But anyway, my mother’s borscht could solve world peace, I’m pretty sure.
The rich, beet-red steam rising from the massive pot she’s brought to my dining table smells like my childhood, not this mess of legal papers and worry that’s been my life for the last three months.
“Eat,” she says, for the seventeenth time in as many minutes. Her English is better than she pretends, but she leans into the accent when she wants to make a point. “You are too thin for hockey.”
I snort.
I may be a lot but I’m anything but thin. I’m the tallest and most muscular on our team—Coach would have my ass if I lost even two pounds, but arguing with my mother has never been a winning strategy. So, I walk over to the table and ladle a generous portion into a bowl, ignoring the way my stomach immediately clenches in protest. Two hours and forty minutes until court. Two until I need to be showered and pretending I slept.
We’re all sitting at the table now, passing bread and pouring drinks like it’s a family dinner instead of what it really is—my last meal before the gallows.
“Did you hear the thing onThe Dirty Jerseyabout you?” Jay asks, right as I’m trying to swallow a too-large bite of bread. It sticks in my throat, and I have to take a long swig of beer to get it down.
“Don’t have time for podcasts,” I say, which is true if not exactly an answer. I remember that podcast got quite popular a year or so ago. It’s a shitty show. There’s a girl and her friend who gossip about players around all sports fields. Mostly US, but some famous soccer players from Europe made it into their hall of fame as well. It’s nothing but locker room gossip and bedroom scorecards dressed up as sports journalism. I’ve got zero interest in that garbage. Every time their producer slides into my DMs, I hit delete faster than a puck off my stick.
Liora leans forward, her eyes lighting up. “Wait, you were onThe Dirty Jersey? That’s huge!”
The pride in her voice makes my skin crawl. There’s nothing “huge” about having your custody battle turned into entertainment for people who’ve never met you once.
“They didn’t use your name,” Jay adds quickly, like he’s trying to backpedal from my sudden silence. “Just ‘a certain NHL enforcer’ and some speculation about why a divorce might be messy.”
An enforcer. As if that’s all I am – the guy who throws punches when our skilled players need protecting. Not the guy who’s been coaching Livy through her first attempts at reading, or the one who’s kept every baby tooth she’s lost in a tiny wooden box.
“They’re usually pretty respectful about personal stuff,” Liora says, reaching for the sour cream. “Riley’s been on there for hockey talk, and they never lied. Some players used the podcast to control their stories, so I don’t think it’s so bad to be mentioned there.”
Great. So not only is my private hell becoming public knowledge, but now I have to worry about which of my teammates might get ambushed with questions about it. I push my borscht around, watching the cream swirl into the red until it looks like pink clouds.
“Colton,” my father says, his deep voice cutting through the chatter. “Your lawyer, she has good plan for today,da?”
Six different conversations stop at once. My mother’s spoon freezes halfway to her mouth, and Riley suddenly becomes very interested in the last bite of his bread.
“She has... strategy,” I say finally, because “plan” seems too simple for the three-inch thick binder of exhibits and motions that Jenna had me review until my eyes crossed. Memories flood my mind of how she has hundreds of Post-its scattered everywhere, all pastel color-coded and organized down to the tiniest detail. I was relieved that her apartment looked like a normal person’s place; I had half-expected it to resemble Ethan’s home, where even the underwear is sorted alphabetically. “We’re focusing on Livy’s school records and the... the inconsistencies in her mother’s story.”
The word “inconsistencies” feels clumsy in my mouth, too formal for the rage that burns every time I think about her fucking excuses. Livy was “tired” when she missed ten days of kindergarten last month, or “playing rough” when I asked her about those bruises on her arm that she couldn’t explain. My hand tightens around my spoon.
“She seems smart.” My father nods, like we’re discussing a power play setup instead of whether I’ll get to tuck my daughter into bed tonight again or not. My father always loved me a lot. I’m their only child, and I know my dad would do anything for me. In theory. In practice, it was always my mom.
She’s the one who stayed at home for me. The one who gave things up—her job, her time, pieces of herself I probably didn’t even notice at the time—just to make sure I had everything she could possibly give.
My dad… wouldn’t have.
Still wouldn’t, if I’m being honest. He works. A lot. Even now, even after I bought them a house back in New Jersey notfar from where I used to live with another family before I could bring my parents to the States.
They never wanted to take my money. Of course they didn’t. I had to push, insist, practically forcing them into accepting it. But my mom made me her life’s priority. She didn’t go to parties like Dad did sometimes, didn’t have a bowling club, couldn’t go to the gym whenever she wanted. Dad did. And it’s not that I think he’s a bad parent for living his life, it’s just that I want to give Mom some of her life back, and I will never forget what a wonderful mother she is, and I want to be like that for Livy. I don’t want to prioritize my job, or a random party or whatever there is. I chose to be her father, so I am the father she needs. No matter what.
“Judge will want to see you are...” Dad looks to my mother, rapid Russian flowing between them as they search for the word.
“Consistent,” my mother finally supplies. “You are always there for Livy, yes? Never changing plans like her mother.”
I nod. Always there. Even when it means I’d need to let hockey go to get full custody.
“They’re breaking down the top contenders in the National League after the commercial,” Jay says, gratefully steering the conversation away from my mother’s concerned glances as he gestures toward the TV. “Want me to crank it up?”
Please, yes. I’d take anything over those careful, worried looks my mom keeps shooting my way when she thinks I’m not paying attention. I nod again, and he grabs the remote, cranking the volume until the analyst’s voice washes over us like a wave, drowning out the tension in the room.
“—focusing on the NL East, where the Mighter’s’ pitching rotation has been?—”
My phone buzzes in my pocket, I check it immediately. One new e-mail from J. Davis with no subject line.
