Chapter 7 Jake
JAKE
Trouble
The private terminal smells like jet fuel, leather, and regret.
I adjust the strap of my duffel bag on my shoulder and walk across the polished concrete toward the waiting jet, every step measured, controlled, automatic.
Like nothing happened.
Like I didn’t wake up married.
Like I didn’t marry Viktor Petrov’s daughter.
My jaw tightens.
Don’t think about it.
I’ve spent the entire car ride from the Wynn to the airport forcing my brain into operational mode. Damage control. Containment. Solutions.
That’s how I’ve survived my entire career.
You don’t panic.
You assess.
You execute.
You move forward.
The guys are already boarding when I step onto the stairs, their voices carrying through the open cabin door.
Laughter.
Mock outrage.
Rhys’s unmistakable voice saying, “I told you, I wasn’t drunk.”
“You cried, man,” Connor says. “You literally cried.”
“I did not cry.”
“You literally cried,” Connor repeats, delighted with himself.
“You FaceTimed her,” Declan adds helpfully. “From the bathroom. For forty minutes.”
“I wanted to tell her good night. I was being respectful.”
I step inside the cabin.
Connor Hayes is sprawled across one of the cream leather seats, his long legs stretched out, blond hair a complete disaster.
Rookie forward. Twenty-two.
Fast as hell on the ice and completely incapable of shutting up off it.
“You were being pathetic,” Connor corrects Rhys cheerfully. “You kept saying, ‘I miss you.’”
Declan Hawthorne sits across from him, tattoos crawling up both arms, dark hair falling into his eyes as he scrolls lazily through his phone.
Declan plays left wing like he was born for violence. Calm. Precise. Dangerous.
Next to him sits Marcus Chandler, leaning back in his seat like he owns the plane.
He’s in his early thirties, calm under pressure, and somehow always dressed like he’s about to walk into a magazine shoot.
Even now he’s in dark jeans and a fitted jacket, looking far too put together for a Vegas hangover flight.
He’s nursing a coffee and watching the argument with the amused patience of someone who’s seen this exact nonsense a hundred times before.
“You absolutely cried,” Marcus says mildly, without even looking up from his drink.
Rhys glares at him. “Et tu, Marcus?”
Marcus just shrugs.
Misha Volkov, our goalie, sits near the window, massive shoulders hunched slightly as he sips black coffee.
Silent. Observant. Russian.
Terrifying to opposing teams and, oddly enough, gentle when you least expect it.
He lifts his chin in acknowledgment as I take my seat. “Captain.”
And then there’s Rhys Kincaid.
The groom.
The reason we were all in Vegas in the first place.
Rhys straightens in his seat, scowling. “I do miss her.”
Declan finally looks up, one dark brow raised. “I get it. I miss Ivy, too.”
Connor clutches his chest dramatically. “Oh my God. They’ve both gone soft. We’ve lost them.”
Rhys flips him off. “Shut up.”
Connor isn’t done. He leans forward, eyes gleaming like he’s about to deliver the killing blow.
“And let’s not forget the lap dance.”
Rhys immediately goes still.
Declan’s mouth curves faintly. “Ah, yes.”
Misha’s deep voice adds, “Historic moment.”
Rhys exhales slowly, already bracing himself. “It wasn’t like that.”
Connor slaps his knee. “It was exactly like that.”
He looks at me as I step fully into the cabin. “Captain, you missed it. Most beautiful woman in that entire place walks straight up to him.”
Rhys pinches the bridge of his nose. “Connor—”
“She was wearing basically nothing,” Connor continues, ignoring him. “Red lace. Legs for days. Whole place stopped to watch.”
Declan nods once. “Accurate.”
“And she picks him,” Connor says. “Out of everyone. The groom. Because of course she does.”
Rhys mutters, “I didn’t ask for that.”
Connor grins. “She starts dancing. Real slow. Whole room cheering. And what does our boy do?”
Rhys says nothing.
Connor points at him like he’s presenting evidence in court. “He physically removes her.”
Marcus lets out a low chuckle.
Declan leans back, folding his arms behind his head. “Hands on her hips. Gentle. Respectful.”
Connor nods eagerly. “And then he says—” he clears his throat and drops into a terrible imitation of Rhys’s voice, “‘I’m sorry. I’m getting married.’”
The entire cabin erupts.
Rhys groans. “I hate all of you.”
Connor wipes tears from his eyes. “She thought he was joking.”
Declan smirks. “She tried again.”
Connor points. “And he stopped her again.”
