Page 89 of Dice & Dekes

Violet Sawyer watches me run through the last exercise in the set she’s assigned me. I rise from my final lunge feeling sweatier than I usually would this late in the season but still solid.

“Excellent,” she says, before turning to Coach Grady. “I’m clearing him for play.”

Coach, whose own career ended after a particularly bad injury—courtesy of my father, long story—gives me a grim-faced thumbs up. “Enjoy it while you can, Abbott. You kids heal up fast. It won’t always go this smoothly.”

I use the towel I threw over my shoulder earlier to wipe my sweat away. “Thanks for the words of affirmation, old man. You want me on the ice for tomorrow’s game?”

Coach rubs his hair while he thinks this over. “No, actually, I think we’ll hold off until the away game. Rest up, and let the Riot get comfortable with the idea that you’re still in recovery.”

“Aww, Coach.” I flutter my eyelashes at him. “Am I your secret weapon?”

“Don’t get cute. I’ll see you on the plane to Rochester.” He stalks out of the therapy room with a barely noticeable limp. I did get lucky, and I know it. This injury could have taken me out for the rest of the season, if not for good.

I flex my fingers at my side, just to feel the simple magic of motion. There’s a version of this story where I’m still in that medical room, where Knova’s crying, and I’m learning how to walk again. That didn’t happen. I’m still here. Still standing. Still hers, if she’ll keep me.

“I hope you’re serious about resting.” Violet puffs out her cheeks. “I’ve cleared you, but I hope you don’t jeopardize this by doing something stupid.”

“I’m not going to risk losing any more game time,” I assure her.

Violet, who is only a few years younger than Vivian and grew up with the rest of the Venom kids, hits me with an expression of disbelief so devastating I nearly drop dead on the spot. “Right. Because you’re the king of responsibility and good ideas.”

“Name one recent disaster that was my fault.”

Violet raises an eyebrow. “Do you want alphabetical or chronological?”

“One of these days, the rest of you are going to stop blaming me for shit I did when I was a kid,” I grumble.

Violet sniffs. “Are you, or are you not, the same Viktor Abbott who orchestrated the Fart Machine Incident last year?”

I pout. “Aw, come on, that was hilarious.”

“Tell that to the left-winger who bruised his tailbone.”

I bite back a smile. Okay, maybe not my proudest moment… but the audio timing on that fart was chef’s kiss.

“Statistically speaking, very few tailbone bruises are fart-machine related.” Best to change the topic, methinks. “Anyway, yes, I promise that I’m going to get some rest before the next away game. In fact…” It occurs to me that if I don’t have to go to PT, and I have tomorrow night off, I should finally enact the plan I’ve been sitting on ever since we told Dante that we don’t need the annulment papers anymore. “In fact,” I repeat, “I think I could go for a massage.”

Knova iced my ankle. Fed me. Took care of me like it was second nature. If that’s not love, I don’t know what is—and I’ve been a slow learner when it comes to recognizing the real thing. So, yeah. It’s time. Time to make it official in a way that doesn’t involve a hangover and a dude in fake rhinestones.

* * *

Knova is skeptical when I suggest a date day, but she’s already off, and I don’t have to twist her arm all that much to get her to agree. When we approach our first destination, she laughs and shakes her head.

“A couple’s massage,” she says. “At the same place I brought Baylor. I can’t tell if this is petty or adorable.”

I wrap my arm around her as we walk through the door and place a loud kiss on her cheek. “A little bit of both, honestly. I wanted a do-over.”

She teases me about being petty, but she’s here. Laughing. Trusting me with a whole day of surprises. Not long ago, we could barely be in the same room without throwing jabs that actually hurt. Now? We’re jabbing for fun. And I’m not sure I’ve ever been happier.

“How much of our early relationship are we going to have to relive?” she asks.

I approach the check-in desk. “Just the parts we screwed up or actively sabotaged. It’ll be like we’re setting the record straight.”

She groans and leans against me so that her head rests on my shoulder. She’s gotten so much more comfortable with casual touch, and I love it. “Does this mean that we have to redo the double date with the portraits? Because, I’ll be honest, neither of us is any good at painting.”

I kiss her temple. “We can skip that one.”

The guy working the check-in counter grins up at us. “I assume you’re the eleven a.m. couple’s massage?”

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