Chapter 16
SIXTEEN
Colton
Iend up ringing Jenna’s doorbell more times than I mean to.
My knuckles sting against the wood, but I can’t bring myself to care. Not after that phone call. Fuck, her voice was so small and broken in a way that reminds me too much of Livy.
The moment I spotted her name lighting up my screen, I knew something was wrong. I felt it in my bones That same instinct that tells me when an opposing player is about to blind side me on the ice.
I shift my weight, ready to ring again when the door flies open.
But it’s not Jenna standing there—it’s him. Fucking Matthew. The manchild who can’t be bothered to wash his own underwear.
“What the hell are you doing here?”
His voice is slurred at the edges, like it can’t quite keep itself together. Beer hangs off him in waves and it fills the hallway before he even steps fully into it.
And God.
He looks cringe.
Like he stopped caring weeks ago and just never started again.
Not a man. Just… a mess pretending to be one.
Jenna was too good for him.
Always was.
And somehow, he had the nerve to repay her by cheating. I don’t know where he even found another girl to cheat on Jenna with. There isn’t a single woman on this planet I’d choose over her.
I straighten to my full height, feeling a familiar shift in my stance—shoulders back, chin level. The same posture that makes players think twice about dropping gloves with me. And I’m proud when he looks up at me and fucking swallows.
“Where is Jenna?” I keep my voice steady. This weasel can’t do shit to me.
Matthew’s eyes narrow. “None of your business. E-mail her.” He moves to close the door but my palm slams against the wood before he can shut it.
“I need to see her. Now.”
“Listen, hockey boy—”
What the— “No. You listen.” I push forward, not enough to knock him down, just enough to make him step back. “She called me. She was crying because of you.”
The apartment beyond him is chaos—not the typical lawyer-with-no-time mess I’ve seen before.
This is different. A lamp on its side. A shattered glass on the kitchen floor.
Signs of something I recognize too well from my ex—the aftermath of rage.
She was always quick to completely lose it, and it seems Matthew is like her.
I bet he wanted to scare her, and I can’t hold back the rage that bubbles in my throat right now.
He crosses his arms, attempting to look tough. “Oh, did she call you? Isn’t that a surprise. The client she doesn’t fuck, right? Yeah, sure, that’s fucking professional.”
“Where. Is. She.” Each word comes out clipped. Each syllable hard as puck hitting boards.
A sound from the bedroom catches my attention—a soft hiccup of a sob that I’d know anywhere. I move to push past him, but Matthew blocks my path, his hand shoving against my chest.
“Get out,” he says. “This is my apartment too.”
I look down at his hand, then up at his stupid face. “Move.”
“Fuck you,” he spits, and something in me just… snaps.
“Last chance.” I keep my voice even. How? I don’t fucking know. “Step aside.”
He doesn’t. Instead, he fucking swings at me. This guy wants to die.
I could have dodged it completely. Years of hockey fights have taught me to read the telegraphing of an untrained punch, but I let it graze my jaw to make sure Jenna can’t blame herself later.
The impact is nothing, a mosquito bite compared to taking a stick to the face.
But it’s enough to justify what happens next.
Well, not my fault, fucker.
I grab his wrist mid-follow-through and twist, not enough to break anything, just enough to control.
His other fist comes flying, wild and stupid, and I catch that one too.
Now I have both his arms, and the panic in his eyes tells me he’s finally understanding the difference between us.
God really didn’t hand out brains equally.
“How the hell you thought it was a good idea to cheat on a woman like that is beyond me,” I practically spit in his face. “But now you’re here, scaring her like this? This is what you think is okay?” I ask, my accent thickening as anger rises. It always does when emotion overrides.
“I didn’t—she was being crazy—let go of me—”
I back him up against the wall, pinning him there with minimal pressure. “Crazy how? Because she works hard? Because she expects you to act like a grown man?”
He struggles, useless as a rookie against the veteran enforcer. “You don’t know anything about us!”
“Oh, I know enough.” I release one of his wrists to point at the broken glass, the overturned furniture. “I know what this means. I don’t like it. And believe me you don’t want me to get angry.”
“She tripped, alright? It was an accident! We had a fight. Couples fight.”
