“Having backup helps more than you know,” I tell him. “And the legal team Jim connected us with has been huge.”
“Always,” Roman says simply, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
Coach Barrett appears in the locker room doorway, his eyes scanning until they land on me. “Malone. Nice of you to grace us with your presence. Everything stable on the home front?”
“For now, Coach.”
“Good. Because Edmonton’s coming in hot on Thursday, and their power play’s been lights out. I need your head in the game, not in the stands making googly eyes at your girlfriend.”
“You’ve got it.”
“Better. Ice in ten minutes. And you’re running extra suicides for missing Sunday dinner. Can’t have the guys thinking I play favorites.”
“Fair enough.”
Barrett moves on to torment Rodriguez about his defensive positioning, and I finish lacing up my skates. Around me, the usual pre-practice chatter fills the room—Brody complaining about his Elliot’s latest home improvement project, Anderson showing off pictures of his daughter, Luca debating the merits of various energy drinks with the intensity of a wine sommelier.
Normal hockey stuff. Except nothing feels quite normal anymore, because now I’ve got something outside this rink that matters more than hockey. It’s not a bad feeling, just... different.
We’re halfwaythrough passing drills when the arena doors slam open with enough force to echo through the building.
Roman goes still beside me, and I follow his gaze to see Evan storming through the entrance. He’s in a thousand-dollar suit instead of his usual uniform, flanked by two guys in equally expensive suits who have lawyer written all over them. Jenny from reception is trailing behind, hands up, clearly trying to stop them.
“Practice is closed!” Barrett’s voice carries from behind the bench. “Security!”
But Evan’s not looking at Barrett or security or anyone else. His eyes lock on me across the ice, and there’s something unhinged in his expression that makes my blood run cold.
“This isn’t about practice,” he calls out, voice carrying across the rink. He’s got papers in his hand—legal documents, probably. “This is about him interfering in my family matters.”
I feel more than see my teammates shift. The soft scrape of blades on ice as guys start moving closer. Anderson and Rodriguez flanking me without being asked. Brody and Luca sliding into position slightly ahead. Roman staying right beside me, all six-foot-four of him radiating the kind of menace that makes opposing forwards think twice about getting cute in front of our net.
“Your family matters?” I laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “You mean the ones where you backhanded your ten-year-old son? Those family matters?”
His face goes red, jaw working like he’s trying to keep from exploding. “I have witnesses who’ll testify to your inappropriate relationship with my wife?—”
“Ex-wife,” Brody cuts him off, voice conversational but with an edge that anyone who’s played with him recognizes. It’s the same tone he uses right before he drops gloves. “And we’ve got witnesses too. Lots of them.”
The entire team has moved closer now, not crowding but definitely positioning themselves. It’s not planned, just instinct. This is what happens when someone threatens one of ours.
“Clear the ice!” Barrett’s shouting now, but I notice Almardon’s got his phone out, recording everything. Smart kid.
“You want to do this here?” I skate forward a few feet, close enough that Evan has to crane his neck to look up at me from ice level. “In front of cameras? In front of witnesses? You reallywant to discuss your history with your family in a building full of people with phones?”
One of his lawyers grabs his arm, whispering something urgent. But Evan’s beyond listening to reason. He’s got that look Golda described from their marriage—the one that means he’s about to do something stupid because he can’t stand not being in control.
“She’s mine,” he snarls, and the possessiveness in his voice makes my jaw clench. “The kids are mine. You think you can just walk in and?—”
Brody slaps his stick against the boards, the sound immediately interrupting Evan’s unhinged tirade. Evan opens his mouth again and suddenly the sound of twenty hockey sticks hitting the ice together cuts him off. It’s deafening in the arena, echoing off the rafters like thunder. A wall of sound that says everything about where we stand on this.
“Last chance,” Barrett calls from the bench, and his voice has gone deadly quiet. “Walk away. Now. Before I let them off this ice.”
Evan looks around—at twenty professional athletes, all of them bigger than him, all of them clearly pissed off and protective. At phones recording his every word. At the absolute certainty that he’s miscalculated badly.
“This isn’t over,” he says, but the confidence has drained out of his voice.
“Yeah, it is,” I reply, keeping my tone level even though I want to jump the boards and show him exactly what happens when you threaten kids. “Because now we have you on video making threats. Showing up at someone’s workplace to harass them. Proving exactly why a judge shouldn’t let you near children.”
His lawyers are actively pulling at him now, clearly realizing their client is digging his own grave. But before they can drag him toward the exit, I call out.
