Chapter 32 #2
The glass wall vibrates from the noise, and I realize I’m on my feet too, hands pressed to the glass, mouth open. Colton spins on the ice, throws his stick in the air, and then I catch him looking right at me.
I swear he mouths, “This goal is for you.”
I know it’s physically impossible. But when he raises his glove and mimes a little salute, my heart explodes. I’m not the only person in the box, or the stadium, but somehow, I am positive it’s for for me alone.
Priya laughs. “You’re blushing. Are you blushing?”
I try to steady my voice. “It’s just—” I can’t think of a lie that isn’t embarrassing. “He’s really good at this.”
Liora does a little fist pump, then returns to her notes. “He better be. It’s his bread and butter. But Falcons are up by one. I pray Houston won’t retaliate.”
“Retaliate how?” Livy asks, suddenly sitting on the plastic chair to my right. “Like, with a fight?”
Priya nods. “It happens sometimes, but don’t worry.”
I shoot her a look.
“Will Dad be okay?” Livy asks.
I touch her hair—soft, flyaway, the same color as Mira’s if you look at it in the sunlight. “He’ll be fine, bug. Your dad is well tempered. No need to be scared.”
She nods and returns to her Swedish Fish, lining them up in ranks.
The next period is a blur of color and speed.
I try to keep up with the action, but my attention drifts.
I watch the other VIPs—one man talking into a tiny headset, a pair of influencers posing for selfies with their drinks, a silver-haired woman who looks bored until someone brings her a plate of oysters.
Liora offers up trivia about the players (“That guy? Used to date a supermodel. That guy? Suspended for DWI. That guy? Vegan.”), while Priya alternates between posting some Instagram stories and making me repeat hockey lingo until I sound less like a narc.
At some point, the Bears score and the stadium groans. The fight everyone’s been prophesying seems about to break out when two players collide near the boards. A whistle. A tangle of limbs. The entire box goes silent. Me too.
“Oh no…” Liora hisses. “There we go.”
Even though I just told Livy that her father is better than a caveman, it’s him in the middle, grabbing a Bears player by the collar, pulling him back before he can clock Riley with his stick.
For a second, there’s a scrum, and I see the linesman physically separating Colton and the other guy. Then it breaks up. No blood. No glory.
Priya exhales. “That was so close. I thought for sure we’d see some teeth.
I press my palms to my skirt.
Fuck, I’m sweating, and not just from the overpriced pinot.
Something about seeing Colton in full-on protector mode hits different. It’s like a courtroom showdown, but with actual violence and no rules about not biting.
Between periods, there’s a lull. Livy drapes herself across two seats and reads a battered copy of Paw Patrol, holding it two inches from her nose. Priya and Liora are plotting how to get a photo with the team after the game. I sneak away to the corridor outside the box and try to breathe.
The stadium hallway is colder, emptier. I lean against the wall and check my phone. There’s a text from Colton.
Colton
You look beautiful in blue.
I type back.
Jenna
Is that allowed during a game? Aren’t you supposed to be focusing?
Three dots appear.
Colton
Only thing I focus on better than puck, is you.
I stare at the words until my heartbeat evens out. Then, from nowhere:
Colton
What’s Livy thinking?
I glance back through the glass. She’s looking for me, scanning the crowd. When our eyes meet, she gives a little wave.
Jenna
She’s loving it
Jenna
Also, she wants to know if you’ll win.
He replies instantly.
Colton
Always do, if you’re watching.
I smile, then bite down on it, and go back inside.
The rest of the game happens in lightning speed.
Bears tie, Falcons pull ahead, the clock ticks down.
I was ready to ease up again but with three minutes left, I feel the tension before I see it.
Colton’s line is back in, and so is Houston, face already red, mouth moving as he skates up.
I don’t have to lip-read to know he’s talking shit again.
That guy can’t help himself can he? Riley is there, too, and his jaw is clenched. Shit. Shit. Shit.
“That’s not a rivalry,” Priya says. “That’s sexual tension with extra murder.”
Liora sighs. “Priya.”
“Sorry,” she says. “It’s true, though.”
Livy’s back at my side and I catch her hands in fists.
She says nothing, but her eyes are huge.
I try to act calm, but my body knows better.
My chest is tight, my legs locked. I want to look away but can’t.
I’m not cut out for this. Brawls. Fights.
I don’t like it. I want Colton to be okay. I can’t watch him risking anything.
They line up for the face-off. The ref drops the puck. Houston slams into Riley, shoulder first, and before the whistle can even shriek, Riley’s glove is off and he stands up shouting something but I can’t hear. That tension makes me feel sick.
A punch lands, then another. But it isn’t Riley who throws the third—Colton is in, grabbing Houston, twisting his arm, and then, in one blurred motion, the two of them are down on the ice.
The box goes berserk. Priya screams. Even the influencers put down their drinks.
And me?
I can’t hear a thing. The world tilts. There’s blood on the ice, but I can’t tell whose. I pull Livy against me, hoping she won’t see anything of this.
The refs pull them apart. Colton’s lip is split, blood on his chin, but he’s fucking smiling. Houston is yelling, face puffy, his own blood trailing down his sleeve.
Livy stands on the seat and stares, open-mouthed. For a second, I’m afraid she’ll cry.
But she doesn’t. She says, in a voice that rings clear above everything: “Dad won.”
I want to tell her that fighting is not a solution to anything but the next second there’s a buzzer and the game is over. The Falcons have won. But I don’t recover like that. No—my whole body feels numb. I tremble and sweat and… I am going to kill Colton King.
The tunnels beneath the Arena are a fever dream of sweat, camera flashes, and controlled mayhem.
Livy has her hand wrapped tight around mine, while we try to find our way through security.
The smell down here is…not what you’d expect from a venue with a raw bar upstairs.
More like chlorine, old tape, and a faint, ever-present note of blood, which almost makes me vomit.
Colton in a fight… him being in danger. I can’t do this.
We hurry past three women in matching fur coats who are shouting into some Snapchat filter about how “Houston is an absolute monster,” which feels dramatic but pretty accurate.
I just can’t believe Colton punched him in front of his daughter.
Things went well with his custody case, yes.
But things aren’t settled yet and I bet his stupid ex and Botox Batman will use this against us. I am almost spitting fire.
Right behind them, a man in a Falcons jersey at least two sizes too small is yelling insults at no one in particular and everyone at once.
The arena is chaos.
And Livy loves it instantly.
She takes in every second of it with huge eyes and her mouth shaped into a perfect little O, like she’s just discovered adults are deeply strange and wildly entertaining.
She should be shocked about her father’s behavior… but I guess that’s what hockey men do to you. They give you fearless kids. I’m glad she is okay, but I swear Colton won’t be in a few seconds.
I spot him before he spots us—he’s hard to miss, even in a crowd of men built like refrigerators. He’s striding toward the locker room, chin lifted, a single, perfect gash running from his lip down to his jaw. There’s a towel pressed against his mouth, blooming red at the edge.