Chapter 6 Talia
TALIA
Coach’s Daughter
Idon’t move, just like he told me.
He walks to the bathroom with unsettling calm, like he’s heading into a business meeting instead of a meltdown.
Then the bathroom door slams shut with a heavy, definitive thud.
I stay exactly where I am, frozen in the middle of the suite, not knowing what I’m supposed to do with myself.
Does he expect me to leave?
Does he want me to stay?
Should I… make him herbal tea?
I decide on the safest option.
Stay.
Do nothing.
Wait.
From behind the door, I don’t hear the sounds of someone actually being sick.
Instead, I hear a string of muffled, rhythmic swearing.
Deep. Guttural. Creative.
Then silence.
Maybe heavy breathing.
Then the unmistakable sound of pacing.
Back and forth.
Back and forth.
Then—
“Ouch! Fuckety fuck. Stupid toe.”
More swearing.
A flicker of worry sparks in my chest.
I glance toward the bathroom door.
Should I check on him?
Should I say something?
Apologize?
For what, exactly?
For existing?
For suddenly sharing his last name?
For being the absolute worst possible person he could have accidentally married?
My fingers curl into my palms.
I don’t know how long I stay rooted to the spot, my toes digging into the plush carpet, staring at the closed door.
Maybe I should knock.
Ask if he needs water. An ice pack. A paper bag to scream into.
Or a hug.
But the rational part of me—the part that has survived twenty-three years of being Viktor Petrov’s daughter—knows better.
You don’t approach a wounded bear, and you certainly don’t approach a Metro Raptor who has just realized he’s legally tied to the one person in the world who could get him permanently blacklisted from the NHL.
I sink onto the edge of the leather sofa, my legs feeling like they’ve been replaced by overcooked noodles.
Jake Morrison.
I know the name.
God, I’ve heard the name enough to last a lifetime.
In my house, "Morrison" is spoken with a tone usually reserved for saints or war heroes. He’s the Captain.
The prodigy.
The player my father trusted more than anyone else.
He’s the "only one with a damn head on his shoulders," according to my father.
But I didn’t know what he looked like.
I never wanted to.
Hockey has always been my father’s world.
Not mine.
Hockey took him from us.
It took his time.
His attention.
His affection.
It swallowed everything and left wreckage behind.
I don’t go to games.
I don’t watch the playoffs.
I don’t follow trade rumors.
And I blame my dad for what happened after.
Coming to Vegas was my attempt at escape—from the house I share with him and from the silence left behind by the person who isn’t there anymore.
It was my way of running from everything I resent about his life.
And now the irony is almost unbearable.
I ran to Vegas to escape everything my dad stands for—
Only to marry the man who lives and breathes the exact same world.
The swearing behind the door stops.
The bathroom door opens slowly.
I brace myself, expecting a man in the middle of a breakdown, but the Jake Morrison who steps out is not the panicked, pale mess he was two minutes ago.
He is cool. He is calm. He looks like he’s just finished a pre-game ritual and is ready to take the ice.
His jaw is set, his eyes are focused with a predatory intensity that makes my breath hitch, and his posture is rigid.
He doesn't look like my "Hercules" anymore. He looks like a Captain.
He walks toward me, his movements precise, and stops a few feet away. He doesn't sit. He just stands there, looking down at me with an expression that is purely transactional.
"Okay," he says, his voice flat and devoid of the warmth it had when he was patting my foot dry. "We have a problem. And we need to fix it."
“Jake, I swear, I didn’t know,” I say quickly. “I don’t follow the team. I stay away from all of it. I didn’t know what you looked like.”
He holds up a hand, silencing me.
"It doesn't matter what we knew yesterday. What matters is what we do now. This is a nightmare, a professional suicide, and a personal disaster all rolled into one."
I wince. "So... what now?"
He begins to pace the length of the room, his mind clearly working through a set of plays. "Logistics. We need logistics. Where do you live?"
The question feels oddly intimate and it throws me.
Because explaining my life to him feels suddenly too personal.
Too vulnerable.
“I’m still looking for an apartment,” I say, hating how small my voice sounds. “Well. Technically I live with my dad. In the house in Westchester. I’m still looking for a job. Until I have one, I can’t move out.”
I hear myself rambling and I hate it.
Jake stops pacing and looks at me, a flicker of something—disbelief? Irritation?—crossing his face. "You live in the house. The same house where he hosts the leadership dinners? The house I’ve been to three times for 'strategy meetings'?"
“I stay in my room!” I defend myself immediately, heat flooding my face. “I have my own entrance. I don’t sit in on ‘leadership dinners.’ I don’t listen to game plans. I don’t even know half your roster. I told you—I stay out of the hockey world.”
He lets out a short laugh.
Not amused.
Sharp. Disbelieving.