“Fight with words, maybe. Not with this.” I gesture at the destruction. “We’re done here for today. You are leaving,” I inform him, not a question or suggestion. A fact, like ice is cold.
“You can’t make me—this is my place too—”
I release him and step back, watching him regain his balance. “Pack your bag. Take your ugly clothes and go.”
“Fuck you! Who do you think you are?” His face contorts with rage, and he lunges at me again.
This time I don’t hold back.
I sidestep, letting his momentum carry him forward, then catch him by the back of his shirt. In one fluid motion, I pivot and take him to the ground, using his own weight against him. My knee presses lightly between his shoulder blades—enough to immobilize, not to hurt.
“You fucked up, and you hurt her,” I whisper in his ear. “And I don’t take it lightly when people hurt her.” No one’s going to hurt her ever again. “So, touch her, and I’ll break your neck, understand?”
He struggles beneath me, but there’s no leverage to be found. “I should call the cops on you!”
“Maybe. But first, you leave.”
When I’m confident he won’t take another swing, I stand and haul him to his feet, but he doesn’t seem to move as quickly as I want him to. And I’m done with him. “Where is your stuff?”
“What?”
“Your clothes. Your shit. Where?”
He points reluctantly to the full laundry basket in the bathroom.
I keep one hand firmly on his shoulder as I guide him there, opening the lid to find a collection of wrinkled clothes.
“Get your suitcase,” I tell him.
“Get it yourself,” he snaps.
I squeeze his shoulder just enough to remind him of our strength differential. “Suitcase. Now.”
Cursing under his breath, he pulls down a duffle bag from the shelf and throws it at my feet. I don’t flinch.
“Pack it,” I instruct.
“This is insane. You can’t just—”
“Pack. It.” Each word drops like a stone.
Under my watchful eye, he stuffs clothing into the bag—T-shirts, jeans, underwear that should have been washed days ago. Well, now he can wash his own shit.
“Toothbrush,” I remind him. “Razor. Deodorant if you have.”
“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, but opens a drawer.
While he finishes packing, I keep myself between him and the bedroom door.
I can hear Jenna’s muffled crying from within, and each sob is like a stick to the ribs.
I’ve only known her for months now, but something about her reminds me of the determined women in my hometown who held everything together while appearing to bend under the weight.
Women like my mother, who never broke no matter how hard life pressed down.
When Matthew’s bag is full, I zip it closed and hand it to him. “Time to go.”
“I need to talk to Jenna,” he says, suddenly shifting tactics, his voice softening. “Just let me apologize. We can work this out.”
“Nyet.” The Russian slips out before I can catch it. “Not today. Maybe never. Her choice, not yours.”
“You don’t understand—we’ve been together for years—”
“And now you are not anymore.” I take his arm firmly and guide him toward the front door. “Relationships end when respect and love ends.”
“You can’t do this!” He digs in his heels at the threshold. “You don’t have the right!”
“But I have an obligation to basic human decency.” I push the bag into his chest. “Now take your keys out of your pocket.”
His face twists in confusion. “What?”
“Apartment keys. Take them out.”
“Fuck you.”
I sigh and reach for his pocket myself. He’s one annoying prick isn’t he.
Matthew tries to squirm away, but it’s like a child resisting an adult. I find the keys easily and extract them.
“This is Jenna’s apartment,” I tell him, holding up the keys. “Not yours anymore.”
“We split the rent!”
“Then she will pay you back.” I step forward, forcing him backward over the threshold and into the hallway. “But you don’t live here now.”
His face flushes deep red. “You’re making a huge mistake. She’ll never represent you after this. Your custody case is fucked.”
I feel a tightness in my chest at the mention of the case, but I don’t let it show.
Before he can say anything else, I close the door firmly and engage both locks. Through the wood, I can hear him swearing, threatening to call the police, to sue, to ruin me. Let him try. I’ve faced worse opponents on and off the ice.
I lean my forehead against the door for a moment, collecting myself. My hand goes to my jaw where his punch landed—it doesn’t even qualify as a bruise by hockey standards. I take a deep breath, then turn toward the bedroom door where Jenna hides.
This isn’t how I imagined being invited into her home again.
Not that I did expect it. Maybe foolishly dreamed about it… once.
But life rarely passes the puck exactly where you expect it.