14. JAXON
JAXON
Expedited
The arena is already buzzing when I arrive.
Reporters cluster near the main entrance, cameras flashing as I walk past without comment. Security has doubled over the last few days—Simone’s doing, probably—and they form a corridor through the press scrum that gets me inside without incident.
There’s so much going on—the headlines about Zara and me, the custody battle—but right now, the only thing I can think about is last night. My not-date with Zara.
The way she leaned in, so trusting, like she expected me to kiss her.
And I wanted to. God, did I want to.
But I knew, the moment we left the restaurant, that she wasn’t entirely herself. Not drunk, but definitely tipsy. She never would have acted that way completely sober.
Which means the moment wasn’t even real.
And I had to turn her down.
“She wasn’t sober,” I mutter under my breath as I enter the locker room.
My players are already suited up, moving through their pre-practice routines with focused energy.
Nate appears at my elbow as I head toward the ice. “What did you say?”
“Nothing.”
Nate isn’t deterred by my brush-off. “I saw the headlines,” he says.
"Everyone's seen the headlines."
"Fair point." He falls into step beside me, clipboard in hand. "How are we handling it?"
"Simone has a plan. Press availability after practice, controlled Q&A, then we move on."
"I meant with the team."
Nate lowers his voice. "They're buzzing, Coach. Speculation, gossip—you know how locker rooms work. Some of these guys are worried about what a distracted head coach means for the season."
I stop walking. Turn to face him fully. "Am I distracted?"
Nate holds my gaze without flinching. One of the things I appreciate about him—he doesn't back down from hard conversations. "You tell me."
The honest answer is yes. The answer I give him is: "I've got it handled."
"That's not what I asked."
"It's what I'm giving you."
We stand there for a moment, the ice behind us already marked with practice lines, players warming up in loose circles. I can feel the weight of attention from every corner of the rink.
Jake Morrison catches my eye from across the ice.
The veteran captain gives me a subtle nod—acknowledgment, solidarity, the silent language of men who’ve weathered their share of media storms. I nod back.
"Neutral-zone regroups," I say finally. "Then power-play reps. I want Morrison leading the second unit today—his setup passes have been sloppy."
Nate scribbles on his clipboard. "And if someone asks about the photos?"
"They won't."
"But if they do?"
"Then they learn real quick that my personal life isn't up for team discussion." I grab a whistle from my belt. "Let's move."
Practice goes smoother than I expected for the first hour.
The drills I'd planned are demanding enough to keep everyone focused, bodies too tired for gossip.
I push them through neutral-zone transitions until their legs burn, then shift to penalty-kill situations that require the kind of mental sharpness that leaves no room for wandering thoughts.
My own included.
But somewhere around the power-play reps, I catch myself watching the stands. The glass. The corridors beyond where press still lingers despite security. Looking for cameras. For reporters sneaking shots through the barriers.
Looking for threats.
Kowalski, one of the younger defensemen, fumbles a breakout pass for the third time in a row. He curses under his breath, stick slapping the ice in frustration.
I skate over before I've consciously decided to move.
"Hey." I stop beside him, keeping my voice low. "You're anticipating the hit that's not coming. Your eyes are in the wrong place."
"Sorry, Coach. I know it's sloppy, I just—" He shakes his head. "Lots of cameras today."
I look at him. Twenty-two years old, barely one season under his belt, still convinced every mistake will end his career. I remember that feeling. Sometimes I still feel it.
"Breathe," I say. "Keep your head up. Watch the slot, not the glass."
He blinks. "That's it?"
"That's it. You're good at this. Trust that."
I skate away before he can respond, but I catch Nate's raised eyebrow from the bench. He has heard. He has noticed. Later, probably, he'll make some comment about me going soft.
Maybe I am.
Maybe having Zara in my house—Zara in my life—has shifted something I don't fully understand yet.
Midway through the second power-play set, my phone buzzes in my jacket pocket on the bench. I ignore it. Then it buzzes again. And again.
"Coach?" Nate's voice cuts through my focus. "That's the third time."
I pull the phone out. Three missed calls from my lawyer. A text message that just says:
Call me immediately.
The ice feels very far away suddenly. The sounds of practice—skates carving, pucks striking boards, players shouting—fade to white noise.
"Take over," I tell Nate. "Run the five-on-four until I'm back."
I am already moving toward the tunnel before he can answer.
My lawyer picks up on the first ring. "Jaxon. We have a problem."
"What kind of problem?"
