That’s when I see him.
Steven stumbles out from behind a concrete pillar near the courthouse steps. His suit is disheveled, his tie loosened, and even from ten feet away, I can smell the alcohol on him.
He’s drunk. Drunk enough that he must have started before the hearing, then hit the bottle hard immediately after, when it didn’t go his way.
“There you are,” he slurs, pointing at us with an unsteady hand. “You thought you could just walk away? Thought you fucking won?”
I immediately step in front of Heather, putting myself between her and Steven. “You need to leave. Now.”
“Don’t tell me what to do.” He sways on his feet, and his face is red and blotchy. “You think you’re so fucking special? You think you can just take my family?”
“They were never yours.” I’m doing my best to keep my voice level. As satisfying as it would be to deck the guy right here and now, I don’t want to cause a scene at the fucking courthouse of all places. “Walk away, Steven. You’re already violating the restraining order. Let’s not make this worse than it already is.”
“Fuck the restraining order!” He takes a step closer, and that’s when I see it.
The gun.
He pulls it from inside his jacket with shaking hands, and every instinct I have as an athlete kicks in. Time slows down. My vision narrows. I track every movement, every shift in his body weight.
“Steven, no!” Heather’s voice is high and terrified behind me. “Please, don’t do this!”
“Shut up!” He waves the gun wildly between us. “Just shut the fuck up! I’m so sick of hearing your voice, Heather. Always whining, always playing the victim.”
“Put the gun down.” My voice sounds deadly calm to my own ears, and I can only hope that’s the way Steven hears it. I keep my hands visible and non-threatening, but I’m calculating distances, angles, and timing. “This isn’t going to end well for you.”
“You think I care?” Spit flies from his mouth as he rants in Heather’s direction. “You took everything from me! My daughter, my rights, my fucking life! And you.” He switches and points the gun at me, and his hands are shaking so badly now that I’m not sure whether that makes him more or less dangerous. “You think you’re some kind of hero? Coming in here with your money and your lawyers, while you play house with my family?”
“You had a chance to be a family,” I say. “You lost that right when you put your hands on Heather.”
“I didn’t lose shit!” His voice rises hoarsely. “That judge, she didn’t understand. Nobody understands. Heather is mine. April is mine. And you’re just some dumbass hockey player who thinks he can swoop in and take everything.”
“Steven, please.” Heather’s voice is soft and sweet, like she’s talking to an unruly child or a scared puppy. “Just put the gun down. This isn’t you. You don’t want to do this.”
“Don’t tell me what I want!” He swings the gun toward her, and rage explodes in my chest.
“Point that gun at her again and you’re done,” I growl.
He laughs, but it’s an ugly, broken sound. “What are you gonna do? You gonna stop me? You gonna be the big man?”
I don’t answer. I just watch him and wait.
He’s drunk and angry, which makes him unpredictable. But it also makes him sloppy. His grip on the gun keeps shifting. His stance is unbalanced, and he’s swaying on his feet.
“You ruined my life,” he says, and now he’s almost crying. “Both of you. Everything was fine before you showed up, Parker. Everything was under control.”
“Nothing was under control,” Heather says quietly. “You were never in control, Steven. That’s why you’re here with a gun. Because you can’t handle losing.”
“Shut up!” He takes a step forward, and his foot catches on the edge of the step.
That’s my opening.
He stumbles, just for a second. His weight shifts forward, and the gun drops slightly.
I don’t think. I just move.
Years of training, thousands of hours of explosive movements and split-second reactions, all of it comes together in one instant. I launch myself forward, covering the distance between us in two strides.
The gun goes off.
