Chapter 30
THIRTY
Colton
Riley takes a deep, deep breath. “You kissed her, or what? Colton, we can’t figure out what’s going on with you until you start using actual words.”
He leans against the row of metal lockers, tugging at the collar of his sweat-soaked shirt. Steam still drifts from the shower drains, and the distant clang of weights dribbles through the air.
I peel off my jersey, the damp fabric clinging to my back.
Only days remain until our first game, and nobody—Thompson, Mercer, Jay, anyone—feels sharp or ready.
But here we are. That kiss, or the dry hump whatever, happened a week ago.
Since then, Jenna and I behave like freshmen who discovered gravity and don’t know what to do with it.
We collide in narrow doorways: me spilling her coffee, her yanking my helmet when I pass.
One night she grinded her body against mine.
The next she avoided my gaze altogether, talking only about our case.
It’s nerve-wracking. Especially since everything else seems to be working out so well.
Even Child Services visited us in the evening without any prior notice.
We cooked for Livy, and it felt like a perfect family dinner.
Livy told them how great things are and that she wants to stay with us instead of her mother, and everything seemed so good.
Jenna takes care of Livy when I can’t, and she does it flawlessly.
Each time I see my kid smile at her, I’m in awe and want to kiss Jenna even more.
But when I turn to her, grinning like the fool I am, she looks away.
It’s as if I suddenly became unkissable or something. And I’m too shy to ask what went wrong.
Jay slips in next to us, the blue whistle dangling from his coach’s polo. “Is he actually going to talk this time? Don’t want to miss it.” He nudges Riley with an elbow.
“There’s nothing to hear,” I mutter.
“Not nothing. He has a problem,” Riley says flatly, folding his arms.
“Well, then talk,” Jay urges. “Come on. What’s up?”
I run a hand along my jaw. All week I tried to sort out this mess alone—me. My fake wife at home who looks at me like I’m her favorite popsicle, then vanishes like a bad Snapchat filter. Maybe it’s time for back-up. “Fine. But make it quick.”
Riley jabs Jay in the ribs, grinning.
I grunt. “Don’t do this.”
“Do what?” Riley cocks an eyebrow.
“Act like an idiot.”
Jay clears his throat. “Don’t waste time. We know he’s a loggerhead. Start talking, man.”
I rub my fingers together. “Okay. So, we hung out. Watched TV ‘til late. Then things got…heated. We dry-humped on the couch. I, uh, made her come. Now she won’t speak to me, not really, and when she does it…it’s weird.”
Riley whistles low. “I have to mark this on my calendar. You’ve never talked this…much.”
Jay swats Riley’s arm. “Shut up.” Then to me: “Honestly, I see how she looks at you. She wants you.”
I shrug. “She didn’t throw me off the couch, so I guess she does. Sometimes. But why the cold shoulder?”
“She’s embarrassed,” Riley says. “She’s into you—way into you—but too shy to say so. You need to make a move.”
“A move?” I echo.
“Yeah,” Jay nods. “But first, decide what you want. Just physical, or something serious?”
I glance at my cracked cleats by the bench. “I—I really like her. But she’s also my lawyer…”
Riley grins. “When you, Colton King, says ‘really like,’ bro, that’s practically love.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “Please…”
Jay shrugs. “He’s got a point. You hate plenty of people. And sometimes yourself. Really like her does sound like she’s special.”
I exhale, tension easing. “I like talking to her.”
“That’s it,” Riley says, throwing up both of his hands. “You want to keep her. Now speak up.”
Jay and Riley burst into laughter, then silence. Riley leans close. “Tell her straight: ‘I want you, babygirl.’”
I rub my palms on my shorts. “Right.”
“Maybe cook for her,” Jay suggests. “Practice before pickup—get groceries, light a candle—show you care.”
My forehead creases. “Guys, I have a kid. She’ll be at that table you know.”
“That’s part of the charm,” Riley winks. “Dinner’s foreplay. Then pin her to the wall and say, ‘I like you.’” He growls the last part in a caveman voice, puffing out his chest and beating it once with his fist. If this is supposed to be me, then I’m guessing I’m expected to throw a punch now.
“That’s how you landed your wife?” I ask.
“Basically,” he laughs.
“Caveman,” I mutter but can’t stop my stupid smile.
“Don’t quiz my love life,” Riley says, raising his hands.
I fold my wet jersey over my shoulder. “Okay. Cooking, then talking.”
“Exactly,” Riley says. “Make it nice—candles, tablecloth, the works.”
“I’m not doing Hollywood romance.”
“Yeah Riley, that’s cheesy,” Jay says.
