Chapter Twenty-Two
Aleksi
The locker room is buzzing with excitement, players high-fiving, shower water hitting tile, music and laughter filling every corner. But as I look around, looking for the only person I want to see, I notice she isn’t here. Theo is the only one making rounds.
I head for Theo. “Have you seen Kendall?”
There’s a quick flash in his eyes and then it’s gone. “She went to find Penelope. That’s all I know.” But it seems like he might know more.
I drop my helmet at my stall before I head for the locker exit and as soon as I push through the doors, I hear her voice.
Not the calm cadence she uses on the bench. A thinner thread, frayed. “Ouch… Tarron, let go… you’re hurting me.”
I don’t think, I just move.
I turn the corner and there he is: Tarron McCoy. His fingers locked around Kendall’s arm. Not careful. Not kind. Possessive. Her other hand is gripping his wrist as if to signal that his hand is getting too tight on her.
"Let her go Tarron."
My voice is low and flat. It doesn’t need volume; it carries on its own kind of threat.
Tarron turns. Red-rimmed eyes and glassy from too many beers. I’ve been around enough drunk fans to notice it immediately. The stale, hoppy smell of beer and sweat permeates from him. He’s in a Sentinels polo like he belongs, VIP credential swinging as if the laminate is a shield.
“Mind your business, rookie,” he slurs, and doesn’t let go.
“She is my business,” I say. I take another step, and the space shrinks.
I’m still in full gear, skates too, giving me additional height even though barefoot, I still have at least four inches on him.
A camera flash pops. Then another. I check my peripheral without drawing attention to make it worse. Reporters linger after wins like a bunch of hungry seagulls. Of course they do, and this is exactly the kind of click-bait catnip they want.
“Kendall,” I say, eyes on Tarron. “You okay?”
“I’m fine,” she says, not sounding fine at all. She pulls, and he tightens his grip, and pulls her toward him a hair, making her stumble two steps towards me.
“Tarron, knock this shit off,” one of the players says.
“Listen to your body,” I warn.
Tarron’s smile is mean now, razor-thin. “Cute, Helsinki. You trying to be the savior here? I was the one who was here when she first found out while you were on vacation.”
That hits hard. She told him first while I was away. Kendall thinking I was dating someone else doesn’t change the fact that Tarron knows where to poke.
“Let her go,” I repeat. “And step away from her.”
He releases her with a show of magnanimity, then pivots into me, low like a linebacker, he runs full speed into me.
It knocks the air out of my chest even with my gear on.
He’s still a big dude, a football player that knows where to hit to leave a mark—and the rest is instinct.
We falter back a few steps from his hit but then I recover quickly, plant my skates into the rubber floor mat under us.
Hips turn. One clean uppercut. The kind I’ve thrown a thousand times out on the ice in a brawl.
My fists connect with the bones in his face, mostly his nose.
A sound like a stick snapping. Blood beads, then spills onto the floor around us. He crumples.
Gasps. Shutters. The white-spray burst of flash hitting concrete and faces as the few people around us get the shot they’ve been praying for to make their quota this month, no doubt.
I instantly look over to see Kendall’s shock, already dropping to her knees in front of Tarron.
Always a doctor. “Tarron, lift your head,” she says, voice steady.
He reaches for a box of tissues shitting by a short row of plastic chairs in the hallway.
Her hands are sure and clinical, but there’s also a side of familiarity to her touch.
I know that touch; I’ve wanted it all night.
It hits like its own kind of punch that he gets it first.
“I think your nose might be broken,” she tells him. “Elevate it. You need to see someone for this.”
“It doesn’t even hurt,” Tarron grumbles. “Your pussyfoot boyfriend has a shit undercut.”
Tell that to your broken nose asshole. But I don’t need the cameras to catch that too.
Two Sentinels appear, materializing from nowhere. “Bro—let’s go,” one says, grabbing Tarron under the arms.Security boots pound the tile.
“Yeah, get him the hell out of here. I’m sure Coach Evans isn’t going to be happy about this.”
They lift him to his feet. “You’re worried about my coach, M?kelin? I’d be more concerned with who she ran to first.” he smirks and then glances at her.
“Get him out,” I growl. I don’t step forward. I don’t have to. The threat is baked into my bones.
They drag him, his feet unsure, drunk and nursing a broken nose. Reporters call out questions, hungry. Security swells, trying to push the tide back.
Kendall stands, wipes her hands, and turns to me. Her eyes flick to my fist. The swelling is fast.
She sees the media swirling around us and pulls at my jersey.
“Come on, I need to take a look at it,” she says and then pulls me into the safety of the locker room.
She takes me to her office and closes the door to give us privacy, and then she takes my hand into her.
Her hands aren’t her usual steady ones, there’s a slight shake to them.
Adrenaline? Fear? Would she tell me if it were either.
“I don’t care about my hand,” I say, stenching out my fingers back and forth to test if anything feels broken. It hurts like hell but I think it’s fine.
She ignores me and continues her examination. “You need to ice this tonight.” Her gaze flicks up once more. There’s disappointment, fear and likely pain from what just happened out there.
“What happened before I got out there? Did you get him that VIP pass? Did you know he was drinking?”
“He’s been here for the whole game, but no I didn’t invite him. Still, you shouldn't have hit him and broke his nose.”
