Chapter 13 - Jake
JAKE
Hubby
The rink smells the same as always. Cold air. Rubber. Sweat baked into concrete. Familiar enough that my body falls into routine automatically. Tape the stick. Lace the skates. Stretch the muscles that have carried me through every version of myself.
Captain. Leader. Control.
Except control feels like a lie now.
Because every time I blink, I see her.
Talia’s back against the pool wall. Her hands in my hair. The sound she made when I—
I squeeze my eyes shut and drag the tape harder around the blade of my stick than necessary.
Focus.
This is work.
This is the one place I’ve never failed.
“Morning, Romeo.”
I glance up as Declan drops onto the bench beside me, already geared up, already wearing that smug grin like he knows something he absolutely does not know.
“Looks like you had a loooong night.”
“Shut up,” I mutter.
He laughs. “What? Just an objective observation.”
“I don’t appreciate the implication,” I say, focused on my stick. “I’m minding my own business. Taping my stick like a normal person.”
He raises a brow. “You just wrapped the same section three times.”
I look down.
He’s right.
I rip the tape loose and start over.
Declan studies me for another second, then lets it go, which is almost worse than the teasing.
Because it means it’s obvious.
I stand before he can say anything else and step onto the ice.
Usually, it clears my head.
Today, it doesn’t even come close.
We start drills. Basic movement. Passing. Positioning.
My body knows what to do, but my mind won’t follow today.
Petrov’s voice cuts across the rink like a warning. “Morrison.”
I adjust immediately, skating harder, faster, correcting positioning that didn’t need correcting.
“Again,” Petrov says.
We run it again.
I miss the timing by half a second. Half a second. It might as well be an hour.
Petrov’s whistle blows, but he doesn’t say anything. That’s worse.
I circle back into position, jaw tight.
I don’t miss timing. I don’t lose focus.
Except every time I push off the ice, my brain betrays me—thinking of her mouth on mine, of her laugh at dinner last night, and the way she stood in my kitchen wearing my T-shirt.
And then the painting.
Jesus, the painting.
I nearly collide with Connor when he cuts across my lane.
“Whoa,” he says. “You good?”
“Fine.”
I’m not fine.
Petrov watches from the boards. He hasn’t said anything else yet. He doesn’t have to. He sees everything. He always has.
We run another drill. Defensive rotation. Pressure response.
My feet move automatically. My brain doesn’t.
I glance toward the boards again without meaning to.
Petrov is still watching me. Not the team, but me specifically.
His eyes are sharp and assessing.
My stomach tightens.
He knows something’s off.
He built his entire career on noticing cracks before anyone else did.
And right now, I’m nothing but cracks.
He wants to talk to me. Alone.
I know it the same way I know when a defender is about to close in behind me. It’s instinct.
He’ll wait until practice ends, then call my name. He’ll close the office door. And then he’ll ask questions I don’t have answers to.
Where’s your focus, Morrison?
Is there something affecting your performance?
Are you compromised?
The last word echoes louder than the others.
Compromised. By his daughter.
The thought makes my chest tighten.
Practice resumes.
I push myself harder, faster, trying to stay sharp.
But it’s not enough. I’m late on coverage. I misread a pass.
Petrov blows the whistle again. “Morrison,” he says calmly.
That calm tone is worse than yelling. “Yes, Coach.”
He steps onto the ice, stopping a few feet from me. “You’re slow today.”
It’s not a question.
“No, sir.”
His eyes narrow slightly.
He knows that’s a lie.
He steps closer.
“Your head isn’t here.”
I hold his gaze.
“It is.”
He studies me for a long second. Too long.
Then he nods once. “Fix it.”
“Yes, coach.”
He skates away.
My pulse doesn’t slow.
Because that wasn’t the conversation. That was the warning.
The conversation will come later in private. Where he can dissect me piece by piece.
Practice ends, and the team starts filing off the ice.
I pull off my helmet and head straight for the locker room, avoiding Petrov’s gaze without making it obvious.
My focus narrows to a single objective.
Escape.
I strip out of my gear faster than usual and skip the post-practice shower entirely. Within two minutes, I’m out the door.
The cold air hits my skin as I cross the lot.
I climb into my truck and start the engine.
The moment the door shuts, it feels like stepping into another world. Practice fades. Coach Petrov fades.
And I find myself thinking about a different Petrov.
Talia.
Blue eyes. Blonde hair. Curves my hands still remember too well.
My grip tightens on the steering wheel.
Somehow, I can’t wait to get home.
Maybe she’ll show me what she worked on today. Maybe we’ll have dinner together again.
Or maybe—my dick twitches in my pants at the thought—we’ll go for a swim in the pool together.
No. That wouldn’t be smart.
Just because we’re living under the same roof doesn’t mean we should complicate this any further.
From now on, we keep things professional. No more touching or kissing or making her scream my name.
I pull into the garage in record time and grab my bag from the back seat.
When I step inside, soft music drifts through the house, and the faint scent of lavender wraps around me.
She’s in the living room.
