11. ZARA
ZARA
Boundaries Obliterated
It’s game day, and it’s media day—but before we deal with any of that, we have something else to do.
And I don’t think I’ve ever been this nervous about a conversation in my life.
Jaxon stands next to me in the living room, arms crossed, looking like he’s about to walk into a press conference instead of talk to a six-year-old.
“Your pacing is making me nervous,” I murmur.
He exhales, but there’s no real bite to it. “You’re not exactly calm either.”
Rude.
I smooth my sweaty hands over my jeans. “I’m perfectly calm.”
Before we can argue further, we hear the telltale thud of small feet running down the hallway.
Lily has been busy with Mrs. Henriksen, working on some secret dragon craft project in her room.
“Hey!” Lily calls, skidding into the room. “Can we watch something? Or—” she spots us both just standing there, “—why are you… standing?”
Jaxon and I exchange a look.
Here we go.
“Hey, bug,” he says, his voice shifting instantly, softer. “Come sit with us for a second, okay?”
She squints at him. “Am I in trouble?”
“No,” we both say at the same time.
She narrows her eyes. “I’m not sure I believe you.”
I almost laugh.
“No trouble,” I reassure her. “We just want to talk to you about something.”
“Okay…” she says slowly, dragging out the word as she climbs onto the couch. “Is this about vegetables?”
“No,” Jaxon says.
“Good,” she mutters.
I sit beside her, Jaxon taking the other side, and suddenly this feels way too serious.
Lily looks between us. “You’re being weird.”
“Thank you for that feedback,” I say.
Jaxon clears his throat. “We just wanted to tell you about something that’s going to change a little bit.”
Her eyes widen immediately. “What kind of change?”
Jaxon glances at me, and I glance back.
Say it, I mouth.
He exhales.
“So,” he starts, then pauses. “Zara isn’t going to be your nanny anymore.”
Lily blinks.
Then—“What?” she says.
My stomach flips.
“But…” she frowns, looking at me. “Then who’s going to pick me up? And make pancakes? And—” she looks back at Jaxon, alarmed now, “—you can’t make pancakes!”
“I can make pancakes,” he protests weakly.
“You can’t—”
“Hey,” I cut in gently, touching her arm. “Hey. I’m still going to be here.”
She looks at me, confused. “But you just said you’re not my nanny.”
“I’m not,” I say. “But I’m still going to be part of your life. Every day.”
She frowns harder. “That doesn’t make sense.”
Jaxon leans forward slightly. “It will once we tell you the rest.”
“There’s more?” she asks.
“There’s more,” I confirm.
She crosses her arms. “Okay. I’m listening.”
Jaxon glances at me again. I nod.
“We’ve decided,” he says slowly, “that we’re going to get married.”
Silence follows.
Lily stares at him. Then at me. Then back at him.
“…What?” she says.
I let out a small breath. “We’re getting married.”
Her eyes widen.
“Wait… that means…” she trails off, thinking very hard.
Then she gasps.
“Does that mean Zara is my mom now?”
I choke. Actually choke.
Jaxon makes a strangled sound beside me.
“Okay,” I say quickly. “No. No, that’s not what that means.”
She frowns. “But married people are moms and dads.”
“Sometimes,” I say carefully. “But you already have a mom.”
“Oh,” she says.
“She’s someone who’s part of our family,” Jaxon adds, stepping in. “In a different way.”
Lily considers that. “So… like extra?” she asks.
I smile a little. “Yeah. Like extra.”
She nods slowly. “Okay. I like extra.”
Relief loosens something in my chest.
Then she looks at me again. “You’re still going to pick me up from school?”
“Yes.”
“And make pancakes?”
“Yes.”
“And help me with homework?”
“Yes.”
“Okay,” Lily says, satisfied.
Then—“Can I still call you Zara?” she asks.
My heart squeezes.
“Of course,” I say softly.
“Okay,” she says again.
And just like that, she’s off again, heading to spend the day with Mrs. Henriksen while Jaxon and I get ready.
***
The Metro Raptors arena is a cathedral of noise.
Mrs. Henriksen is at home with Lily, keeping her occupied while I’m here. That way, I can focus on my role for tonight and be fully present.
I’ve never been to a professional hockey game before—never had reason to—and the sheer scale of it hits me like a physical force.
Eighteen thousand fans pack into seats that climb toward the rafters, their energy vibrating through the concrete beneath my feet. The ice gleams under brutal lights, pristine and waiting.
"Zara?"
I startle at the sound of my name.
A woman in a crisp blazer approaches, tablet clutched like a shield, smile tight enough to crack. "I'm Simone Reed, team PR. We should discuss tonight's protocol."
Right. Protocol. Because nothing about this situation is remotely normal.
"Of course."