“I wasn’t going to cheat on my fiancée at my bachelor party,” Rhys snaps.
“Cheat?” Connor repeats. “She was dancing. It’s Vegas.”
Rhys doesn’t budge. “Doesn’t matter.”
Misha nods solemnly. “Good man.”
Connor stares at him. “You’re not helping.”
Declan studies Rhys for a moment, something quieter settling into his expression. “I would’ve done the same thing, man.”
Connor leans back, shaking his head in disbelief. “This is insane. The man had a hall pass from God himself and said no.”
Rhys shrugs. “Didn’t want it.”
Declan laughs under his breath.
I move past them toward my seat, the familiar rhythm of their voices wrapping around me like armor.
Connor points at Rhys again. “You’re ruined.”
Rhys doesn’t look remotely ashamed.
“She’s everything,” he says simply.
The sincerity in his voice shuts everyone up for a second.
Even Connor.
Even me.
Because we all know it’s true.
Rhys Kincaid, notorious playboy, completely destroyed by one woman.
Elara.
He pulls out his phone, probably checking for a message from her.
Then Connor’s glare lands on me. “And where the hell did you vanish to last night, Cap?”
“Yeah, Jake,” Declan rumbles, grinning. “We were at the club, the shots were flowing, I turned around to tell you Hayes almost threw up on a go-go dancer, and you were gone. Ghosted. Poof.”
“I went back to the hotel,” I lie, the words dry in my mouth. “I was done. Not all of us have the stamina of a twenty-one-year-old rookie.”
“Liar,” Rhys says, not even looking up from his phone. “I saw you talking to some woman.”
Connor perks up immediately. “Ohhh. So which casino waitress was she?”
“No waitress,” Declan says calmly. “He doesn’t do waitresses.”
I arch a brow. “I don’t discriminate.”
“Bullshit,” Connor fires back. “You absolutely discriminate.”
Connor leans forward, eyes gleaming. “Was she hot?”
I don’t answer.
Because hot isn’t the right word.
She was— sunlight. Warmth. Trouble.
Rhys glances up finally. “She had on a yellow dress. Definitely not a waitress. I couldn’t see much else, but you looked like you were being led to the promised land, Captain.”
My heart skips a beat, but I keep my expression locked in bored indifference.
This is leadership. This is being the captain.
You never let them see you sweat—especially when you’ve accidentally married the coach’s daughter.
“She was just some girl, Rhys,” I say evenly. “I walked her out, got some air, and went to bed. End of story.”
“Boo! Boring!” Connor yells, tossing a peanut at my shoulder. “At least Kincaid here provided actual entertainment.”
“Drop it,” I say flatly.
Connor raises his hands in surrender. “Okay, okay.”
But his grin doesn’t disappear.
The plane begins to taxi, the engines humming beneath our feet, steady and relentless.
The banter continues, easy and familiar.
Safe.
For a while, I let myself get pulled into it.
The jokes. The insults. The camaraderie.
It’s effortless.
It feels natural.
Eventually, the conversation drifts.
Connor falls asleep and Declan puts in headphones.
Misha stares out the window.
Marcus leans back in his seat, flipping open a book like the chaos around him is just background noise.
Rhys types something on his phone, a small smile tugging at his mouth.
And I’m left alone with my thoughts.
That’s when it hits me again.
You married her.
I stare at my hands.
The same hands that signed the certificate.
The same hands that held her.
The same hands that now feel like they belong to someone else.
Talia Petrov.
Coach’s daughter.
My wife.
My chest tightens.
How unlucky can one man be?
Of all the women in Vegas.
Of all the cities in the world.
Of all the possible disasters.
It had to be her.
I don’t do chaos.
I don’t do drama.
I don’t make reckless decisions.
I built my entire career on discipline.
Control.
Precision.
And in one drunken night, I destroyed all of it.
***
The flight lands at JFK just as a grey, drizzly New York afternoon is settling in.
The camaraderie of the plane evaporates as soon as we hit the tarmac.
We’re back in the real world now. The season starts in a couple of weeks.
The fun is over.
We disembark quickly, grabbing our bags.
Connor stretches. “I’m never drinking again.”
Declan snorts. “You said that yesterday.”
Misha claps him on the shoulder hard enough to make him stumble.
Rhys glances at me. “You good?”
The question is casual.
But the concern beneath it isn’t.
I nod.
“I’m good.”
Another lie.
He studies me for a second longer, then nods back.
We part ways in the terminal.