I shake my head, smiling. “Alright, idiots. I’ll text you if it works.”
“Wait—got something for you.” Jay digs in his duffel and pulls out two royal-blue Falcon jerseys. “One for Livy, one for your wife.”
I take them and imagine them at our game, grinning in the stands, my number bright against the lights. My chest tightens but in a good way.
Jenna texts me while I pick up Livy.
Jenna
Your parents are at the apartment. Is this your thing, people just showing up at your house?
My fingers freeze on the ignition.
My parents? Mom just got out of the hospital two hours ago. “Oh shit.” It’s because I didn’t tell her about the marriage… or an engagement or… a girlfriend at all. She’d crawl out of her grave to kill me for something like that, but it was just too much going on, too much—
“Daddy?” Livy’s voice pipes up from the back seat. “What’s wrong?”
“My parents. They’re with Jenna. Alone.”
Colton
Don’t forget: we’re married.
That’s the only text I send back, sticking to our agreement not to mention that it’s a sham over messages.
My ex is resourceful. I can easily picture that witch becoming a hacker or fucking one to hack me.
But Jenna’s clever enough to understand the unspoken rules and keep quiet about our pretend marriage around my parents.
If they ever found out it was fake, my mother wouldn’t just kill me, she’d haunt me forever.
Livy’s giggles fill the car. “I bet they’re already feeding her.”
“Yeah, to the wolves.” I jam the key in. “Buckle up.”
“Go fast, Daddy! We need to save your princess!”
“You’re schmaltzy.” She laughs at the odd word and I drive off.
Ten minutes later, I brace myself before pushing open the door to my penthouse, expecting screams, tears, maybe blood.
Instead…the rich scent of garlic and butter. And laughter.
My mother stands at the counter, knife glinting as it glides through carrots, her silver bangle sliding down her wrist with each chop.
I can tell from her pale face that she’s not fine yet but apparently, she feels good enough that the first thing she wanted after her kidney failure was to visit me and cook for all of us.
I know she has to go back to the hospital again but seeing her smile at Jenna like this…
it seems like everything is back to normal. It’s not, though.
My mother has never liked any woman I’ve dated.
Not a single one. But the knife in her shaky hand isn’t aimed at Jenna.
It’s slicing through carrots, while my wife stirs something bubbling on the stove, her head thrown back in a genuine giggle—not the kind that comes from hostages with Stockholm syndrome.
My heart does a little somersault when I notice they make Pelmeni.
That’s what I’d describe as stuffed dumplings to non-Russians. My favorite dish.
“Granny!” Livy bolts across the room.
My mother’s knife clatters to the cutting board. “Livyushka!” She breaks into rapid Russian, arms wide. She catches my daughter, peppering her cheeks with lipstick smudges, exclaiming how many centimeters taller she’s grown since we visited her in the hospital just days ago.
“Are you okay, granny?”
“Yes, yes,” she replies, but the way her smile falters hints that she’s not quite as fine as she claims. She’s allowed home for just one night, and she chose to spend it with us. I feel honored, but I wish she’d called first. “I’m fine, darling!”
Dad looks up from whatever game he’s watching, the remote balanced on his knee. “There’s something waiting in your room, zaya.”
Livy’s shriek could break glass as she tears down the hallway.
My mother smiles but that fades the minute she sees me.
Oh no. I’m in trouble. Big trouble. She gives me another death glare.
The kind that tells me that she’ll chop my head off soon, but the Pelmeni needs her first. Then she comes up to me, gives me a way too hard peck on my cheek that also could have been a slap, and returns to Jenna.
“No, no, like this,” my mother says, her accent thicker than mine ever was. “You pinch edges tight or filling comes out during boil, Solnyshko.”
Jenna follows her instruction, her tongue caught between her teeth in concentration. “Like this, Irina?”
“Da, perfect! You learn so quick! Smart. Very smart.”
“I’ve been teaching your wife. She is very good. I can’t help like I want to because of this stupid little health thing, but she can almost do it all by herself!”
Yep. I heard it. That “wife” wasn’t meant to be nice. At least not for me.
I lean against the pillar in my living room, arms crossed over my chest, taking in the scene I never imagined.
My lawyer stands in my kitchen wearing jeans and a simple sweater instead of her courtroom armor, flour dusting her freckled cheeks.
It’s hard not to look at her. She’s stunning in every way.
Her red hair is pulled back in a messy bun, strands escaping to frame her face.
She looks softer here, more real than the sharp-edged attorney who’s been avoiding me all week because we dry humped each other.
My father clears his throat on the couch and my gaze flicks to him. “Your wife, she really is a good woman,” he says in Russian. “But you are in trouble.”