Livy looks at me, eyes wide.
“Is it…allowed?” Jenna asks.
I wink. “Not really but it’s okay. You’re with me. We’ll just do it.”
I grab their hands and pull them into our locker room. The air is muggy as always and thick with the sound of shouting. Someone uncorks a bottle of champagne and sprays it in a wide arc. The minutes after a win are always about dancing and glorifying what we just did. Usually, we don’t shower until half an hour after a game, sometimes later, depending on when Ethan and our PR team booked post-game interviews.
I lift Livy onto one of the benches, where she sits in awe, soaking it all in. Riley swings by and offers her a high-five, which she returns with a solemnity usually reserved for royal handshakes.
“You’re really okay?” Jenna asks, more quietly this time.
“You worry too much.”
“You have a gash on your face,” she points out again.
“I have many,” I say and wink at her. “Don’t you women think scars are hot or something?”
“No.” And that’s when I catch her grin. Oh, she thinks it’s hot. My little brat.
I look back at Livy. She’s holding a Falcons cap now that Riley signed with a sharpie, telling him, “Don’t spell it wrong this time”—and I realize she’s not scared at all. She’s practically cut-out for hockey. Maybe I should let her play too.
“Can we get pizza?” Livy asks, holding up her cap like a trophy. I put it on her little head. It swallows her whole face, and she goes cross-eyed trying to see out from under the blue brim.
“Sure. Let me find Ethan first—I think I’ve got an interview or two—and then we’ll go.” I meet Jenna’s eyes over Livy’s head.
“But first—medical room,” she says.
“Sure,Solnyshko.” I kiss her and turn away before she can see me smile. The last time I went to a medical room voluntarily was when I was out cold. This is just a scratch.
It’s early,which means Midtown only half-hums, the law offices not yet fully caffeinated, all the ambitious bloodsuckers still deep in their subway pods. I’m early because Jenna said“early” and when she says jump, I’m in the air before gravity gets a vote.
I arrive at her office after taking Livy to school. She is already at her desk, hunched over a cute notebook. There are two empty espresso cups lined up like a firing squad and two sticky notes on her monitor reading: FILE ASAP and STOP PROCRASTINATING, JENNA.
I had to leave before she got dressed and I notice right away that she’s wearing a steel-gray skirt suit with a white blouse that’s either bulletproof or just stretched to hell. Stockings, too—black—with that lattice pattern she has to know is my weakness. The heels are not tall, but they are sharp enough to puncture the tires of anyone in the building. Little fuck-me heels. She’s got her hair up today, and even though we said we’d meet in her real office to avoid flirting and having sex, it’s all I can think of. To be honest, she could wear granny clothes, and I would wanna fuck her.
She points to the leather visitor’s chair. “Sit. We have about forty minutes before anyone arrives and annoys the shit out of me, and I need to walk you through tomorrow’s gauntlet.”
“Bossy much, babe?”
She looks up from her computer. “Colton. Just try to be professional for forty minutes, okay?”
I sit. The chair is exactly as uncomfortable as I remember, designed to keep clients from ever relaxing enough to make themselves at home.
She’s marking up a printout—my ex-wife’s latest affidavit. I recognize the font before I even see Mira’s name at the top. The whole page is redlined, like a murder scene but with better grammar.
“You’ve read this?” Jenna asks, finally glancing up.
I shake my head. “Do I want to?”
“Not if you value your blood pressure. Your ex’s lawyer is a sociopath.” She tosses the papers at me, and they arc through the air before landing perfectly square on the edge of the desk. “They’re doubling down on the child endangerment angle. Of course they saw the videos of you punching Houston.”
“My ex and her lawyer are psychopaths,” I say.
Jenna doesn’t flinch. “It’s not about the truth; it’s about the story. Let me show you something.” She reaches for a folder and flips it open, revealing a lineup of photos—all of Livy. Some at my apartment, some at games, some with my hands on her shoulders—evidence that I can keep her alive and occasionally even happy. “This is the narrative we want. Involved, nurturing, a counter to her claim you’re just a sperm donor with a trophy case.”
I pick up one of the photos and study it. Livy has a mouthful of a sandwich and her eyes are fixed on something just out of frame—probably Jenna herself, because it was taken when we ate pizza after our last game. There’s a smear of tomato sauce on her chin. The way she’s looking at the camera, she almost looks proud. I feel that kick in the chest that happens when you see your own kid being even cuter than you remember.
Jenna reaches for a highlighter, and her sleeve rides up her forearm, showing a cluster of those freckles I love so much. I once kissed every single one of them. She starts laying out the agenda for tomorrow, talking fast and dry like she’s been rehearsing her arguments in the shower. I try to listen, but the rhythm of her voice puts me in a trance, and I start watching the way her red lips move.