Simone guides me toward the family suite—a glassed-in box overlooking center ice—while rattling off instructions.
Don't engage with media. Stay visible but not attention-seeking. No photos with other team families that could be misconstrued.
And absolutely, under no circumstances, sit anywhere near Jaxon's ex-wife, who apparently has a habit of showing up to games she has no business attending.
"Wait." I stop walking. "She's here?"
"Section 112. With her fiancé." Simone's expression stays neutral, but her tone says everything. "Best to pretend you haven't noticed."
Pretend. Right. Because that's what this whole thing is—pretend. A carefully constructed performance designed to convince a judge that Jaxon Halberg is husband material.
Except nothing about the night at Mickey's has been pretend.
The memory ambushes me—cedar and exhaustion, his hands on my hips, the rough scrape of his voice in my ear. I shove it down hard enough to bruise.
"I understand," I say. "I can pretend."
Simone's smile thaws by approximately one degree. "You'll do fine."
I am not so sure.
***
The game is a blur of violence and grace.
Jaxon stands behind the bench in a charcoal suit, headset on, jaw carved from granite. He barks orders I can't hear over the crowd's roar, and his players respond like soldiers—precise, aggressive, utterly focused.
He’s entirely in his element, and it’s the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.
At the same time, something in me itches to unravel that control. To watch him come undone again.
God.
I can feel some moisture building between my legs.
Get it together.
When the Raptors score in the second period, the arena erupts, but Jaxon just nods once and makes a note on his clipboard.
Control. That is his whole existence. Control of the game, control of his team, control of every variable that can threaten what he's built.
What will it cost him to marry someone for convenience? To surrender even that much autonomy to circumstance?
My phone buzzes.
Danny:
Everything okay?
I haven’t told him about Jaxon and me yet. But he’s going to find out soon anyway, so I might as well tell him now.
Me:
At a hockey game…
Danny:
You? Hockey?
He sends a laughing-crying emoji.
Okay. Now’s the time.
Me:
Actually, you might see me in the media soon.
Danny:
What???!!! What are you talking about?
Me:
Yeah… I’m dating my boss. He’s the head coach here.
Danny:
WTF!
Me:
I know.
Danny:
And you’re telling me this now?
Me:
There’s more.
Danny:
Oh no. Tell me.
Me:
We’re getting married.
My phone starts ringing, but I decline Danny’s call and put it on silent. I’ll deal with that later.
For now, I turn my attention back to the ice.
The third period has started rough—two penalties in quick succession, the other team's power play clicking with dangerous efficiency.
Jaxon's shoulders climb toward his ears, tension visible even from three stories up.
Then someone scores. Not the Raptors.
The family suite falls silent.
I watch Jaxon's spine go rigid, watch him pull his headset off and say something sharp to his assistant coach, Nate. The players on the bench stare at their skates.
This is his world. High stakes, higher pressure, and a six-year-old girl waiting at home who thinks her daddy can fix anything.
The Raptors rally in the final minutes, tying the game with forty seconds left. When the buzzer sounds, Jaxon allows himself exactly three seconds of visible relief before his mask slams back into place.
I wonder if anyone else noticed the crack.
I slip away quickly in search of a bathroom.
Post-game chaos has swallowed everyone—players giving interviews, families posing with mascots, PR handlers orchestrating the whole circus with military precision.
I find the bathroom, take care of what I need to, then wander for a bit.
A hallway opens up, quieter, more secluded. At the end of it, a door marked Staff Only.
Privacy.
I need five minutes. Just enough to catch my breath, to process everything, to convince myself that agreeing to this wasn’t the most reckless decision of my life.
The lounge is small—a couch, a counter with coffee supplies, a window overlooking the service corridor. I lean against the wall and press my palms to my eyes.
What am I doing? Marrying a man I've known less than a week for money and stability, when two weeks ago I had him inside me against a Zamboni maintenance rack?
The door opens.
Jaxon fills the doorway, still in his suit, still wound tight as piano wire. His eyes find mine in the dim light, and something in the air shifts—sharp, electric.
He looks… dangerously good.
“Simone’s looking for you,” he says.
"I needed a minute."
"So did I." He steps inside, letting the door close behind him. The click of the latch sounds very loud.
"We should probably discuss the timeline. The wedding, I mean. My lawyer thinks sooner is better—"
"Jaxon."
"—and there's paperwork to consider, prenuptial agreements, obviously, though my attorney will handle—"
"Jaxon."
He stops talking.
I cross the space between us before I can second-guess myself, fisting my hands in his lapels and pulling his mouth down to mine.
The kiss ignites instantly. No careful build, no tentative exploration—just raw, desperate hunger that has been simmering since the moment I recognized him in his own kitchen.
His hands find my waist, yanking me closer, and I gasp against his lips as my back hits the wall.