Page 67 of Dice & Dekes

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.

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