Chapter 33
THIRTY-THREE
Colton
The back of my throat tastes like pennies and shame.
Well, blood always tastes like metal, but it’s mixed with my mouthguard’s plastic and to be honest, it’s gross.
The trainers always get twitchy after a fight, like the second the final horn goes off, I’m gonna collapse from one too many haymakers to the head.
They fuss with gauze and tape—act like I haven’t patched myself up in locker rooms worse than this since I was sixteen.
Anyway, I’m bleeding a little—split eyebrow and a fat lip—but I’ve had worse from opening stubborn ketchup packets. My hands shake just enough to make things interesting. I reach for the towel at the same time as Riley, who grins at me with the full force of his orthodontist’s salary.
“Bro, that’s gnarly,” he says, poking at my eyebrow like he’s checking if it’ll pop. “You see the slo-mo on the Jumbotron? Houston’s teeth almost hit row three.”
“Should’ve made him eat more. Less talk.” I shrug him off, but he’s got that energy—wants to keep reliving the brawl. They always do, after a good one. The adrenaline is a drug, and tonight we’re all high as hell.
The room still buzzes. Somebody throws a Gatorade bottle across the tiles. Somebody else is singing “We Will Rock You” but he’s tone-deaf and mostly just stomping his feet. Shiny—our rookie—does a victory lap, still in half his gear, holding up the game puck like we just won the damn Stanley Cup.
“You’re trending, man,” says Riley, shoving his phone into my side so I can see a blurry video of my fist connecting with Houston’s jaw, overlaid with a string of flame emojis and a poll: Is Colton King an ACTUAL KING? I’m winning by sixty percent. “You’re, like, an internet hero.”
“Great. Someone buy me a cape.”
Riley laughs, then gets weirdly serious. “No, for real, thanks for bailing me out. I had him, but—”
“He was going for your knee,” I say. “That’s not fighting. That’s just being asshole,” I say. “And Coach told you to stay out of fights. I thought I should step in.”
“Thanks man,” Riley says.
I want to say something chill, something that doesn’t sound like a cry for approval, but instead I grunt and hunch over, busying myself with dabbing the blood. Old habit: if you don’t look up, nobody asks if you’re okay.
Shiny’s voice cuts through the noise, too high-pitched to ignore. “Dude, is that your sweet wife? Over there?” His finger points at the tunnel entrance, where the players’ families sometimes lurk.
At first, I don’t see her. But then—like a laser pointer—there’s Jenna, red hair gleaming under arena lights, her arms crossed so tight it looks like she might snap in half. Oh. She’s glaring holes through the entire room, but mostly at me.
I can feel my face go cold.
“No. My wife’s not sweet,” I tell Shiny. “But do you see the one who looks like she’s plotting my murder?”
I nod at Jenna and watch Shiny’s Adam apple bob when he catches sight of her. “Um, yeah, I’m actually scared.”
“You should be. That’s my wife and she’s mine.”
“Good luck in surviving.”
The room is still loud, but my brain goes quiet as I watch Jenna storming right at us with Livy in tow. A gear guy tries to block her, but the five-foot-nothing of a hurricane storms past him, her boots clicking so loud it silences the whole row of guys.
“Jesus,” says Riley, and then she’s in front of me, green eyes sharp as scalpels.
“Touch her again, and you die,” I manage to tell the gear guy.
He swallows and practically runs away from us, but then my little wife stands up on her tiptoes and grabs my jaw, forcing me to look at her.
“Oh no, you don’t get to threaten anyone. Are you out of your mind?” she hisses. “Have you forgotten the custody case? You can’t just—” She stops, eyeing the gash on my eyebrow, then softens about an inch. “Oh God… Let me see.”
I hold still as she pokes at the cut, even though it stings.
“I had to,” I say. “Guy went after Riley’s knee.”
“I don’t care if he went after Riley’s kidney stones, you cannot let people think you’re an aggressive Yeti. Do you understand what that will do to our case?”
I can’t help but chuckle. “An aggressive Yeti?” She can’t be serious.
But her hands are shaking. Not a lot, but enough for me to notice.
Fuck. She worried about me. I quickly check on Livy, but she seems unbothered.
She watches the staff scurrying around. There’s usually a lot happening after a hockey game.
They start with the cleanup, the Zamboni…
Livy looks fascinated by this world, and I’d be delighted if it weren’t for my wife, who’s currently on a killing spree.
Jenna jabs at my chest. “Colton!”
“Sorry… You think I like fighting? I’m sorry. I don’t want my kid to Google me and see blood every time either.”
