“You’re bleeding through your shirt. We need to make sure the bullet isn’t lodged in your shoulder.”
“I said I’m fine. The bullet grazed me. It’s not lodged in my shoulder. It’s not an issue.”
The officer nods and pulls out a notepad. “Can you tell me what happened here?”
I give him the rundown. Steven ambushed us. He was drunk. He pulled a gun. Heather tried to talk him down. He fired. I disarmed him.
Heather fills in the gaps now that she’s a little steadier. She explains about the restraining order, the custody hearing, and everything else that led up to this moment.
Another officer is examining the gun where it fell. He picks it up carefully with gloved hands and takes it back to his vehicle, then pops back out a few seconds later.
“Hey, Sarge,” he calls over to the first officer. “This weapon is unregistered. And according to the database, Steven Walsh has a prior domestic violence conviction. He’s not legally allowed to possess a firearm.”
The sergeant’s expression hardens. “Is that right?”
“Yes, sir. And the fact that he brought it to a courthouse makes it a federal offense on top of the state charges.”
The sergeant turns back to us. “If all of this checks out, it seems Mr. Walsh will be looking at some serious time behind bars. Assault with a deadly weapon, attempted murder, violation of a restraining order, illegal possession of a firearm, and bringing a weapon onto federal property. I have a feeling he won’t be bothering you folks for a very long time.”
Relief washes over Heather’s face. Her knees buckle slightly, and I step in to hold her steady.
“You’re sure?” she asks. “He’s going to jail?”
“Ma’am, with this many charges and his prior record? He’s not getting out anytime soon. I’d bet on ten to fifteen years, minimum.”
She sags against me, and I can feel the tension immediately start to drain out of her body.
The sergeant looks at me with a hint of respect. “That was one hell of a takedown, Mr. Parker. Dangerous as hell, but effective.”
“Wait.” The younger officer steps closer, squinting at me. “Parker? As in Grant Parker? The Aces goalie?”
“That’s me.”
His eyes widen. “Holy shit. I mean—sorry, sir. I just—I’m a huge fan. You were incredible in the playoffs last season.”
“Thanks.”
“I didn’t know you were such a badass off the ice too. Going after a guy with a loaded gun like that?” He shakes his head in awe. “You weren’t worried about getting shot?”
I glance down at Heather, still pressed against my side. “I was more worried about someone else in that particular moment.”
The younger officer grins. The sergeant just nods in understanding.
“Well, you did good work here today,” the sergeant says. “Reckless, but good. We’ll need you both to come down to the station tomorrow to give official statements, but for now, I think you’ve been through enough.”
We thank them and they finish securing the scene, taking photos of the gun and the blood on the ground. Steven is loaded into the back of a patrol car, still crying and ranting about how everything about this day has been unfair.
I watch them drive away, and then take a deep breath.
It’s over.
Really, truly over.
I turn to Heather. “Let’s go home.”
She looks up at me, then down at my shoulder where enough blood has soaked through to make it look a lot worse than it actually is. “Grant, you need to go to the hospital. That wound needs proper care.”
“I’m fine.”
