16. JAXON
JAXON
Just a Marriage of Convenience
The city skyline stretches out beneath the balcony like a promise I am not sure I can keep.
Dawn creeps across the glass towers, painting them gold and copper, while I stand there with coffee growing cold in my hands.
Three hours until practice. Twelve hours until the gala.
And somewhere between those markers, I have to figure out how to maintain a facade that is becoming harder to distinguish from reality.
Lily's laughter drifts up from inside—that bright, unguarded sound that makes every complicated decision feel worth it.
Zara's voice follows, warm and patient, coaxing my daughter through what sounds like a debate about breakfast options.
I press my thumb against the ring finger where a band will soon sit. The nervous tic has appeared since we agreed to this arrangement.
Marriage of convenience.
The words taste bitter, clinical, nothing like the heat that sparks whenever Zara walks into a room.
The sliding door opens behind me.
"You're brooding." Zara steps onto the balcony, arms crossed against the morning chill.
Her hair is still damp from the shower, curling at the ends in a way that makes my chest tight. "I can see the storm clouds forming from inside."
"Strategizing."
"Same thing, with you." She moves to stand beside me, close enough that I catch her scent—something soft, floral, completely at odds with the steel in her spine.
"Lily wants waffles. I told her we'd check with you first since Mrs. Henriksen mentioned the new syrup situation."
The syrup situation. My daughter discovered maple syrup three weeks ago and now attempts to drown everything in it, including eggs.
"Moderation," I say. "Two squares, normal amount."
Zara's lips curve. "I'll negotiate."
She turns to go, and I speak before thinking. "The gala tonight. Are you—"
"Ready?" She glances back, one eyebrow raised. "I've survived diaper explosions, toddler tantrums in grocery stores, and a four-year-old who decided to cut her own hair with safety scissors. I can handle a charity event."
"That's not what I meant."
The humor fades from her expression, replaced by something more guarded. "I know what you meant. And yes, I'm ready. This is what we agreed to."
She disappears inside before I can respond, leaving me alone with the growing light and the weight of what we set in motion.
***
The arena hits differently when my head is not in it.
Skates carve into ice. Sticks crack against pucks.
The familiar symphony of practice should center me, but instead, I keep drifting—thinking about Zara's face when I proposed this insane plan, the way she finally agreed without flinching, like she understood exactly what is at stake.
"Coach."
Jake Morrison's voice cuts through the fog.
I blink, realize I have been staring at the same spot on the boards for thirty seconds while the team runs drills around me.
"Morrison."
The veteran captain glides closer, stopping just outside casual conversation distance.
He has that look on his face—the one that says he is about to offer wisdom I probably need and definitely do not want.
"You're somewhere else today."
Not a question. Jake spent fifteen years reading opponents on the ice; reading his coach is not much harder.
"Personal stuff." I keep my voice flat. "Nothing that affects the team."
"Didn't say it did." He shrugs, adjusting his gloves. "Just noticed the younger guys picking up on it. Rodriguez asked me if you were sick."
Damn it. The last thing I need is my focus issues bleeding into team morale.
"I'll tighten up."
Jake nods slowly, like he is weighing his next words. "Talia mentioned meeting Zara at the family event. Said she's good people."
The observation lands with more weight than it should have. Jake is not prone to idle comments.
"She is."
“Having someone in your corner helps.” He holds my gaze. “Before I found Talia, I tried to handle everything on my own. Never rely on anyone, you know. But it wasn’t good for me. Talia basically had to force me to accept help.”
I am not sure if he is talking about the custody battle, the coaching pressures, or the increasingly complicated thing between me and Zara. Maybe all three.
"Point taken."
Jake pushes off, skating backward with the ease of someone who has spent more time on ice than solid ground.
"For what it's worth, Coach—you don't have to figure everything out alone. That's what teammates are for."
He rejoins the drill before I can respond.
I watch the players cycle through the formation, forcing myself to track individual positioning, stick angles, the small adjustments that make the difference between good and great.
Rhys is overcompensating on his left turns. Declan keeps dropping his shoulder before the shot. Normal issues, fixable things.
But my eyes keep drifting to the empty seats beyond the glass, thinking about how Zara will look tonight, standing beside me while cameras flash and questions probe.
Nate appears at my elbow, clipboard in hand. "You good?"
