Chapter 9 - Jake
JAKE
Roommate
Istare at her like if I look long enough, she’ll glitch.
Like this is some kind of stress-induced hallucination brought on by preseason pressure and too much caffeine.
But she doesn’t flicker. She doesn’t fade.
She just stands there in my living room, chin lifted, eyes stubborn and bright, like she’s daring me to try and move her.
“So let me get this straight,” I say slowly, because if I don’t slow this down, I’m going to lose whatever control I have left. “The annulment deadline passed.”
“Yes.”
Her voice is steady. Too steady.
“We are still legally married.”
“Yes.”
Each answer lands like a hammer to the ribs.
“And your solution is to move into my house.”
“Yes.”
I turn away from her because if I keep looking at her, I’m going to say something I can’t take back. My hands curl into fists at my sides.
This cannot be happening.
I built my life on structure. Discipline. Anticipation. You don’t get blindsided if you prepare. You don’t lose control if you never hand it over in the first place.
And yet here I am.
Married.
Still married.
Because she “panicked.”
I turn back to her, heat climbing up my spine, my jaw so tight it aches.
“You’re crazy.”
It comes out harsh and mean.
Good.
“We’re married, Jake,” she says quietly. “Whether you like it or not.”
Something punches straight through my chest at her quiet dignity, especially when I’m doing nothing to make this easy for her.
“And I’m not going back home,” she ends with.
I don’t like the way this conversation is going. Maybe I have to understand where she is coming from first. And then I’ll be able to get her to leave and then we’ll fix this mess we’re in.
I study her more carefully now.
Her hair is slightly messy and she looks exhausted.
I sigh, deep and frustrated.
“Why don’t you sit down?”
Her shoulders twitch, like she’s surprised I’m not immediately escorting her back out onto the porch. She hesitates, eyes flicking around my living room again, taking in the clean lines, the order, the quiet.
Then she nods once and walks toward the couch like she’s entering enemy territory.
I don’t tell her to take her shoes off. I’m not sure why. Usually I’m strict about that. Dirt, germs, chaos. But right now my brain is too busy trying not to explode.
I gesture to the sofa anyway. “There.”
She sits on the edge like she’s ready to bolt. Her hands twist together in her lap.
I head to the kitchen because I need something to do with my hands that isn’t dragging her out by her elbow.
“Water?” I call, opening a cabinet.
“Sure,” she says, small.
I grab two glasses, fill them, and add ice to mine out of habit. The clink is too loud in the silence. I set her glass on the coffee table in front of her and keep mine in my hand like a shield.
Then I sit in the armchair opposite her, leaning forward, elbows on my knees.
Okay.
Let’s do this.
I point a finger at her like I’m drawing a boundary on the ice. “Start from the beginning.”
She blinks. “The beginning?”
“Not Vegas,” I snap, then rein it in with a slow breath. “I mean today. Why you came here. Why you think moving in is the solution.”
Her gaze drops to the glass of water like it’s suddenly fascinating. “Because I can’t go back.”
“That’s not an explanation,” I say, voice tight.
She lifts her eyes, and there’s a flash of annoyance in them. Good. At least she’s not crying.
“I thought you were living with your dad,” I add, because I need something concrete. Something normal.
“I am.”
“Then why are you here?”
She inhales slowly, as if she’s trying to push down whatever is clawing up her throat. “Because I can’t stand it anymore.”
I watch her, waiting for the rest.
She swallows. “Living with him. In that house.”
My jaw tightens. Coach Petrov. The man is a legend in this league for a reason. Brilliant. Ruthless. The kind of coach who can make grown men shake with one look.
I’ve never once wondered what he’s like as a father.
Now I’m wondering too hard.
Her fingers twist together. “It’s… suffocating, okay?”
Suffocating.
I know how Petrov coaches, but what does he do at home?
“He doesn’t… hit you?” I ask before I can stop myself.
Her eyes widen. Then she shakes her head quickly. “No. Jesus, no.”
Relief hits fast and sharp, followed immediately by irritation at myself for even asking.
Still, I have the feeling she isn’t telling me everything.
I’m about to push further when I really look at her.
There are faint shadows under her eyes she probably tried to conceal. Her mouth is tight, like she’s been clenching it for days.
I take a slow sip of water, mostly to buy myself a second not to react.
None of this justifies what she did.
None of this makes legal deadlines magically optional.
And I’m angry. So fucking angry.
I force my jaw to unclench. “You missed a legal deadline,” I remind her, each word deliberate. “Do you understand what you did?”
Her gaze drops. “Yes.”
“Then why did you do it?”
