Page 35

Chapter thirty-two

Liam

T his isn’t how you find out you’re going to be a dad.

Your girl’s brother is in your face, shoving crumpled paperwork at your chest like it’s a fucking death threat, and you’re too stunned to do anything but stare.

I don’t even register what Griffin’s shouting. My brain’s buffering. My eyes are locked on Katarina, standing between us like she’s trying to keep the whole damn world from splitting in half.

But then I look down.

Pregnant.

The word’s so loud it might as well be screaming.

My chest tightens, the oxygen gone from the air. My lungs clamp up like I’ve been checked at center ice. Blood pounds in my ears, drowning out everything except the roar of my own pulse.

Pregnant.

I search her face for the punchline. The laugh. The explanation. Something. But there’s none of it. Just wide eyes and trembling fingers. Her skin’s gone pale, almost translucent in the Florida heat.

“Liam, I didn’t mean for you to find out this way,” she says, stepping toward me.

My voice comes out sharp. Broken. Like it’s been dragged over gravel. “Find out what?”

She swallows hard enough that I can see her throat work.

“I’m pregnant.”

I point to my chest, questioning if it’s mine.

Everything inside me stills.

Not fake. Not pretend. Not PR.

Real.

The ground shifts under my feet like I’m standing on a ship in rough water.

My vision tunnels, the edges going dark.

I’ve taken hits that left me tasting copper and seeing stars, but this?

This rewrites every circuit in my brain.

The air tastes metallic, like I’ve been breathing through a mouthful of pennies.

I’m going to be a father. Me. The guy who can barely keep his own shit together on a good day. The guy whose own father was a ghost, and whose mother cycled through men like they were disposable before she died. I blame the bottle.

Coach Dawson’s voice echoes in my skull like a death knell:

You’re one bad decision away from losing everything.

Well, fuck. Here we are.

My hands start to shake. Not from fear—from something deeper. Something that claws at my ribs from the inside.

I don’t have time to respond. Griffin launches, his fist colliding with my jaw before I even see it coming.

The impact sends shockwaves through my skull, rattling my teeth.

Pain explodes behind my eyes like fireworks.

Another blow lands against my cheek and I stumble, the ground tilting sideways like the world’s been knocked off its axis.

I taste blood—warm, copper, familiar. I see red—real red—and snap.

The hit unlocks something primal in me. All the rage I’ve been swallowing for weeks—the pressure from Dawson, the team politics, the constant feeling like I’m walking a tightrope over my own grave—it all pours out through my fists like poison from a wound.

I punch back. Hard. Right in his arrogant, overprotective, holier-than-everyone face.

The satisfying crunch of cartilage under my knuckles sends electricity up my arm. Griffin’s head snaps back, blood spraying from his nose in a perfect arc.

We go at it. Fists flying. Shouting. Teeth gritted. I’ve been in brawls before, but this is personal. I’m not just fighting him—I’m fighting the guilt, the fear, the weight of something too big to carry. I’m fighting every voice that’s ever told me I’m not good enough.

Griffin’s good. I’ll give him that. His footwork’s solid, and he knows how to throw a punch that means business. But I’m bigger, and I’ve got years of pent-up fury driving me forward.

Every hit I land feels like I’m punching through the voices that tell me I’m not good enough. Not stable enough. Not father material.

My knuckles split open, skin peeling back like fruit. Blood fills my mouth, coating my tongue with the taste of iron and rage. Griffin catches me with an uppercut that makes my vision white out for a second, but I don’t stop. Can’t stop.

Sweat stings my eyes. My shirt clings to my back, soaked through. The Florida heat presses down on us like a weight, making every breath feel thick and insufficient.

“Enough!” Her voice cuts through like a blade.

She grabs me by the shoulders, trying to yank me back, snapping me out of my rage.

My muscles jerk under Katarina’s grip, tendons screaming.

Griffin’s chest heaves like he’s ready for round two. Blood streams from his nose, painting his teeth red. Hate burns in his stare like a fever.

“You think you can just fuck her and walk away? That you can ruin her and pretend like it means nothing?”

The accusation hits harder than his fists. Because part of me—the part that’s been running from everything good in my life since I was old enough to throw a punch—wants to do exactly that. The familiar itch to bolt crawls under my skin like insects.

“I didn’t plan for any of this,” I grit out, glaring back. Spittle flies from my lips, mixed with blood. “But I didn’t run either. Not until I didn’t know how to stay.”

“Bullshit. I told her what kind of guy you are. I knew this shit would happen.”

“And what? You think your fists fix it? You think you get to decide what she does with her own goddamn life?”

I want to tell him he’s wrong about me. That I’m not the same angry kid who used hockey as an excuse to hurt people.

But the truth is, I don’t know if I’ve changed. The evidence suggests otherwise—here I am, bloody-knuckled and panting like an animal.