"Fine."
"Liar." He does not bother sugarcoating it. That is one of the things I value about my assistant coach—no bullshit, even when I am the one shoveling it.
"You've been watching the same line for ten minutes. They're starting to get paranoid."
"Tell them paranoia builds character."
Nate snorts. "Tell them yourself. After you actually look at the penalty kill we're supposed to be reviewing."
He shoves the clipboard into my hands.
Play diagrams, positioning notes, the technical language of hockey strategy.
I stare at them while my brain tries to process anything beyond the image of Zara descending a staircase.
"The gala tonight," Nate says quietly, pitching his voice beneath the ambient noise. "You ready?"
"Does it matter?"
"Yeah, actually. Because if you walk in there looking like you're facing a firing squad, every photographer in the place is gonna catch it."
He taps the clipboard. "Same principle as game face. Whatever's going on in your head, you bury it. Present the image you need them to see."
Sound advice. The same advice I’ve given players a hundred times.
"When'd you get so smart?"
"Born this way. You just never listen." Nate claps my shoulder. "Take five. Get your head right. I'll run them through the next sequence."
I do not argue.
Just hand back the clipboard and walk toward the tunnel, needing a moment away from the ice.
The locker room is empty, thank God. I sit on the bench, elbows on knees, staring at nothing while I try to sort through the chaos in my skull.
The custody hearing has been moved up. Rachel's lawyers are circling, smelling blood in the water after the scandal hit.
Every move I make is being scrutinized, analyzed, weaponized against my right to raise my own daughter.
And then there is Zara.
I close my eyes, letting myself remember.
Her back arched against that storage room wall.
The sounds she made when I touched her.
The way she looked at me afterward—not with regret, not with expectation, just a kind of stunned honesty that mirrors what I am feeling.
That first night, before I knew who she was, I let myself want something without calculating the consequences.
Now every moment with her comes loaded with implications.
The marriage is supposed to be strategy. Clean, simple, mutually beneficial.
Instead, I find myself watching her when she is not looking, cataloging small details—the way she tucks her hair behind her ear, the specific rhythm of her laugh when Lily says something ridiculous, the softness in her voice.
This is not the plan.
My phone buzzes. I pull it out, expecting Nate or Simone.
But it’s from my ex-wife.
Rachel:
I’ve got people looking into this. If you’re hiding something, they’ll find it.
Another message comes in from an unknown number.
We should talk about your new arrangement. I have questions. - Elena Vance, Sports Illustrated
I delete it without responding.
Another buzz. Same number.
Your ex-wife's team has been forthcoming. Your silence speaks volumes.
I type a response—something sharp about harassment and legal consequences—then delete that too.
Engaging will only fuel the fire.
The door opens. Jake sticks his head in, spots me, and enters without invitation.
"Nate said you needed a minute." He sits down on the opposite bench, stretching out his legs. "Figured I'd provide moral support."
"By ignoring my obvious desire for solitude?"
"Exactly." He grins, that easy captain's smile that has defused a thousand locker room tensions.
"What's the real issue? And don't say nothing, because I've seen nothing, and this isn't it."
I consider lying. Deflecting. The same strategies I use for years to keep people at arm's length.
“Everyone’s digging for dirt. My ex-wife will be all over this.”
Jake's expression does not change, but something shifts behind his eyes. "Looking into what?"
"Everything. My relationship with Zara. Her background. Whether we're legitimate or just putting on a show for the court."
"And are you?"
The question hangs there, simple and devastating.
"I don't know anymore." The admission surprises me as much as it probably surprises him. "It started practical. But..."
"But it's not staying that way."
I do not confirm. Do not need to.
Jake is quiet for a long moment, then nods like he has reached some internal conclusion. "My advice? Stop fighting it."
"Fighting what?"
"Whatever's happening between you two." He stands, brushing off his practice jersey.
"You're not the type to do things halfway, Halberg. If you're in this, be in it. The pretending is gonna crack under pressure anyway—might as well make it real."
He leaves before I can argue.
Not that I have a good counter.
I make it through the rest of practice on autopilot, running drills and offering corrections while my brain processes Jake's words.
Stop fighting it.
Simple advice, impossible to follow.
The drive home feels longer than usual, city traffic crawling while I rehearse what I will say to Zara.
Something professional.