Chapter 9 - Jake #2
I take the steps down quietly, expecting to find her rummaging through my kitchen like she’s hunting for a snack, or worse, making a mess that I’ll have to clean before practice.
What I find makes me stop dead in the doorway.
My kitchen smells like coffee and something warm and buttery. The lights are on. The table is set. Like actually set. Plates. Cutlery lined up. A folded napkin at each place like we’re hosting brunch.
And Talia is standing at the stove in an oversized T-shirt—
Wait.
Is that mine?
Her hair is twisted into a messy knot, and she’s flipping something in a pan with the easy confidence of someone who belongs here.
My brain short-circuits.
For a second, I don’t know if I’m furious or… impressed.
She turns when she hears me.
“Morning,” she says, casual.
I stare at the table. “What is this?”
“Breakfast,” she replies, like that should be self-explanatory.
There’s a plate of eggs. Toast. Something that looks like bacon. A bowl of fruit. A coffee mug already poured and sitting at my usual spot like she somehow knows exactly where I sit.
I blink slowly. “Why?”
She shrugs, but there’s a nervous edge beneath it. “I know how early practice is. I figured you don’t usually have time to make something decent. My dad always says breakfast is the most important meal of the day for an athlete.”
Her voice trails off.
I want to snap at her. I want to tell her I’m perfectly capable of feeding myself.
Instead, my eyes catch on one tiny thing that makes my throat tighten.
She used the good plates.
Not the everyday ones. The ones I keep stacked neatly and rarely touch because they’re… nice.
She not only found them, she used them, and she set them like she cares.
It shouldn’t matter.
It does.
I walk into the kitchen anyway, forced by some combination of suspicion and hunger, and stop at the edge of the table. “You didn’t have to do this.”
Talia keeps her focus on the pan. “I know.”
“You also didn’t have to wear my shirt.”
She glances down, then back up, a hint of a grin tugging at her mouth. “Do you want it back right now?”
Heat rises in my face, sharp and unwelcome.
“No,” I say too fast, and she definitely notices.
I yank out a chair and sit, posture tense like I’m preparing for an interrogation instead of breakfast. She slides a plate in front of me with eggs that actually look good.
I stare at them like they might be a trap.
Talia sits across from me with her own plate, hands tucked around her coffee mug, watching me cautiously.
I pick up a fork. Take a bite.
It tastes like… real food. Not the protein bar garbage I usually eat on early mornings.
And it’s good.
I hate that it’s good.
I swallow, then clear my throat. “We’re talking to Daniel today.”
Her shoulders tighten immediately. “Do we have to?”
“Yes.”
She frowns. “I already know what I did. I don’t need a lawyer to tell me again.”
“That’s not the point.”
She pokes at her eggs, suddenly less confident. “It kind of is.”
I set my fork down carefully because I can feel my temper climbing, and I refuse to start yelling over toast.
“The point,” I say carefully, “is that I don’t trust you to handle this on your own anymore.”
Her head snaps up. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.”
Her eyes narrow, a spark of anger flaring to life. Good. At least that’s honest.
“I said I’m sorry,” she fires back.
“And you still screwed it up,” I return, just as sharp.
Her mouth opens, ready with something cutting.
Then she stops.
Closes it.
Looks down instead, her jaw tight and stubborn.
I exhale slowly, forcing the edges off my voice. “We go together. That’s the deal. End of discussion.”
Talia lifts her chin. “You can’t just—”
“I can,” I cut in. “Because this affects me. My career. My reputation. The team.”
“And me,” she says, voice low.
I meet her gaze. “Yes. And you. Which is why you’re not walking into today alone either.”
She holds my eyes for a beat, then her shoulders sag slightly like she’s fighting the urge to argue and losing.
“Fine,” she mutters.
Good.
I finish eating faster than I mean to, because staying at this table feels dangerous. Every time my eyes slide to her hands, to her mouth, to the way she looks in my shirt like it belongs on her, my brain does something it shouldn’t.
This is not what I need before practice.
I stand, grab my gym bag, and force myself into captain mode again. “Be ready… I’ll pick you up later.”
Her brows lift. “I’m not coming with you now?”
“No. You’re staying here.”
That answer comes out more possessive than I intend, like I’m placing her somewhere safe. I don’t like that, so I add quickly, “Don’t leave. Don’t call anyone. Don’t post anything. I’ll be back after practice.”
Talia’s expression twists. “I’m not a child.”
“Then don’t act like one,” I say, and immediately regret it when I see her flinch.
I don’t apologize. I should. I don’t.
I just leave.
The drive to the rink is a blur of streetlights and clenched teeth.
When I step out of the car and walk into the facility, I act like nothing’s changed. Like I’m not legally tied to the coach’s daughter.
