Luckily it doesn’t have anything to do with her mother at all.
Jenna ran into me, watching me jerk off and idiot me didn’t stop after she ran out, I finished even quicker with her face on my mind again, watching me, watching my cock. Yeah, that’s something that I’m never going to admit out loud to anyone.
So, I say, “Oh nothing Livy, I’m just thinking about hockey training. You know my season is starting again this week.”
“Ok, do you think about how to punch the others?”
“What?”
“Mum said you punch people for a living.”
Of course, she said that. She has no clue about sports. “That’s a lie, baby. I play, I don’t punch. You really need to see my hockey game.”
“I want to, but Mum never let me.”
Yeah she never did. She went with her when we were still together three years ago but never since and she only did it to get photographed and gushed about. She wore the most expensive dresses she could find, never my jersey. But I didn’t mind. It was weird with her from the start. Maybe it was because I felt like I needed a wife and a family to be complete. And at first, she seemed nice—she pretended to be a different person than she was. Once things got serious—she changed and I got to know the real person she was. It still shocks me that some people use children as leverage. She was one of them.
“I knowzaya, that’s over now.”
“Jenna said she’d bring me. I can’t wait! When is your match?”
“Next week. It’s just a training match with another team but it’s going to be fun too!”
She boxes with her little hands. “Yes, I want to see you fight.”
“No fighting, Livs…” What a stupid thing to tell a kid.
“We should buy Jenna something.”
I watch her through the rearview mirror. “What do you want to buy her?” A thank you card for staring at my dick? Thank you for the mindblowing orgasm?
Damn, where does my mind even drift off to these days?
“Flowers. Men who love their women buy flowers, Daddy. And you love Jenna, right?”
I swallow.Love. That’s a strong word.
I check on Livy through the rearview mirror again. She’s staring at me with the same icy glare I’m pretty sure she inherited from me. She’s definitely challenging me. I’ bet she knows something about our arrangement is off. Smart kids never make things easy. “Y-Yes…” I lie and feel bad about it, but we have to keep the charade up. God knows when the Child Services will come see to her. We prepped everything for an upcoming live theatre performance. Jenna left some glassesand a lipstick on the free bedside table I don’t use. She has her clothes all sorted in the other closet in my room. There’s pink stuff and other things I don’t even recognize. She always makes her bed in the guestroom and takes her stuff with her again and places it in my room. We get up at the same time, so that’s not a problem. Except when she walks into the wrong room… like today. I worry that it’s annoying for her… but we’ll have to keep it up. We can’t afford to have it looking like we’re sleeping in different rooms.
“So, then we get her some roses after school today, okay?”
I grin at her through the rearview mirror. “Of course. That’s nice of you.”
“You aren’t romantic Dad. I think I need to help you. Jenna is nice and good for you.”
Oh, this child…
The bladesof my skates cut into the ice with that satisfying crunch I’ve missed so fucking much. I’m always looking forward to the off-season but then again, it’s so nice to be back. It gives my life purpose again. I push off, feeling the cold air rush past my face as I build up speed. This is where I belong—on the ice, where everything makes sense. Where I don’t have to struggle with English or custody or the constant worry about Livy. Here, I’m just Colton King, the Siberian Express, doing what I’ve done since I was five years old in that tiny rink back home. Being King is way easier than being Kirillov. It’s the Hyde to my Jekyll.
I skate a few laps around the practice rink, my muscles loosening even in the cold. There’s this familiar mix of ice,sweat, and rubber settling around me and I know I’m home again. All around, the guys move through their own routines. They stretch at the boards, passing pucks, taking warm-up shots. Coach Mercer is in full form too, barking orders at us and grinning whenever we do what he wants. He’s looked the same for years. Like Santa in Falcon merch. Just a squat man with perpetually red cheeks and thinning white hair. Next to him, our new assistant Coach Jay, has his clipboard already covered in diagrams. Our boy’s doing a great job so far.
“King! Pick it up!” Riley shouts as he glides past me, spraying ice with a perfect hockey stop.
I grunt in response but increase my speed.
Riley Huntington—America’s golden boy on ice—has been my linemate for three seasons now. He’s a pain in the ass sometimes, but there’s no one better to have on your right wing when you’re driving toward the net.
Coach Mercer’s whistle pierces the air, and we all converge to center ice.
