Page 11 of Dice & Dekes

Dante rests his arms on the desk, all business, like he’s trying to sell me a used car, or cajole me into a swampland timeshare in Florida. “Listen, Abbott, Knova’s real beef isn’t with the marriage. It’s about her loss of control, am I right? If she despised you, she wouldn’t have gone through with it. You know how it is when you’re drunk. Things get messy. Sloppy. You do things you’d never do sober because your rational mind would talk you out of it. But I’d bet the Mona Lisa that Knova has feelings for you. She just wants to be able tochooseyou. So, my question is, if I buy you a couple of weeks, do you think you can convince her that you’re the right choice?”

This is a bad idea. Anything that involves lying to Knova, or keeping her in the dark, will come back to bite me in the ass later. I know that firsthand. But Dante’s words echo something I was already thinking, and I don’t hate the idea.

“Will putting it off make it harder in the future?” I ask. “If I fail, and Knova finds out about it, she’ll make good on her threat against your face. And probablymyface, too. And then if it’s too late…”

“So manyifs.” Dante waves me away. “If I were that worried about taking a hit, I wouldn’t have amassed this empire.”

And people thinkI’moverconfident.

“Tell you what, I know a guy,” Dante says. Of course he does, though I’m not quite sure what he means in this context. “You leave the annulment paperwork to me, andyoufocus on changing Knova’s heart.”

I frown. “Don’t you mean her mind?”

Dante waves a dismissive hand. “Please. Women change their minds all the time. It’s the heart you better work on, or it’s curtains for this marriage. Speaking of which, that gives me a great idea.” He taps his fingers on his lips, thinking. “Don’t worry, kid, I’ll get you sorted out in no time.”

Aaaand now I’m more worried than I was before.

“Anyway, you’ve got practice to get to. Figure out some excuse to hang out with your wife for now, and I’ll make the arrangements. Off you go. Shoo, shoo.” He gets up from his desk to usher me out of the room. “We have a plan. All it needs now is the perfect execution.”

I have a terrible feeling that I’ve just made a deal with the devil.

* * *

The second I step onto the rink, my headache retreats like it’s scared of Coach Metcalfe’s wrath. The man radiates grumpy authority, like an old lion who still rules the pride even though his knees crack every time he climbs stairs.

“Move your asses!” he barks from center ice. “Skates on the line, gloves on, mouths shut—except you, Beck. I expect yours to be open, panting like a golden retriever within the first ten minutes. Just don’t puke.”

Camden salutes with his stick, all teeth and humility. “Only for you, Coach.”

Knight elbows him as we line up. “Careful. He might take you up on it.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Camden mutters under his breath.

Metcalfe ignores us—he’s smart like that. He knows we’ll burn ourselves out razzing each other before the drills even begin.

Lenyx Sawyer steps onto the ice like he’s posing for a cereal box. Kid’s got that born-pretty, first-round-draft confidence that just begs to be torn apart. And since he’s Violet’s baby brother, it’s basically our duty as his teammates to haze the hell out of him—gently, of course. No felony-level trauma. Just enough to keep him humble.

I skate backward, grinning. “Hey, Sawyer.”

Lenyx glances up, already suspicious. “Yeah?”

“Did you know you’re not allowed to use your face to stop the puck? Just checking. Don’t want you breaking your jaw before you learn how to chirp properly.”

Camden snorts. “If he messes up that jawline, Violet’s gonna come after us with that tiny flashlight and a clipboard.”

“Don’t tempt her,” Knight mutters. “She already tried to sedate me when I cracked a tooth.”

“You were crying,” I add.

“I wasn’t crying,” Knight snaps. “My eye was watering from the pain. It’s different.”

Lenyx, bless him, stays quiet. Rookie mistake.

“Aw, he’s shy,” Tristan coos. “Should we sing him a lullaby?”

“Sing him a warning,” Knight adds. “About what happens when you forget to tape your socks.”

“Or forget to wash your gear,” I say. “First stall in the locker room still smells like swamp ass. That yours, Dubois?”

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