Page 17

Chapter Sixteen

Viktor

I try not to panic when Knova doesn’t come home before I leave for the game. Try being the operative word. My only consolation is that all her stuff is here. I keep checking the closet like an idiot, like maybe her boots will vanish or the suitcase will be zipped and gone. Like she’ll ghost me without a word. I wouldn’t blame her if she did.

I want to text her, but what if she needs space? Last night was supposed to fix things. I was going to tell her everything, lay it all out. Instead, I touched her like she was mine and stayed silent like a coward. I’ve probably just reinforced her impression that I’m not the kind of man who can ever be what she wants.

I toss my phone onto the nightstand and flop back onto the bed with a groan, heart pounding like I just finished a sprint drill. I hate this part—the waiting. The quiet. The not knowing.

Eventually, I drag myself up and throw on my suit. I grab my gear bag, lock up, and head for the car. The drive to the arena is short, but my brain fills every second of it with worst-case scenarios.

She won’t text back.

She’s already gone.

You blew it.

By the time I walk into the locker room, the guys are already chirping and suiting up. I fake a grin and chirp back like I’m not dying inside. Like everything’s fine.

Spoiler: it’s not.

And then… we hit the ice. The arena is electric, lights blinding, crowd roaring.

I spot her just before the puck drops. Sitting next to Sofia, talking like she hasn’t been haunting my every thought.

My chest squeezes so tight I forget to breathe for a second.

She came.

Maybe I haven’t lost her yet.

* * *

“Boys,” Lenyx announces from his chair inside the Puck Drop, “we are crushing it this season.”

Tristan socks him in the shoulder. “Boys? Excuse you, I’m older than you are.”

“We’re all older than you,” Knight amends.

“Not me,” Camden says.

“Fine.” Knight rolls his eyes. “Everyone but Camden is older than you, so simmer down.”

Coach Grady, sitting next to my older sister, lifts his beer. “Pretty sure I’m the one who’s supposed to be giving the pep talk, boys.” When a few of the guys grumble, Vivian gives them all the stink-eye. Since she babysat a lot of us growing up, most of the team harbors a lingering fear that, if we get out of line, she’ll tell our parents on us and we’ll all get grounded.

“Speech!” Knight calls.

“Speech!” I agree.

“Speech!”

“Speech!”

“Speech!”

At my elbow, Knova joins in with the rest of the team as we egg Coach on. She’s barely said a word all night, but she came over to sit beside me, and that feels like a small miracle. I don’t push my luck by asking questions—I’m too busy savoring the proximity, like a starving man licking crumbs off a plate.

She’s been careful not to touch me, and I’ve done the same. I’ve made my position clear, even if I haven’t divulged the details. Knowing Knova, if I try too hard to hold on, she’ll just pull away.

Coach gets to his feet, and the team applauds. More than a few of the guys whistle and stomp their feet. We’re all riding the high of another win.

“Lenyx is right. We’re having a great start to the season,” Coach announces. One hand settles on Vivian’s shoulder, and my sister beams. Is it wrong that I’m jealous of how easy things seem for them? Under the table, I inch my hand toward Knova’s knee.

Coach lifts his beer glass. “If we keep this up, we have a real shot at making it farther in the playoffs than last season. I’m not holding my breath on winning the Cup this year—”

“Boo!” Lenyx bellows, and the rest of us laugh.

“Pipe down, rookie,” Coach shoots back. “You’re all feeling good about your performances, but I’m watching the other teams. You’re good, but you’re not great yet.”

“This is a crappy pep talk,” Camden stage-whispers.

Coach doesn’t crack a smile. “I disagree. I see how many of you are still trying to prove yourselves as individuals. You’re showing off.” He glances pointedly at Lenyx. “But if we’re ever going to win the Stanley Cup—and I believe we will—we’re going to need to get better at working together. Playing as a team. Be honest, now. I want you to raise your hand if you’ve never looked at another player o looked at another player in this team and thought this team and thought of him as your competition.”

We all look around. Everybody’s hands stay definitively un-raised.

“I figured,” Coach says. “And I want you to work on that. Instead of thinking about how you can outshine another player, I want you to get in the habit of thinking about how you can fill in their gaps. Compensate for their weak points, and vice versa. That’s what will take this team from good to great.” He drops back into his chair, leaving us all in stunned silence.