The thought of a baby—my baby—makes my chest tight in a way that has nothing to do with Griffin’s punches. Something the size of a grape, growing inside Katarina. Something that’s half me, half her. The magnitude of it makes my knees weak.

“That’s enough,” Katarina screams. “Both of you.”

Her voice slices through the silence like a scalpel.

“Griffin. Go.”

We all stop.

She’s not yelling. She’s not crying. But she might as well have screamed. Her voice carries the kind of finality that ends wars.

She’s done.

He turns to her like he didn’t hear right. Sweat and blood have made his hair stick to his forehead. “What? No. I’m not going anywhere until—”

“Leave. This is my house. My life. You don’t get to blow it up just because you don’t like who I’m with.”

For a beat, he just stands there. Breathing hard. Chest rising and falling like a bellows. Then he throws me a final glare, one that promises this war isn’t over, and stomps down the driveway. His footsteps echo off the concrete like gunshots.

The second his truck peels off, the air collapses. The fight leaves my body like steam off a cracked pipe. My hands shake as the adrenaline fades, leaving me hollow and aching. Griffin’s blood is under my fingernails, dark and sticky. My own blood coats my teeth.

This is exactly the kind of shit Dawson warned me about. The kind of behavior that ends careers. But I can’t bring myself to care about hockey right now. Not when there’s a baby growing inside the woman standing three feet away from me.

And then it’s just me and her.

I can still taste blood. My jaw aches with every heartbeat. But it’s nothing compared to the weight behind her eyes.

She turns, walking to the door. Fumbling with her keys. Her hand trembles so badly the keys jingle like wind chimes. The sound cuts through me worse than Griffin’s fists did.

The sight of her shaking sends something protective surging through me. I want to reach out, steady her, but I don’t know if I have the right anymore. My hands are still bloody. Still violent.

“Come inside,” she says, without looking at me.

I follow.

Her place smells like her. Lemon and something sweet—vanilla, maybe. It hits me like a brick to the ribs, making my chest tight with want and fear and something I can’t name.

I drop into the couch when she gestures for me to sit. My muscles scream from the fight. My heart from everything else. The cushions are soft, probably expensive. Nothing like the hand-me-down furniture I grew up with.

“This is insane,” I mutter, pressing my palms against my eyes until I see stars. “I don’t even know where to start.”

She lowers herself next to me. Stiff. Careful. Like she’s afraid we’ll combust if we touch. Her scent wraps around me, making my skin prickle with awareness despite everything.

The space between us feels like a chasm. Three feet might as well be three miles.

Then she says it:

“I’m the girl from that night. The masked party.”

My stomach plummets. Even though I knew— really knew—hearing her say it out loud punches the air from my lungs.

I nod. “I know.”

She stares. “You… what?”

“I knew the second you moaned. That first time. In your office. It wrecked me. I tried to put it out of my mind, convince myself that it wasn’t you.”

“ But my body knew.”

The memory slams into me like an open-ice hit—clean, brutal, impossible to ignore. The way her back arched when I touched her. The sound she made when I kissed her neck—breathless and desperate. I’d replayed that night so many times it was burned into my DNA, tattooed on the inside of my eyelids.

Her mouth opens, but no words come. I can see her pulse fluttering in her throat like a trapped bird.

I lean forward, elbows on my knees, rubbing my jaw where it’s already starting to swell. “I left that morning because I didn’t know how to handle it. I thought maybe it was just sex. That I could bury it. Pretend it didn’t mean anything. But the second I walked out, I knew I was full of shit.”

The words feel like confession. Like admitting to a crime I’ve been carrying around for months. My voice comes out rougher than I intend, scraped raw by everything I’ve been swallowing.

She’s quiet. Her breathing is shallow, uneven. I don’t know if she’s going to cry or scream or bolt for the door.

“I should’ve told you,” I say. “But I couldn’t find the right time. And then I realized… there isn’t one. This is messy. It’s fucked. But I’m not leaving again.”

Her fingers graze mine. Light. Testing. Her skin is soft, warm, alive. The contact sends electricity shooting up my arm.

“This wasn’t supposed to happen,” she whispers. “We were supposed to fake it. Pretend for the cameras. Not… this.”

“Yeah,” I say. “But I’m tired of pretending.”

She looks at me like she doesn’t trust it yet. Like she’s waiting for the other shoe to drop. Her eyes are bright with unshed tears, but she blinks them away.

I don’t blame her. My track record speaks for itself.

“I’m glad it was you,” I add, voice low. “I don’t regret that night. I don’t regret you.”

Her eyes go glossy, but she blinks it away. “Me either.”

We sit there. Bruised. Bloody. Breathing in the aftershock. The air between us crackles with everything unsaid.

I don’t know what happens next. But I know one thing:

I’m not letting her face it alone.