On the floor.
Doing yoga.
Her back is to me, bent forward in some position I don’t know the name of, palms flat on the mat, legs straight, hips angled upward. Her hair is pulled into a loose knot at the base of her neck, exposing the clean line of her spine.
And she’s wearing tight black leggings.
My throat goes dry.
Because those leggings leave nothing to the imagination.
Every curve.
Every line.
Her ass—
I swallow hard and look away immediately, dragging a hand over the back of my neck like that’ll somehow erase the reaction.
Get it together.
She hasn’t noticed me yet.
She flows smoothly into another position, lowering her hips and stretching forward, every movement controlled and graceful in a way that makes my cock twitch again.
My gaze drifts past her to the fireplace.
To the painting.
She’s worked on it more.
The colors are richer now. The shadows deeper. The light in the windows warmer, more defined. The tiny details I didn’t even realize were missing before are there now. The reflection on the glass. The subtle imperfections in the hedges. The softness of evening settling around the structure.
It looks like my house.
I step closer without thinking.
She hears me then and turns her head, her expression shifting instantly from concentration to surprise.
“Oh,” she says, breathless. “You’re home.”
Her voice does something to me.
“Yeah,” I reply, my own voice rougher than I intend.
She straightens, pushing up from the mat and brushing her hands absently down her thighs.
My eyes betray me again.
Those leggings.
Fuck.
Professional, the voice inside my head shouts at me.
She notices me staring and her mouth curves faintly. “Like the view?” she asks innocently.
I glare at her. “Finish your stretch.”
She laughs softly, completely unbothered.
She steps off the mat and grabs a water bottle from the coffee table.
She stops a few feet away, studying me like she’s evaluating a painting. Her gaze drifts deliberately down my body and back up again.
“You look tense,” she says.
“Practice,” I reply. “Muscles are tight.”
She hums thoughtfully. “That must be it.”
Her lips twitch like she doesn’t believe me for a second.
She opens her water bottle slowly and lifts it to her mouth.
She doesn’t break eye contact.
Her head tilts back slightly as she takes a drink, her throat moving in a smooth, controlled swallow. The line of her neck stretches, exposed and unguarded.
My hands curl at my sides.
She swallows again.
Slower this time.
When she lowers the bottle, her tongue flicks out briefly, catching a stray drop at the corner of her mouth.
My pulse kicks hard.
She licks her lower lip, still looking straight at me.
I can’t look away.
I don’t even blink.
My throat goes dry.
She tilts her head, studying me with that same soft, infuriating amusement.
“What?” she asks innocently.
My voice comes out rough. “Nothing.”
She raises a brow.
“You look like you forgot how to speak.”
“I didn’t.”
She takes another sip.
My control is hanging by a thread now.
She lowers the bottle again, her fingers sliding down the condensation, collecting moisture. She rubs her thumb and forefinger together absentmindedly, like she’s testing the texture.
“You’re staring,” she says quietly.
“I’m not.” I sound like a sulking teenager, and I hate it.
She watches me for another second, like she’s deciding whether to call me out.
Then she lets it go.
“How was practice?” she asks, casual, like she’s asked me that question her entire life.
“Fine.”
She raises a brow. “Fine or fine?”
I drop my bag near the wall. “Fine.”
She hums skeptically.
“You’re a terrible liar,” she says.
I scoff. “I’m not lying.”
“You’re brooding.”
“I’m not brooding.”
“You brood constantly.”
“I do not brood constantly.”
She smiles, pleased with herself.
My eyes drift back to the painting.
“You worked on it,” I say.
She follows my gaze, her expression softening. “A little.”
I step closer to it, studying the changes.
“You added detail,” I say.
She nods. “Light shifts throughout the day. I wanted to capture late afternoon specifically.”
She walks past me toward the kitchen.
“There’s food,” she says over her shoulder. “If you’re hungry.”
I follow automatically.
“What is it?”
She glances back. “You ask that like you don’t trust me.”
“I don’t.”
She smirks. “Rude.”
She moves around the kitchen easily now, like she knows where everything belongs.
“I made chicken parmesan. I can heat some up for you?”
“Sounds great.” The words come out before I think them through. “Maybe we could watch a movie or something?”
Where the hell did that come from?
A minute ago, I was fully committed to keeping things separate. Controlled. Clean. That’s the smart move when she’s living under my roof.
But it’s too late now.
I can’t take it back.
“Sure,” she says easily.
The doorbell rings.
I push off the counter and head for the front door, my mind already running ahead to what a movie night with Talia might look like.
Would she curl up next to me?
The thought settles warm and dangerous in my chest.
It would be nice.
It would also be a mistake.
Opposite ends of the couch, I decide. Safe distance.
I reach for the handle and pull the door open.
And everything inside me goes cold.
Coach Viktor Petrov stands on my porch.
His eyes lock onto mine immediately.
I open my mouth to say something, but nothing comes out.
Behind me, I hear her voice float down the hallway.
Light.
Unaware.
“Who is it, hubby?”