“He had his hands on you Kendall, what was I supposed to let him do? Drag you out of here while you’re six months pregnant?”
“That hit was harder than it needed to be, and you know it. You broke his nose, and the media got the shot they wanted. This could be really bad… for all three of us.”
I can’t believe she’s saying this. “He hit me first Kendall, and I’ll never let anyone touch you like that, career suspension or not.”
She shakes her head as she reaches for the tape. She starts wrapping up my hand with an ice pack slid in between the layers.
“I need to find Penelope and tell her what happened. Maybe we can do something. You need to get to media.”
“I need to get you home.” I argue.
“You’ve done enough Aleksi,” she barks, her eyes rising to mine, flared.
Shit… she’s mad.
“I just wanted to protect you,” I say, gently taking her wrist just as she finishes wrapping my hand. But I don’t give a shit about my hand. I only care that she understands what I was trying to do. I need her to understand that no man should ever touch her like that.
I want to pull her in and keep the world out. She steps back instead, her eyes fluttering closed. “Please, Aleksi. Just go to take care of the media before people start talking more than they already will be. We need to do damage control and try not to let this get out of hand.”
I nod because it’s all I can do without making it worse. She turns and heads for her office door, opening it and slides through, leaving it open for me to exit next.
Trey’s eyes are on Kendall’s back as she storms through the locker room, then he sees me coming from the same direction. “You good? Did I miss something?”
“I’m fine.”
“There’s blood on the floor out in the hallway,” he says, not unkindly. “Media’s foaming.”
Okay so he knows enough then.
“I hit her ex-husband. He was drunk and was getting physical.”
“And now he has a broken nose it would seem…”
I look at him. “If it were Vivi?...” I ask.
“If it had been Vivi… he would have left here in a body bag.” He nods, knowingly.
“Exactly.” I say and then head for my stall to undress and jump in the shower before press.
If Kendall wants me to fix this. I’ll do it, but this time, I’m doing it my way.
Vivi: Tell me that isn’t you on local news.
Another ping.
Chelsea PR: No comments until I brief you. Locker room in 5 minutes. Delete anything you feel tempted to post.
Another.
Unknown (screenshot from a reporter): Tunnel Brawl: Hawkeyes Rookie Winger Drops NFL Bad Boy — with a frozen frame of my fist at peak arc, Kendall blurred in the background.
The room tilts a degree. I swallow it down.
The press lights are bright and sharp. I stand where they tell me, say what Chelsea tells me. “Proud of the guys.” “We built on existing systems.” “Fans were great.” A question bounces in: “Aleksi, can you address the incident—” and I say the line: “I’m here to talk about hockey,” like a good boy.
After, the corridor outside the presser is a choke point.
Everyone’s asking if I’m going to head to Oakely’s to celebrate but I tell them I need to go check on Kendall. The rumors have already spread through the locker room so everyone nods knowingly.
I shoot Kendall a text: You okay? Did you make it home?
No dots. No reply.
So I text Penelope: Is Kendall with you?
Penelope: She’s with Isla and Kaenan. Security will ban Tarron from team property. You did what you needed to with the press. Go home, Aleksi. Ice your hand.
She’s home. Thank God.
Me: Is she okay?
A long beat. Then:
Penelope: She’s shaken. Let her breathe.
Breathe. Right. Sure.
The parking lot is a smear of brake lights and exhaust clouds. I sit in my car with the engine off and scroll like an idiot to hurt myself.
A fan video from thirty feet away: “HE JUST DROPPED MCCOY.” The comments split clean down the middle—protect her vs.
thugs with sticks. A still shot where Kendall is blurred behind me, hand on belly, captioned with a question mark.
A cropped angle with Tarron flying towards me and me taking the undercut shot.
My jaw aches. I toss the phone into the passenger seat and drive.
I pull into the driveway and her car isn’t here, but I guess if Kaenan took her home then she must have left it at the stadium employee parking lot. No problem. We’ll go get it tomorrow.
I walk into the house but it’s completely dark, like she turned off all the lights… or I beat her home.
“Kendall?” I call out. “Are you here?”
There’s no answer.
I start turning on lights in every room I enter, but the more rooms I check and the lack of the sound of footsteps anywhere in this massive house has me losing hope by the minute.
I send out a text to Kaenan: Did you drop Kendall off at home tonight?
His text comes back quickly.
Kaenan: Yeah, at her apartment. That’s where she said she wanted to go.
Her apartment?
Me: Thanks.
Kaenan: I heard about the fight. Is everything okay?
Me: It will be. But Tarron’s ability to smell or taste for a couple of weeks… probably not.
I tell him, and I can only hope that’s true.
I send off another text to Kendall: I just got back to the house but you’re not here. Is everything okay?
Finally, I get a response back.
Kendall: I just need a day or two to figure things out. And it's better if I do it alone
Me: Figure what out?
She doesn’t respond.
Me: Is this about me hitting him? Are you mad about that?
Kendall: I just need some time to think.
Jesus… It is about that.
Tarron’s voice hits me again.
“...I’d be more concerned with who she ran to first.” The smug look on his face even with a broken nose.
She did run to him first. Dropped to her knees to check on him after what he did… after what he’s done.
Fuck, did I read this whole thing wrong. Is Tarron right? Is she still in love with him?