She swallows. “I didn’t do it on purpose.”
I set my glass down harder than necessary, the base clacking against the table. “That’s not an answer. You had papers delivered. With a date. With instructions. All you had to do was sign. I have an entire season riding on staying focused and scandal-free, and you couldn’t handle a signature?”
Her face tightens. “I told you, I’m sorry.” Her hands twist together even tighter. “I got overwhelmed and shoved the papers away. I couldn’t even look at them. It was too much.”
Jesus.
This woman is driving me insane.
She’s creating legal problems. She’s threatening my reputation. And somehow, I still feel a flicker of sympathy.
I hate that I understand panic.
I hate that I respect her honesty.
I lean back, dragging a hand over my mouth, trying to reset.
My mind starts running numbers and scenarios like a playbook.
Annulment window missed.
We’ll have to talk to Daniel.
Tomorrow.
I breathe in through my nose.
Out through my mouth.
Then I point at her again. “You’re staying one night.”
Her head jerks up. “What?”
“One,” I repeat. “You sleep in the guest room. You don’t touch my stuff. You don’t go into my office. You don’t post anything on social media. You don’t call anyone from the team. You don’t call your dad from here.”
Her lips part, offended. “I wasn’t going to—”
“Rules,” I cut in. “You like making decisions? Here’s one you don’t get to make. You get one night because I’m not throwing you onto the street, and because I need to keep you where I can see you until we talk to Daniel.”
Her eyes narrow. “Until you can control me.”
I feel the urge to snap back, but I swallow it.
“Yes,” I say simply. “Until I can control the situation.”
She stares at me for a long moment, then gives a stiff nod. “Fine.”
“Tomorrow after practice,” I continue, “we go to my lawyer together. No discussion.”
“What if he’s mad?” she asks, like that’s the biggest issue in the room.
I let out a humorless laugh. “He’s going to be furious.”
“So are you,” she says quietly.
My jaw tightens. “Yes.”
I stand abruptly, the papers still in my hand, needing distance. “You want water? You’ve got it. Food’s in the fridge. Towels are in the guest bathroom. The guest room’s down the hall.”
She watches me carefully. “You’re just… leaving me here?”
“I have things to do.”
“At nine at night?”
“It’s my house,” I snap—then immediately regret it when she flinches.
I drag in a breath. “Treat it as yours for the night,” I add, the words rough in my mouth. “But leave me alone.”
Her mouth twitches, like she’s fighting a smile.
That somehow makes my mood worse.
I stalk toward the hallway. When I pause at the base of the stairs and glance back, she’s still sitting in the living room, clutching her water glass.
She looks small.
And stubborn.
Like she’s bracing for impact.
My voice comes out rough and clipped. “Guest room. Get some sleep. We deal with this tomorrow.”
She nods once. “Okay.”
I take the stairs two at a time because I need to get away from her before my anger shifts into something else.
Upstairs, my bedroom is the one place I usually feel calm. Dark. Orderly. Quiet. My sanctuary.
Tonight it feels like a cage.
I strip off my shirt, toss it into the hamper, and stand there staring at my own reflection in the mirror like I’m trying to find the exact moment I lost control of my life.
Vegas.
That’s the moment.
That stupid chapel.
That stupid ring.
I run a hand over my face, then drop onto the edge of the bed, elbows on my knees.
One night.
That’s what I told her.
One night and then we fix it.
We go to Daniel. We figure out the next step. We contain the fallout.
I cling to that plan like it’s a life raft.
Downstairs, I hear a faint creak, then footsteps. Her footsteps.
She’s in my house.
My wife.
My chest tightens, and I grit my teeth hard enough my jaw aches.
I climb into bed, turn off the light, and stare into the dark.
I’m furious at her.
I’m furious at myself.
And the worst part is, beneath all that anger, there’s a low, unwanted awareness that she’s under my roof.
Safe.
For tonight.
That thought should annoy me.
It doesn’t.
It just makes me feel trapped in a different way.
***
My alarm goes off at five, and for half a second my brain does that blissful thing where it forgets I’m married.
Then reality snaps back in like a shoulder check.
Talia is in my house.
The annulment deadline is missed.
My life is officially a legal problem.
I swing my legs out of bed and move on autopilot. Shower. Toothbrush. Deodorant. Training gear. The routine is a lifeline. If I keep moving, I don’t have to think.
Except I do think.
Because I catch myself listening for her.
A creak. A door. A footstep.
Instead I hear something else.
A soft clink downstairs.
Then another.
Like dishes.
I pause at the top of the stairs, still damp from the shower, and just… listen.
No. Absolutely not.