
But it’s not how I talk around Jenna. With her, the words come out longer, messier, like I forget to filter them first. Like I forget to be careful.
I don’t sound like that with anyone else.
“Your mother is calling your lawyer ‘Solnyshko,’” he says, changing the subject when he sees my face. “What’s that mean?”
I glance over to where my mother is chatting with Liora now, her hands moving in the expressive way that means she’s telling some story about me. Probably an embarrassing one. My parents still have the thick Russian accent. Something I always wanted to get rid of.
“Little sunshine,” I translate.
And it fits. She is my sunshine. I don’t know what I’d do without her right now.
“She seems more like a shark to me,” Riley says, which is closer to the truth, maybe. I’d seen her in court, tearing apart some poor bastard who’d showed up without proper documentation. No mercy, just cold, precise questions that left him stammering.
But anyway, my mother’s borscht could solve world peace, I’m pretty sure.
The rich, beet-red steam rising from the massive pot she’s brought to my dining table smells like my childhood, not this mess of legal papers and worry that’s been my life for the last three months.
“Eat,” she says, for the seventeenth time in as many minutes. Her English is better than she pretends, but she leans into the accent when she wants to make a point. “You are too thin for hockey.”
I snort.
I may be a lot but I’m anything but thin.
I’m the tallest and most muscular on our team—Coach would have my ass if I lost even two pounds, but arguing with my mother has never been a winning strategy.
So, I walk over to the table and ladle a generous portion into a bowl, ignoring the way my stomach immediately clenches in protest. Two hours and forty minutes until court.
Two until I need to be showered and pretending I slept.
We’re all sitting at the table now, passing bread and pouring drinks like it’s a family dinner instead of what it really is—my last meal before the gallows.
“Did you hear the thing on The Dirty Jersey about you?” Jay asks, right as I’m trying to swallow a too-large bite of bread. It sticks in my throat, and I have to take a long swig of beer to get it down.
“Don’t have time for podcasts,” I say, which is true if not exactly an answer.
I remember that podcast got quite popular a year or so ago.
It’s a shitty show. There’s a girl and her friend who gossip about players around all sports fields.
Mostly US, but some famous soccer players from Europe made it into their hall of fame as well.
It’s nothing but locker room gossip and bedroom scorecards dressed up as sports journalism.
I’ve got zero interest in that garbage. Every time their producer slides into my DMs, I hit delete faster than a puck off my stick.
Liora leans forward, her eyes lighting up. “Wait, you were on The Dirty Jersey? That’s huge!”
The pride in her voice makes my skin crawl. There’s nothing “huge” about having your custody battle turned into entertainment for people who’ve never met you once.
“They didn’t use your name,” Jay adds quickly, like he’s trying to backpedal from my sudden silence. “Just ‘a certain NHL enforcer’ and some speculation about why a divorce might be messy.”
An enforcer. As if that’s all I am – the guy who throws punches when our skilled players need protecting. Not the guy who’s been coaching Livy through her first attempts at reading, or the one who’s kept every baby tooth she’s lost in a tiny wooden box.
“They’re usually pretty respectful about personal stuff,” Liora says, reaching for the sour cream. “Riley’s been on there for hockey talk, and they never lied. Some players used the podcast to control their stories, so I don’t think it’s so bad to be mentioned there.”
Great. So not only is my private hell becoming public knowledge, but now I have to worry about which of my teammates might get ambushed with questions about it. I push my borscht around, watching the cream swirl into the red until it looks like pink clouds.
“Colton,” my father says, his deep voice cutting through the chatter. “Your lawyer, she has good plan for today, da?”
Six different conversations stop at once. My mother’s spoon freezes halfway to her mouth, and Riley suddenly becomes very interested in the last bite of his bread.
“She has... strategy,” I say finally, because “plan” seems too simple for the three-inch thick binder of exhibits and motions that Jenna had me review until my eyes crossed.
Memories flood my mind of how she has hundreds of Post-its scattered everywhere, all pastel color-coded and organized down to the tiniest detail.
I was relieved that her apartment looked like a normal person’s place; I had half-expected it to resemble Ethan’s home, where even the underwear is sorted alphabetically.
“We’re focusing on Livy’s school records and the.
.. the inconsistencies in her mother’s story. ”
The word “inconsistencies” feels clumsy in my mouth, too formal for the rage that burns every time I think about her fucking excuses.
Livy was “tired” when she missed ten days of kindergarten last month, or “playing rough” when I asked her about those bruises on her arm that she couldn’t explain. My hand tightens around my spoon.
“She seems smart.” My father nods, like we’re discussing a power play setup instead of whether I’ll get to tuck my daughter into bed tonight again or not. My father always loved me a lot. I’m their only child, and I know my dad would do anything for me. In theory. In practice, it was always my mom.
She’s the one who stayed at home for me. The one who gave things up—her job, her time, pieces of herself I probably didn’t even notice at the time—just to make sure I had everything she could possibly give.
My dad… wouldn’t have.
Still wouldn’t, if I’m being honest. He works. A lot. Even now, even after I bought them a house back in New Jersey not far from where I used to live with another family before I could bring my parents to the States.
They never wanted to take my money. Of course they didn’t.
I had to push, insist, practically forcing them into accepting it.
But my mom made me her life’s priority. She didn’t go to parties like Dad did sometimes, didn’t have a bowling club, couldn’t go to the gym whenever she wanted.
Dad did. And it’s not that I think he’s a bad parent for living his life, it’s just that I want to give Mom some of her life back, and I will never forget what a wonderful mother she is, and I want to be like that for Livy.
I don’t want to prioritize my job, or a random party or whatever there is.
I chose to be her father, so I am the father she needs. No matter what.
“Judge will want to see you are...” Dad looks to my mother, rapid Russian flowing between them as they search for the word.
“Consistent,” my mother finally supplies. “You are always there for Livy, yes? Never changing plans like her mother.”
I nod. Always there. Even when it means I’d need to let hockey go to get full custody.
“They’re breaking down the top contenders in the National League after the commercial,” Jay says, gratefully steering the conversation away from my mother’s concerned glances as he gestures toward the TV. “Want me to crank it up?”
Please, yes. I’d take anything over those careful, worried looks my mom keeps shooting my way when she thinks I’m not paying attention. I nod again, and he grabs the remote, cranking the volume until the analyst’s voice washes over us like a wave, drowning out the tension in the room.
“—focusing on the NL East, where the Mighter’s’ pitching rotation has been—”
My phone buzzes in my pocket, I check it immediately. One new e-mail from J. Davis with no subject line.
I read the e-mail.
Dear Mr. Dickhead,
Don’t drink beer before court. We need you to smell fresh. Meet you in an hour for prep.
Soberly yours,
Jenna Davis.
I look at my beer and frown. Shit.
“More borscht,” Mom declares.
In an instant she’s up and her ladle is already hovering over my half-full bowl, and I know better than to protest when she’s using that tone. So, I slide my phone deeper into my pocket and push my bowl forward for her to fill.
Two hours and thirty-three minutes until I need to be in court.
Two hours and thirty-three minutes to pretend I’m not counting every second. Enough time to brush my teeth three times and gargle with enough mouthwash to sterilize a hospital wing.