“Well,” he says flatly, “you’re in it now.”
There’s no sympathy in his voice. No softness. Just frustration.
“Deep in it,” he adds, rubbing his temples like I’m the source of a splitting headache.
He exhales slowly, recalibrating.
“Here’s what’s going to happen,” he says.
“I’m calling my lawyer the second I get on my flight back. He handles all the team’s sensitive matters. We’ll file for an annulment immediately. Grounds of intoxication. It’ll be like it never happened.”
My stomach twists.
“We go our separate ways,” he continues, his eyes not quite meeting mine, “and we never speak of this again. Understood?”
I look up at him, and for the first time since I woke up, the "Sunshine" in me feels a cold, sharp prick of resistance.
I look at the gumball ring on my finger.
Then I look at him—the man who, less than eight hours ago, treated me with a possessive, breathtaking tenderness that I’ve never experienced in my life.
I nod.
Because I don’t trust myself to speak.
“You’ll just need to sign the paperwork,” he continues. “It shouldn’t take long. A few days at most.”
A few days.
That’s how long I was supposed to be in Vegas.
Seventy-two hours of rebellion.
Now it’s turned into seventy-two hours of damage control.
“And my dad?” I ask quietly.
He stiffens.
“We don’t tell him.”
I blink. “What?”
“We don’t tell him,” he repeats. “There’s no reason to create a problem that’s about to be solved.”
“That’s not how my dad works.”
“That’s how this is going to work.”
I cross my arms slowly.
“And if he finds out?”
“He won’t.”
“You don’t know that.”
He steps closer, lowering his voice.
“I know how to manage media exposure.”
“Oh, I’m not talking about media,” I say.
He pauses.
I hold his gaze.
“I’m talking about him.”
Something flickers in his expression.
Recognition. Understanding. Fear.
Coach Petrov doesn’t need headlines.
He has instincts.
He reads people for a living.
And we both know it.
Jake’s jaw tightens again.
“We’ll handle it,” he says.
We.
I don’t know why that word makes my chest ache.
Because five seconds later he corrects it without meaning to.
“I’ll handle it.”
There it is.
I’m already being removed from the equation.
I look back at the ring.
It suddenly feels heavier.
“Okay,” I say.
He studies me for a moment.
Like he’s assessing my reaction.
“Good,” he says finally.
Good.
I force a small smile.
Because that’s what I do. I make things easier for other people and I smooth over rough edges.
I don’t make scenes. I don’t make demands. I don’t make trouble.
He pulls his phone out of his pocket.
“Give me your number.”
The words sound like an order.
Not a request.
I arch a brow.
“You know,” I say lightly, “I think you need to work on your flirting. Maybe ask next time.”
He gives me a look as if I'm the most annoying person he’s ever met.
“This isn’t flirting.”
“Oh, I noticed.”
His jaw tightens.
“Not for anything social,” he clarifies. “So my lawyer can contact you. And so we have a way to communicate about… stuff.”
“About… stuff,” I repeat, nodding solemnly.
“Talia.”
“Yes, husband?”
He closes his eyes for a brief second.
“Stop calling me that.”
I grin.
He hands me his phone without another word.
The screen is unlocked.
I type in my number carefully. For some reason, it feels strange entering myself into his world like this.
It feels too permanent.
I hand the phone back.
I watch him type Talia into his phone.
His fingers move quickly. Efficiently.
I wonder if he’ll put a yellow heart emoji next to it. He doesn't.
He sends a text.
I glance down.
A single message.
Hi.
That’s it.
Just… hi.
I look up at him.
“That’s the best you’ve got?”
“It establishes contact.”
“Wow. Be still my heart.”
He doesn’t respond.
I save him as “Hercules” and add a tiny flexing arm emoji.
Just to be obnoxious.
“What did you save me as?” he asks suspiciously.
“None of your business.”
He pockets his phone again.
“Fine. It doesn’t matter anyway,” he says. “That’s my personal number. My lawyer will send you the papers to sign.”
I nod.
The conversation feels over.
There’s nothing left to say.
“I’m leaving for the airport in twenty minutes,” he says, his voice still clipped and painfully professional. “I need to get ready now. So if you’ll excuse me…”
That’s my cue.
He’s throwing me out.
Wow.
He walks me to the door, and somehow he looks more like a stranger now than he did when I first woke up beside him.
His hand rests on the handle.
For a second, he hesitates.
Like he might say something else.
Something human.
Something kind.
He doesn’t.
“Take care of yourself,” he says instead.
Polite.
Distant.
Professional.
You too, I want to say.
You too, husband.
But I don’t.
I just nod.
He opens the door for me and I step out into the hallway.
The door closes behind me with a soft, decisive click.
And just like that—
My marriage is already over, less than twelve hours after it began.