Her expression flickers—hurt, maybe, or just tired. She steps back and glares at the ceiling.
“That’s not the point,” she says. “I don’t want Mira’s ex to argue that you’re ‘glorifying violence.’ I am doing everything I can so that we can keep Liv—that you can keep her.” She breaks off, arms folded, like if she uncrosses them everything will spill out.
Fuck. I should say something that will fix it.
Instead, I watch her for a second, notice the color high in her cheeks, the way her hairline is a little frizzy from the humidity, and it’s all I can do not to drag her into a supply closet and kiss the hell out of her.
She worries about my daughter. About me.
“Don’t you have anything to say?” she spits.
“Yeah,” I say, and step in close, close enough to smell her perfume under the antiseptic stink of the hallway. “You’re worried about me, Solnyshko.”
She makes a disgusted sound. “You’re delusional. It’s just the case and—”
“You worry about losing her too.”
“Of course. I love her.” She opens her mouth, closes it, then finally looks at me dead on. “And you are the most infuriating man I have ever met.”
“And you,” I say, yanking her toward me. “Are best wife I could ever wish for.”
It’s not a lie. It’s just the truth.
I don’t remember leaning in, but suddenly her mouth is under mine, warm and angry and alive.
She shoves me once, hard, and then she’s finally kissing me back, and all the tension from the game and the fight and the lawyers and the judges just vanish in my chest. When she pulls away, she wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, like she’s mad at herself.
“Don’t do that again,” she says, but she’s smiling a little.
“Fight or kiss you?”
“Fight.” She hesitates, lets her fingers brush my jaw. “I don’t want to see you get hurt.”
It’s then that I see her eyes glistening. “Okay Solnyshko. Okay.”
“And I don’t want to lose Livy.”
“We won’t.” I kiss her again.
“You bled everywhere, Daddy,” Livy suddenly says, coming up between us.
I pull her in tight, wrapping an arm around her small frame, and say, “It looks worse than it feels, kiddo.” She scrunches her nose, eyeing me with mock seriousness. “You smell worse than I thought, though.”
Jenna and I burst into laughter and just then a camera flashes, but neither of us cares.
I lean into Jenna so that only she can hear, “I just wanted to save my friend out there. I don’t usually use my knuckles, okay?”
She flashes me another fiery glance but nods. “Okay.”
“You want to come to the locker room?” I ask both of them. “I’ll show you around.”
Livy looks at me, eyes wide.
“Is it…allowed?” Jenna asks.
I wink. “Not really but it’s okay. You’re with me. We’ll just do it.”
I grab their hands and pull them into our locker room.
The air is muggy as always and thick with the sound of shouting.
Someone uncorks a bottle of champagne and sprays it in a wide arc.
The minutes after a win are always about dancing and glorifying what we just did.
Usually, we don’t shower until half an hour after a game, sometimes later, depending on when Ethan and our PR team booked post-game interviews.
I lift Livy onto one of the benches, where she sits in awe, soaking it all in. Riley swings by and offers her a high-five, which she returns with a solemnity usually reserved for royal handshakes.
“You’re really okay?” Jenna asks, more quietly this time.
“You worry too much.”
“You have a gash on your face,” she points out again.
“I have many,” I say and wink at her. “Don’t you women think scars are hot or something?”
“No.” And that’s when I catch her grin. Oh, she thinks it’s hot. My little brat.
I look back at Livy. She’s holding a Falcons cap now that Riley signed with a sharpie, telling him, “Don’t spell it wrong this time”—and I realize she’s not scared at all. She’s practically cut-out for hockey. Maybe I should let her play too.
“Can we get pizza?” Livy asks, holding up her cap like a trophy. I put it on her little head. It swallows her whole face, and she goes cross-eyed trying to see out from under the blue brim.
“Sure. Let me find Ethan first—I think I’ve got an interview or two—and then we’ll go.” I meet Jenna’s eyes over Livy’s head.
“But first—medical room,” she says.
“Sure, Solnyshko.” I kiss her and turn away before she can see me smile. The last time I went to a medical room voluntarily was when I was out cold. This is just a scratch.
It’s early, which means Midtown only half-hums, the law offices not yet fully caffeinated, all the ambitious bloodsuckers still deep in their subway pods. I’m early because Jenna said “early” and when she says jump, I’m in the air before gravity gets a vote.
I arrive at her office after taking Livy to school. She is already at her desk, hunched over a cute notebook. There are two empty espresso cups lined up like a firing squad and two sticky notes on her monitor reading: FILE ASAP and STOP PROCRASTINATING, JENNA.