Chapter 32
THIRTY-TWO
Jenna
Over the next few weeks, my world shifts into high-definition color.
Each morning, Colton’s bare shoulders fold around me. I wake to the slight groove of his palm against my waist—after nights so seamlessly tangled, I’ve totally lost count. He slips out of bed, fills the kitchen with the drumming of eggs cracking and bacon spitting in the pan.
I’m already addicted to watching him lean over the counter while he braids Livy’s locks into a perfect fishtail.
There’s glitter everywhere now. On the coffee table. In the couch cushions. Somehow in Colton’s eyebrows. Livy takes her art projects seriously, which means none of us are safe.
She dots rainbow shimmer across our cheeks with the concentration of a surgeon while Colton chases her around the living room, pretending to be outraged, three plastic hair clips snapped into his short hair from an earlier tea party.
He lets her catch him every time and when I watch them, watch him just being the father he is, I want to hug him and absolutely never leave his side again. It’s like I want to crawl into him and stay there.
On some days I just sit nearby at the desk tucked into the corner of my new office, answering e-mails and pretending I’m focused while sunlight glares on my laptop screen and laughter keeps pulling my attention away.
I can easily picture myself with all those babies his mother wants.
I don’t think there’s a better man to have kids with than Colton.
When this man lets you into his heart, you stay there.
Later, when Livy finally tires herself out, we all end up on the couch. There is a bowl of popcorn between us, some animated movie glowing on the television—princesses, dragons, talking animals, whatever currently has her loyalty.
Sometimes Livy falls asleep halfway through, sprawled dramatically across both of us.
Or she makes us rewind scenes she missed while blinking.
I find myself envying Livy’s bold little spirit, remembering how much I wished I’d been like that at her age.
She has that confidence that I never had, a strength that would have kept bullies at bay.
The thought of her standing up for herself, refusing to be pushed around like I was, fills me with hope.
And sometimes, when the room goes soft and quiet, I catch myself leaning into Colton’s side without thinking.
He never makes a thing of it. He just shifts slightly, making room for me like he wanted me there all along.
That’s when it hits me, sudden and disarming every time: with the right person, nothing feels difficult in the way you were warned it would.
Life is still messy. Busy. Loud. There are dishes in the sink and glitter in places glitter should never be and tomorrow’s problems waiting patiently in the morning.
But moving through it together doesn’t feel like chaos.
It feels like rhythm. Like two people learning the same song without needing to speak.
Maybe love isn’t grand declarations or perfect timing.
Maybe it’s this.
A warm shoulder. Shared popcorn. Someone making space for you before you even realize you need it. Someone who understands you and is there for you no matter what.
Today, Livy and I trail behind Liora up the arena steps to the family box.
It’s puck drop number three this season, and our corner of folding chairs starts to feel as snug as Colton’s couch.
Both of us wear Colton’s jersey with his name big on our backs like a proud banner.
After his first goal, he caught me in the empty rink hallway, fingers tangled in the front of my shirt, telling me never to take it off again.
There’s this pulse behind his words, a promise I can feel through every stitch.
Liora slides over and lowers her voice as I settle beside her. “So, there’s nothing fake anymore about your marriage, huh?”
I tug on the cuff of my jersey, feeling the rough cotton slide between my fingers. Priya, perched on Liora’s other side, leans in too, her pretty dark eyes wide with curiosity. I laugh. “Nope. I guess you were right. Living under a shared roof is tricky.”
Priya’s grin flickers under the box lights. “I saw a new reel on Instagram, they filmed you guys shopping—I knew right then.”
Liora whispers, “You two look so good together. Your dresses… just wow.”
I smile. Yeah, there were a lot of reels and fan accounts posting about Colton and me.
I’d be lying if I said that I don’t save all the photos—even the bad ones.
I like the way we fit. The way we just align.
“All credit to my best friend. She styled every detail, from my gown to the last hairpin. She’s a serial shopaholic.
I have to tell her to ease up on the packages. ”
“I adore her podcast,” Priya says. “I can’t wait to meet her.”
“There’s a season kickoff party after the next game,” Liora reminds me. “You should bring her.”
Knowing Isla, I bet she’s already on it.
She’s the nosiest person I know, and if someone knows about a kickoff party, it’s her.