That was… genuinely good advice. And maybe not just when it comes to hockey. Maybe I’ve spent too long trying to prove I’m good enough for her, when what she really needs is someone who’ll cover her blind spots just like I trust her to cover mine. I look sidelong at Knova, only to discover she’s watching me in turn. Her hand finds mine. No fanfare. Just a quiet, deliberate pinky-link like we’re twelve again, promising each other forever. It knocks the breath clean out of my lungs.

It might be the most romantic thing she’s ever done. I mean, yes, we’ve slept together, but this is different. This is the kind of thing I wanted back in middle school. Sex can be self-interested, little more than a means to an end, but sweetness is such a prized commodity in Knova’s world that this feels more significant. As kids, the four of us—Sofia included—used to make pinky swears. Knight and I still do. If this is a promise, I can’t help but wonder what she’s offering. I’d settle for a truce.

“Hey,” I whisper, squeezing her pinky with mine. “Maybe we should dip out early and have that conversation—”

“Anders was the best player, you ignorant fuck!” someone yells.

Well, that’s ominous. We all turn to look toward the main area of the crowded bar. A group of red-faced fans is circling each other, screaming in each other’s faces.

“Latham all the way!” the other yells.

Knova leans toward me until our shoulders touch. “Are those guys fighting about our dads?”

“Technically, no,” I whisper back. “But it sounds like they’re fighting about the original team lineup from back in the day.”

“Cash Hale could kick both their asses!” another guy shouts.

“Cash Hale is a shitty musician who got kicked off the team because he couldn’t control his temper. Noah Abbott was the real MVP!”

“Okay,” I concede. “Now our dads have entered the chat.”

That’s when somebody throws the first punch.

In an instant, the entire Puck Drop erupts in pandemonium. The guys who were arguing go full Tasmanian Devil—fists, elbows, and beer flying like it’s UFC Night at a Chuck E. Cheese as they become a blur of limbs and muffled curses. A few of the people around them pile on, some to try to break up the fight, some to add to the chaos. There’s no escaping it, and in less than a minute, the patrons of the bar have become one writhing mass of intoxicated humanity.

My first concern is for Vivian’s safety due to her proximity, but when I glance over, Grady’s already hustling her toward the back door. Unfortunately, Knova and I are on the other side of the long team table, much closer to the section where the fight is happening. It’ll be harder for us to get away.

I reach for Knova’s hand and tug her toward the door, angling away from the worst of the fight. Knight’s two steps ahead of me with Sofia in tow. We’ve both put ourselves closer to the ruckus. This way, I can body-block any flying fists.

“I’ve been in armed combat!” Knova shouts. “I can handle this, Viktor.”

Maybe she can, but I’m sure as hell not going to risk it. I shuffle alongside her, crab-walking so that my back is to the crowd. I have no intention of getting punched in the teeth, and while I’d like to see where I’m going, I have the feeling that the sight of me will only add fuel to the fire.

Someone slams into me, and I narrowly avoid crushing Knova against the bar. She yelps and hops up onto the wood, but instead of making a break for it, she kicks out. The guy who just hit me goes flying. There’s a sticky sneaker-tread pattern imprinted on his chest.

“Keep moving!” Knova orders as she heaves herself back off the bar. This time, she takes my hand and starts dragging.

“That’s my girl,” I say fondly.

She smiles over her shoulder, all teeth and bright eyes and feral confidence. “I think you mean, that’s my wife.”

I grin like the fool I am. “Yes, ma’am.” It only takes another thirty seconds or so for us to exit the Puck Drop.

Knight and Sofia are waiting for us, and they look relieved when we stumble to freedom.

“That was scary!” Sofia squeals. “I’ve never been in a bar fight before. How did that even happen?”

“Liquor, machismo, and nostalgia,” Knova deadpans. Unlike Sofia, she seems delighted by the mayhem. “It really gets the adrenaline going, doesn’t it?” she says with a wild glint in her eyes, like she’s finally found something loud enough to drown out the war still raging in her head.

Someone must have called the cops, because I can already hear sirens. “How do you guys feel about cutting out now? I don’t want to get stuck giving statements for the next three hours, especially since I didn’t see who started it.”