In the locker room, the guys are loud and half-asleep, tossing jokes around like always. Connor cradles his coffee like it’s life support. Declan is already chirping someone about their terrible playlist. Rhys looks annoyingly fresh, because of course he does.
I keep my expression neutral.
I’m good at neutral.
At being the captain.
I tape my stick, lace my skates, and step onto the ice with my shoulders squared.
The first few drills burn off the edge of my anger. My body knows what to do even if my life doesn’t. Skating is simple. Pucks don’t lie. The ice doesn’t care who you married.
Coach Petrov’s voice cuts through the arena, sharp and controlled. “Morrison, tighter on the turn. Again.”
I pivot and go again, pushing harder, faster, muscles singing with the familiar strain. I love this. I hate that I love it. Because I’ve built my life around it. It’s my purpose and my prison.
I glance toward the bench and catch Petrov watching me with that assessing stare.
My stomach knots.
Because all I can see behind his face is Talia’s.
Her bright eyes. Her stubborn chin. Her messy hair in my kitchen.
His daughter.
In my house.
In my bed? No. Guest room. Rules. Boundaries.
Still.
The thought flashes anyway, unwanted and vivid.
I nearly miss a pass.
I swear under my breath and force my focus back onto the ice. But every time I hear Petrov’s voice, it’s a sharp reminder of who’s waiting for me at home.
After practice, the guys shower, joke, file out. I do my usual cooldown, then head to my truck with my phone already in my hand.
A text from Daniel sits there from earlier, short and ominous.
Daniel:
Call me when you can.
My jaw tightens.
I text back.
Me:
I’ll drop by in the afternoon.
Then I drive home.
The closer I get, the more tense I feel.
I’m tense because I don’t know what I’ll feel when I see her again.
I pull into my driveway and shut off the engine. For a moment I just sit, staring at the front door.
I walk in and immediately smell something faintly sweet.
Baking? No. That can’t be right.
Painting supplies are spread across my coffee table. Tubes of acrylic. Brushes. A small canvas propped against the edge like it owns the place.
So she paints.
I can’t see what she’s working on from where I’m standing, but I catch myself wanting to.
She looks up when I walk in, her eyes flicking over my face like she’s gauging the weather.
“Hey,” she says carefully.
“You ready?” I ask, clipped.
Her gaze drops briefly to the canvas, then back to me. “Yeah.”
She moves fast, packing up her supplies with practiced efficiency.
In the car, she’s quiet.
Her hands rest folded in her lap. She’s wearing jeans and a coat, her hair down now, glossy and soft around her face. She stares out the window, avoiding my eyes.
Daniel’s office is in a sleek building that smells like money and power. We ride the elevator up in tense silence.
The receptionist greets me warmly, then looks surprised when she sees Talia.
I ignore it.
Daniel appears a minute later, tall, sharp-eyed, already wearing the kind of expression that says he’s about to ruin my day.
His gaze flicks to Talia, then back to me. “Jake.”
“Daniel,” I reply.
“And you must be Talia,” he adds, polite but precise.
Talia offers a small smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Hi. Nice to meet you.”
He ushers us into his office. The second the door shuts, his expression flattens.
“So,” he says evenly, folding his hands on the desk, “I haven’t received anything from you, Talia. Care to explain what this is about?”
I step in before she can spiral. “That’s why we’re here. It’s… complicated.”
Daniel closes his eyes briefly, like he’s summoning patience from a higher power. “All right. When did you receive the documents?”
Talia answers before I can. “A few days ago.”
Daniel’s eyes snap to her. “And the deadline?”
“Passed,” she admits.
He exhales through his nose, a low, pained sound, like he’s watching a car crash unfold in slow motion.
“You understand,” he says carefully, “that annulments are time-sensitive and jurisdiction-specific. We needed those documents returned within the window we discussed.”
“I know,” Talia whispers.
Daniel turns back to me. “So what exactly are you asking me now?”
I force the words out. “Options.”
He holds my gaze for a long moment, then leans back in his chair, steepling his fingers.
“The option you had was annulment,” he says. “That window is closed.”
My throat tightens. “There has to be something.”
Daniel shakes his head once, firm. “Not realistically.”
Talia’s face goes pale.
I stare at Daniel. “So what now?”
He exhales. “Now you’re married.”
The words slam into the room.
Daniel continues, voice blunt because that’s what I pay him for. “If you want to dissolve the marriage now, you’re looking at divorce.”
Divorce.
The word echoes in my head like a horn in an empty rink.
Talia’s fingers curl into her coat sleeve. She looks like she might be sick.
I feel my anger flare again, sharp and hot. Not at Daniel. Not even fully at her.
At the fact that my life just got ten times harder because of one missed deadline.
I drag my eyes back to Daniel. “So divorce is it.”
Daniel nods once. “Divorce is it.”
And when I look at Talia, pale and silent beside me, one thought keeps repeating like a bad chant.
Coach Petrov is going to find out.