The arena is chaos.
And Livy loves it instantly.
She takes in every second of it with huge eyes and her mouth shaped into a perfect little O, like she’s just discovered adults are deeply strange and wildly entertaining.
She should be shocked about her father’s behavior… but I guess that’s what hockey men do to you. They give you fearless kids. I’m glad she is okay, but I swear Colton won’t be in a few seconds.
I spothimbefore he spots us—he’s hard to miss, even in a crowd of men built like refrigerators. He’s striding toward the locker room, chin lifted, a single, perfect gash running from his lip down to his jaw. There’s a towel pressed against his mouth, blooming red at the edge.
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.”