I tuck the phone away and watch Livy bounce on her toes, scanning the ice for her dad’s helmet.
My heart settles around us like the perfect braid, and I realize this truly is the best version of my life.
Even though the VIP box is crazy.
If Colton told me it would be packed with hockey royalty, assorted billionaires, and someone who once guest-judged on Top Chef, I probably would have been a nervous wreck.
But the place is phenomenal. Floor-to-ceiling windows, leather seats worth staging a coup for, and a cheeseboard that has its own publicist. There’s a glass wall separating us from the rest of the arena, so the noise comes in like weather—a pressure drop, then a surge, then a lull.
Livy sits on a high stool next to us, legs swinging. She’s decided the cheeseboard is “mid”, but the Swedish Fish are “gas.” I know this because she keeps narrating her snacking experience in “TikTok English”, which she isn’t allowed to but picked up in carpool.
Then the boys come out on the ice, and I catch the worry in Liora’s blue eyes. “I just hope there’s no brawl,” she says. “Bears games always end in blood.”
“Brawl?” I say, because, yes, I am an idiot and have never watched professional hockey with people who take it seriously.
She nods and I notice Priya holding Liora’s hand. “Houston and Riley. They hate each other. Two seasons ago, Houston pushed Riley’s buttons and he punched him so hard Houston missed the rest of the season. It’s, like, THE rivalry.”
I look at Livy, already worried for bringing her. “Oh, I don’t know if she should watch this game then. I don’t want her to see a fight.”
Priya leans forward and drops her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “I bet he’s secretly hoping you’ll see him win one. It’s a sports-hunk thing.”
“I don’t like fighting though, so I really hope this Houston knows how to behave today.”
“I hope Riley keeps his cool. He’s improved, but honestly… I wouldn’t bet my hand on it,” Liora replies, shaking her head. “My man has a temper.”
I try to laugh but it comes out strangled. Colton’s whole career is based on controlled violence, which is maybe why I’ve avoided watching him play live. I have the legal bandwidth for high-drama, high-stakes face-offs, but not, apparently, for grown men slamming each other into tempered glass.
On the ice, the players streak past in navy and gold, moving fast enough to make my eyes work overtime. The Falcons logo looks less like a bird and more like something designed to attack small villages.
Colton is still the easiest one to spot.
Of course he is. Tallest on the ice, broadest shoulders, skating with this unfair kind of smooth control that has absolutely nothing to do with the giant-enforcer image he seems to enjoy. He moves like the laws of physics have made a special exception for him.
His number flashes by and for reasons I’d rather not examine, a sharp pulse of adrenaline jolts through me. That’s my husband. And the captain of the team. I stare at the C on his jersey with pride.
“He looks different on skates,” I say.
Liora glances at me. “In what way?”
“I don’t know. He seems… happy.” The words slip out before I can stop them, so I quickly add, “Like he actually wants to be here.”
“Yeah,” Liora says with a smile. “The guys really love what they do. Everyone deserves to have that—something they’re excited to wake up for.”
“Like you with figure skating,” I say.
She shrugs. “Yeah, and you with being a lawyer.”
I smile automatically, but my eyes drift to Livy.
I’m not sure it’s being a lawyer that gives me that feeling. Not really.
It’s the kids. The ones I can help. The ones I can protect when no one else does.
And Livy.
The one who matters most of all.
Priya scrolls through her phone. “Have you seen this?”
She thrusts the screen at me, and I see, to my horror, a picture of myself taken from somewhere in the stadium, mid-cheer. My mouth is open, my arms raised like I’m testifying to some higher power. Good Lord. Caption: “His fiery lawyer is all of us when Colton King scores.”
My face burns. “I look like I’m giving birth to a sea monster.”
Priya and Liora giggle.
“Own it”, Priya says. “Also, that photo got reposted by the official Falcons account. Check your DMs.”
I’m about to snatch her phone when a roar rises from the crowd—like a wave, cresting.
On the ice, a player I don’t recognize is hurtling toward the Bears’ goal, Riley at his back, and then Colton intercepts the puck and launches it from somewhere near half-rink.
It’s a beautiful, improbable shot, and for a moment even I forget I hate sports.
The puck slams into the net and the box erupts. Livy stands and yells, “THAT’S MY DAD!” at a decibel usually reserved for fire alarms.