"Your ex-wife's legal team filed a motion this morning. They're citing the tabloid coverage as evidence of an unstable home environment."
I stop walking. The tunnel stretches ahead of me, cold and empty.
"They can't do that. The photos don't show—"
"They show a man caught in a 'tryst' with his daughter's caretaker. Their words, not mine." His voice is clipped, professional, but I can hear the tension underneath. "They're requesting an expedited review of the custody arrangement."
"Expedited meaning—"
"Meaning the hearing that was six weeks out is now potentially three weeks. Maybe sooner, depending on the judge."
The walls close in. I make myself breathe, the way I told Kowalski to breathe just minutes ago. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. Control what you can control.
"What do we do?"
"We counter-file. Document the stability of your home, the quality of care Lily receives, the consistency of your presence in her life." A pause. "The marriage would help. Significantly."
"It's happening. Soon."
"How soon?"
I think of Zara sitting across from me last night. Of the way she is with Lily, the way my daughter’s face lights up whenever she walks into a room.
"As soon as I can make it happen," I say.
I end the call and stand there in the tunnel, phone gripped in my hand, the weight of everything pressing down.
The custody battle I need to win. The media exposure I can't control. The woman in my house who has somehow become the center of all of it.
When I walk back to the ice, Nate takes one look at my face and calls for water break without being asked.
Practice ends badly.
Two more botched plays, a near-injury during a board drill, general sloppiness that would have been unacceptable on a normal day.
I keep it together long enough to run through film notes with the assistants, handle the press availability with monosyllabic non-answers that make Simone wince, and escape to my car before anyone can ask follow-up questions.
The drive home takes longer than usual. Rush hour traffic, construction on Seventh, a fender-bender that backs up three blocks.
I sit in the gridlock and think about Lily. About whether she'd heard anything at school. Kids are cruel, and the internet moves fast.
By the time I park in the garage, my shoulders ache from tension. My jaw aches from clenching. The elevator ride to our floor feels endless.
But when I open the door—
Zara's voice, humming something soft and low, drifts from the living room. I follow it around the corner and stop.
She is on her knees by the bookshelf, arranging Lily's collection of picture books by color. My daughter sits beside her, chattering about dragons, holding up a particularly battered copy of her favorite.
"This one has the fire-breathing song," Lily announces. "You said maybe you can learn the words."
"I say I'd try," Zara corrects, smiling. "No promises about hitting the notes."
They haven't noticed me yet. I let myself watch—the easy way Zara listens to Lily's rambling, the patience in her hands as she straightens spines and adjusts placement.
The scene is so domestic, so normal, that the chaos of the day feels suddenly distant.
Then Lily spots me.
"Daddy!" She launches herself across the room, crashing into my legs with the force of a small, determined rocket.
"Zara and me organized the books! And we made snacks! And she taught me a word in sign language!"
I crouch down to her level, pulling her into a hug that probably lasts too long. She squirms, giggling, and I let her go.
"What word?"
Lily hooks her two index fingers together. “Friend,” she says proudly.
Over her head, my eyes meet Zara's. She has risen from the bookshelf, arms crossed, watching us with an expression I can't quite read.
"Sounds like a good day," I say.
"The best." Lily tugs my hand. "Come see the books! Zara put all the blue ones together!"
She pulls me toward the shelf, and I go. Let her show me the organizational system she and Zara have developed, listen to her explain which dragons are the best and why.
The whole time, I am aware of Zara behind us. Her presence, steady and warm.
When Lily finally runs out of steam and heads to the kitchen for juice, Zara moves closer. Our shoulders nearly touch.
"The lawyer called," I say quietly.
"I figured." She doesn't look at me. "Your face, when you came in. Something shifted."
“Expedited hearing. Three weeks—maybe sooner.”
Her breath catches. Barely audible, but I hear it. "What does that mean?"
"It means we need to move faster." I turn to face her. Close. Too close, probably. "The marriage. The—everything."
Zara's eyes search my face. Looking for something. I don't know if she finds it.
"Jaxon—"
"Daddy!" Lily's voice interrupts from the kitchen. "The juice box is stuck!"
I don't move. Neither does Zara.
"We should talk," she says. "Tonight. After—"
"After." I nod. "Yeah."
My phone rings. The lawyer again, probably. Or Simone. Or one of a dozen other people who want pieces of me I don't have to give.
Zara's fingers brush mine as she steps past me toward the kitchen. A touch so light it might have been accidental.