“I’m more worried about the blogs,” Knight says. “You know that Dante’s going to lecture us about bad publicity if our faces get attached to this. Let’s dip.”

We do as he suggests, with each couple walking hand in hand back to our respective condos. Knova’s borderline giddy, and she doesn’t let go of my hand, even when Sofia makes a big point of staring. Maybe we should get in more bar fights?

“We should hurry.” Sofia pauses on the sidewalk, squinting toward her building. “Pretty sure I left my curling iron plugged in.”

“Again?” Knight groans. “Babe, one day you’re gonna set the whole block on fire.”

They veer off toward their unit, waving back at us as they go.

Knova tugs me toward the trail that curves along the edge of the manmade lake, half-hidden behind the townhouses and a row of manicured shrubs. Her stride is bold, unapologetic, and her grip on my hand is ironclad. When she yanks me around a bend in the path, we’re shielded by a thicket of bushes and the back of a yoga studio. Soft ambient light glows behind frosted glass windows, but we’re just out of sight.

Then she turns on me.

Her hands hit my chest with a thud. “That was so fucking hot,” she breathes, shoving me back against the brick wall. “Did you see the guy I kicked?”

“Sweetheart, I felt him bounce off me.”

She fists her hands in my shirt and drags me down. Her lips crash against mine, hungry and unrestrained, all teeth and adrenaline. I groan into her mouth, cupping her face, then sliding my hands down the front of her body until I’ve got a handful of her tits through the fabric of her jersey. She moans—actually moans—when I roll her nipple between my fingers.

I’m hard in an instant. No build-up, just pure, feral need. She grinds against me like she’s trying to climb me, her hands dragging my shirt up to touch bare skin. I slide one palm beneath the waistband of her leggings, and she lets out a choked gasp when my fingers dip lower, lower—

“Fuck, Viktor,” she pants. “Yes. Just like that—”

She pops the button on my jeans and slips her hand down. Her fingers brush my cock, and I twitch in her hand. “Christ,” I hiss. “Keep doing that, and I’m going to embarrass myself.”

“Do it,” she dares. “I want to feel you lose control.”

I kiss her again, messy and breathless, while she strokes me, her palm hot and possessive. I push two fingers into her panties and find her slick and pulsing. “You’re soaked,” I rasp. “You wanted this all night, didn’t you?”

“You protected me,” she says, nipping at my jaw. “That’s practically foreplay.”

I drop to my knees right as she gasps—and not for a sexy reason.

Barking.

Shit.

A miniature schnauzer barrels around the corner and starts going nuts. It throws its whole thirteen pounds into its job as guardian of community decency. Behind the hedge, a woman in yoga pants gasps and fumbles with the leash.

“Oh my God! Milo! Stop! Bad dog!”

Knova yanks her hand out of my pants, slaps my chest, and we both bolt down the path like guilty teenagers.

We don’t stop until we’re a full block away, doubled over, laughing so hard I think I see stars.

She clutches her side. “That yappy dog cock-blocked us.”

“I feel so judged,” I wheeze. “He looked directly into my soul.”

“Your soul was about to come on my fingers,” she fires back.

I pull her into a kiss, quick and dirty, right there on the sidewalk. “You’re lucky I didn’t.”

“You’re lucky I didn’t finish the job.”

Hand in hand, we walk the rest of the way to the condo, giggling like criminals, her hair a mess and my zipper barely re-fastened.

And I’ve never wanted her more.

As the laughter fades and our steps fall into an easier rhythm, something shifts between us—like the tension burned itself out with the adrenaline. We’re still grinning, still buzzing, but beneath the chaos and hormones, there’s something steadier. A thread pulling us back to the reason we came home together tonight. We almost lost each other. Again. And not to some bar brawl or a cocky schnauzer—but to miscommunication, to unspoken fears, to all the shit we’ve carried without sharing. I want to change that. I need her to know she’s not alone in this. Not anymore.

I can’t wait to get Knova home so I can finally explain the whole situation with the Special Olympics, and Ella, and whatever else we need to dredge up to put our fight to rest.

As soon as we step into the condo, I turn to my wife.

“Listen,” I blurt, “there’s something I need to tell you.”

“Right. Actually, there’s something I should tell y—” Knova’s hand goes to her chest to clutch her dog tags, like she always does when she’s nervous. Her eyes widen and then her face blanches like I just told her someone died. “Oh my God. Where is it?”