"See you at the rink tomorrow, Cap," Rhys says, clapping me on the shoulder. "Try to get some actual sleep. You look like you’ve been through a blender."
"Yeah," I mutter. "You too. Give my best to Elara.”
They head toward waiting cars, toward their lives.
I slide into the back of the car waiting for me outside the private terminal, the door closing with a soft, insulated thud that seals out the noise of the guys and the city.
The quiet inside the SUV settles over me like a blanket.
We head north, Manhattan shrinking in the rearview mirror as glass towers give way to trees and wide stretches of green.
The further we drive, the slower everything feels.
Calmer.
By the time we turn onto my street in Westchester, my shoulders have dropped an inch.
The road narrows, framed by tall hedges and old trees that arch overhead like they’re guarding the quiet.
My driveway curves gently away from the street, long enough that the outside world disappears before I even reach the house.
Maples line both sides, their leaves whispering in the breeze, especially in the fall when everything turns gold and copper and the air smells clean.
The house reveals itself slowly.
Glass. Warm stone. Natural wood.
Floor-to-ceiling windows reflect the trees instead of the sky, so from certain angles it almost disappears into the greenery.
Behind the house, the yard opens into a private oasis.
A wide wooden deck wraps around the back, with deep outdoor couches layered in thick cushions and throws.
There’s a built-in fire pit surrounded by low seating.
Beyond that, a rectangular pool sits flush with the stone terrace, the water perfectly still unless the wind disturbs it.
Trees border the entire property, tall and dense, creating a natural wall. No neighbors in sight. No noise. No cameras. No reporters.
Just space.
Just quiet.
I bought it two years ago—a reward for my contract extension.
I bought it because I needed somewhere that felt like mine.
It’s beautiful. It’s expensive. It’s comfortable in a way that sinks into your bones.
It’s where I reset.
It’s home.
I walk inside, the scent of lemon polish and expensive air hitting me immediately. I drop my bag in the hallway and head straight for the kitchen, grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge.
Then I pull out my phone.
Time to get this over with.
I dial Daniel, my lawyer.
He’s been handling my contracts and my "incidents" since I was a rookie.
He’s seen it all—bar fights, speeding tickets, endorsement disputes. But he hasn't seen this.
"Jake?" Daniel’s voice is crisp, professional. "I thought you were in Vegas for the weekend. Everything okay? Did Hayes get arrested again?"
"No," I say, leaning against the marble countertop. I take a deep breath. "Daniel... I need your help. Something happened."
"Define 'something,'" Daniel says, his tone shifting to cautious.
“I need an annulment.”
Silence.
Then, carefully, “Okay.”
“I got married,” I add.
“Yeah, I figured,” he replies dryly. “When did this happen?”
"Last night. Or early this morning. It’s a blur."
“Was alcohol involved?”
“Yes.”
“Good,” he says immediately. “That makes this easier.”
Easier.
I lean against the kitchen counter.
“How fast can you make it disappear?”
“A few days,” he says. “A week at most.”
Relief loosens something tight in my chest.
“I’ll send paperwork.”
“Her name is Talia Petrov.”
The silence on the other end turns absolute.
“…Petrov,” he repeats slowly.
“Yes.”
“Is she related in any way to Viktor Petrov, by any chance?”
“She’s his daughter.”
Daniel exhales sharply through his teeth. “Jesus, Jake. You didn’t just step in it—you dove headfirst into it. Does Viktor know?”
"Of course not. And he can't. Not ever. We just need to make it disappear."
"Okay," Daniel says, his lawyer-brain finally clicking into gear.
"Okay. I can handle this. I’ll draft the documents for an annulment based on lack of capacity due to intoxication. It’s Nevada, it’s relatively straightforward if both parties are willing. I’ll send a courier to her with the papers by the end of the week."
"Good. Do it."
"Jake," Daniel adds, his voice softening. "Be careful. Viktor... well, you know Viktor."
"I know," I say. "Just get it done."
I hang up and toss the phone onto the counter.
I’m exhausted. Physically, mentally, soul-deep exhausted.
I head upstairs to my bedroom, stripping off my clothes and falling onto the bed without even pulling back the covers.
As I drift off, my mind betrays me.
I don’t think about the legal fees or the coach’s wrath.
I think about Talia.
I think about the way her blonde hair spilled across her shoulders.
And for the next few days, at least... she’s my wife.
The last thought I have before sleep takes me is a memory of her laughter in that elevator—bright, reckless, and completely intoxicating.
God, I’m in so much trouble.