Page 69 of Dice & Dekes

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…”

Chapter Seventeen

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