“What?”

“My dog tags. Where are they?” Knova yanks her jersey over her head, and for once, I don’t make a smartass comment about how good she looks in that bra. She pats her bare skin as if the tags will magically reappear. “I had them on earlier. I never take them off, but—”

I reach out to take her shoulders in my hands. “Hey. Breathe. We’ll figure this out. When did you last have them?”

“At the Puck Drop, I think.” Her eyes are wild. I haven’t seen her like this, since after her flight with LifeSource. My unshakeable Knova is on the edge of a panic attack. “Or maybe the arena? No, I remember touching them during Grady’s speech.”

“Then they’re probably still at the Puck Drop.” I release her and reach for my phone. “Don’t worry, I’m calling right now. They probably fell off when we were making our great escape.”

The phone rings to voicemail twice before the bar manager finally picks up. “Sorry, it’s been… a night. We’re closed right now. We’ve had a bit of an incident.”

“We were there for the fight,” I explain. “We think my wife lost her necklace there. Has anyone turned in a set of dog tags?”

“No, but we’re still cleaning up. I can take your number and give you a call if they turn up. Is your wife’s name on them?”

Knova’s been standing close enough to hear, and she gestures for me to put the call on speakerphone. When I do, she says, “The tags were printed for a guy named Michael Donovan.”

“Got it,” the manager says. “I’ll leave a note for the bartenders.”

Michael Donovan. Mick. The name hits like a puck to the chest.

I’ve heard her mention him in passing, the way you talk about a scar that never quite healed. But this? This is something deeper.

These tags aren’t just mementos. They’re a lifeline. A memory she wears over her heart every damn day.

We’ve never talked about him or who he was to her before his death. A boyfriend, I’m guessing. I could ask… but I still have secrets, and it’s not fair to demand painful details when I’m still holding back.

“I’ll go out and retrace our steps, just in case they fell onto the sidewalk,” I offer. “If the clasp came undone, the chain could have gotten tangled in your shirt until we were on the way back.”

Her shoulders sag. For a second, I think she might cry, but of course, she doesn’t. Not Knova. She just closes her eyes and gives this tiny, exhausted nod that guts me more than tears ever could.

“You don’t have to,” she murmurs.

“Knova.” I bump her shoulder with mine. “When are you going to get it? Those tags matter to you. I’m not just going to leave their recovery up to chance.”

Her smile is halfhearted, and it doesn’t reach her eyes. “Thanks, Vik.”

We spend the next hour and a half scouring the streets between the Puck Drop and the condo, but there’s no sign of the tags, and the bartenders never call back. In the end, we crawl into bed with no answers.

I don’t sleep. Not really. I just lie there, listening to her breathe, holding her like maybe I can anchor her in place until we find the piece of her she’s lost.

We never did get around to our conversation. The best I can do is hold Knova until she falls asleep.

* * *

Throughout the next day’s morning skate, I can’t stop thinking about those tags and how much they mean to my wife. A tiny, shitty part of me wants to be glad they’re gone—like maybe now there’s room for me where his ghost used to live. This Mick guy is the competition from Knova’s past, and it’s clear she still thinks about him all the time.

The bigger, better part of me would do anything to get them back. I also want to prove to myself that I’m not all charm and bad timing—that when it counts, I can be the man she needs.

We’re running relays when the idea comes to me. I skate off to the side of the rink where Coach Grady is watching.

“I don’t recall blowing my whistle,” he deadpans.

I smirk up at him through the grille of my helmet. “Leave the tough talk to my sister, Coach. You’re adorable when you pretend to be scary. So listen, I’m hoping you can do me a favor. I was your number-one wingman when you were wooing Vivian, wasn’t I?”

Coach crosses his arms. “Not that you had a lot of competition, but go on.”

I explain my idea. Coach Grady’s expression doesn’t change, but after a moment’s consideration, he blows his whistle and motions for the rest of the team to join us.

“You really think this’ll work?” he asks.

I shrug. “If it doesn’t, I’ll try something else. But I’m not giving up on her.”

That earns me a look. Not approval, exactly. Something quieter. Maybe understanding. Maybe a little pity.

“Practice is ending early,” he says. “Abbott’s got an idea for a team-building exercise, so here’s what we’re going to do…”