I’ve never been like Theo. I’ve never been the guy who threw punches or looked for fights. Hockey has always been about skill and strategy for me, not violence.
But now I understand that need to hit something. To make someone hurt.
I understand it perfectly.
Two weeks later, I wake up to find Heather already awake beside me.
She’s lying on her back and staring blankly at the ceiling. She’s not really showing any emotions, but I can see the tension in every line of her body—her shoulders are tight, her jaw is clenched, and her hands are fisted in the sheets.
Today is the custody hearing. The first time she’ll have to face Steven in front of a judge.
“Hey.” I scoot a little closer in bed and reach for her hand, gently uncurling her fingers from the fabric. “Talk to me.”
“I don’t know what to say.” Her voice is raspy with sleep. Or maybe from a lack of sleep. “I keep running through every possible scenario in my head. What he’s going to say. What lies he’s going to tell. What if the judge believes him?”
“Stop.” I give her hand a gentle squeeze. “Richard knows what he’s doing. His whole team has been preparing for this.”
She turns her head to look at me, and I can see the fear in her eyes. “But what if it’s not enough? What if I say the wrong thing and make everything worse?”
“It will be enough. You’re April’s mother. You’ve given her an incredible life, and no judge is going to ignore that.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I know you.” I pull her closer to tuck her against my side, wrapping my arm around her shoulders. “And I know how much you love that little girl. That’s going to come through, no matter what Steven tries to pull.”
She’s quiet for a moment, then says, “Thank you. For being here. For all of this. I don’t think I could do it without you.”
“Good thing you don’t have to find out.”
She presses her face against my chest, and we stay like that for a few more minutes before the alarm goes off and it’s time to get ready.
We move through our morning routine mostly in silence. Heather showers first while I make coffee. By the time I’m dressed in the suit Richard insisted I wear—”You need to look stable and respectable,” he’d said—Heather is standing in front of her closet in her underwear, trying to decide what to wear.
She’s already done her hair and makeup, and she looks beautiful, even with the stress weighing on her.
I watch her pull out a navy dress, then put it back. Then a gray one. Then back to the navy.
“The navy one,” I say from the doorway.
She glances at me over her shoulder. “You think?”
“Definitely. It makes you look professional but approachable. Like the good mom you are.”
She nods and lays it on the bed, then reaches for her shoes. She’s still in her bra and panties, and the same possessive feeling I get every time I look at her suddenly takes over.
She’s mine. This strong, beautiful, terrified woman is mine. And I’m about to watch her walk into a courtroom and face down the man who tried to break her.
I cross the room and sit on the edge of the bed. When she turns around, I reach for her hips and pull her down onto my lap, positioning her so she’s straddling me.
The noise that escapes her throat is half-laugh, half-gasp. “Grant, what are you doing? We don’t have time?—”
“Look.” I turn her to face the full-length mirror across from us, adjusting her position so she can see our reflection clearly. “Look at yourself.”
She tries to look away, but I gently grip her jaw to keep her gaze on our reflection.
“What do you see?” I ask.
“I don’t know. Me?”
