Chapter 15
JAKE
The Weight of a Lie
Coach Petrov’s taillights disappear down the driveway, and the silence he leaves behind is so thick it feels like it has weight.
Talia stands beside me in the entryway, her hand still in mine like she’s forgotten to let go.
I stare at our interlocked fingers for half a second.
Then reality catches up and she releases me like she’s touched a hot pan.
For a second we just stand there, facing the closed door, both breathing like we just ran sprints.
“Well,” she says, voice tight and too bright.
I turn my head slowly. “Well?”
She presses her lips together and nods. “That was… something.”
“It definitely was.” I drag a hand over the back of my neck. “And I think he bought it.”
Something shifts in her expression. Softness breaking through the leftover adrenaline. “Thank you for going along with it. I know that must’ve been… uncomfortable for you.”
I don’t know what to do with that, so I settle on the truth.
“I wasn’t going to throw you to him.”
Her throat moves as she swallows. Her gaze drops to the floor. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”
“You did what you had to do,” I cut in.
She looks up. “You’re not mad?”
I exhale slowly, forcing the tension out of my shoulders.
“I’m not mad,” I say. “I’m… impressed. And slightly terrified. Now I have to memorize the details of our epic love story or we’ll really be in trouble.”
A faint huff of laughter escapes her.
We drift back toward the living room, side by side but not touching.
Her eyes flick to the couch, then away. “I don’t really feel like watching a movie anymore.”
“Yeah,” I say quietly. “Me neither.”
The lightness from earlier is gone, replaced with something heavier.
I grab something quick from the kitchen, not really tasting it.
Then we retreat up the stairs and in opposite directions.
Separate rooms. Separate beds.
***
The next day, I wake up feeling rested. Clearer.
Somehow, pretending we’re dating feels like a smaller lie than pretending I don’t know his daughter.
So I don’t dread facing Petrov at practice.
Yes, it still feels weird, but not unbearable.
I’m sharp on the ice. Focused. Locked in.
Petrov watches me like a hawk.
When practice ends, he calls my name. “Morrison.”
My spine straightens automatically. I turn toward him, calm. “Coach.”
He holds my gaze for a long moment.
“You’re better today,” he says.
“Yes, sir.”
Silence stretches between us.
Then he exhales through his nose, almost reluctant.
“Keep it going.”
“Yes, Coach.”
His gaze lingers a second longer, then he walks away.
***
The rest of my day is the usual grind. Training center. Physio. Video analysis.
I sit with the coaches and watch clips, jaw tight while someone freezes the frame to point out that my shoulder angle is off by a degree. I get my hip flexors worked on until I’m biting back a curse. Mobility drills. Strength work. Reps on reps.
All while pretending I’m not thinking about the fact that I’m going home to a woman I can’t stop picturing naked.
By late afternoon, there’s one more thing I need to do.
An errand.
I want to give her something.
Because I didn’t exactly make her feel welcome when she first moved in. It’s only been a few days, but something has already shifted.
I still hate the mess we’re in.
But I also know we’re both responsible for it.
And now that she’s here, I can’t imagine anyone else in my house without it feeling like an intrusion.
With her, it doesn’t.
I’m actually glad to have her there.
So I need a gift that says “I’m glad you’re here and you’re welcome to stay as long as you want.”
Earlier, I looked up a specialty art store in the city. The kind that sells real pigments, stretched canvases, brushes that cost more than a decent dinner.
On the way to my truck, I pull out my phone and open her contact.
It’s the first time I’m texting her.
I stare at the blank screen longer than I should, overthinking every word.
In the end, I go with something simple.
Me:
Hey. Running late. Don’t wait for dinner.
Her reply comes fast.
Talia:
Wow. Abandoning your wife already?
Me:
Dramatic.
Talia:
You love dramatic. Remember when you dove into a pool like a Navy SEAL?
Me:
I thought you were drowning.
Talia:
I was swimming.
Me:
You were underwater forever.
Talia:
Exaggeration. Also, you liked it when I was wet.
I stop walking.
Heat shoots straight up my spine.
This woman is impossible.
Sweet and thoughtful one minute. Completely reckless the next.
I’ve never met anyone like her.
Me:
Behave.
Talia:
Make me.
There’s a little devil emoji behind it.
Me:
You’re lucky I'm not home.
Talia:
I’m unlucky you’re not home.
I get in my truck and start driving.
A few minutes later, I pull up in front of the shop.
A small bell chimes when I push the door open.
The air inside smells like paper, wood, and something faintly chemical but clean. The walls are lined with tubes of paint arranged by color. Rows and rows of them, like a perfectly organized rainbow.
A woman behind the counter looks up. “Can I help you?”
I hesitate.
“I need… painting materials,” I say, like I’m ordering off a menu.
Her smile turns amused. “For you?”
“No,” I say quickly. “For… my wife.”
The word slips out before I can stop it.
Her eyes light up instantly. “Well, isn’t that sweet. Are you newlyweds?”
I clear my throat. “Yeah. We are.”
She reacts like I just gave her wonderful news, her smile widening. “That’s lovely. You can always spot it, you know. The glow.” She tilts her head. “What does she like to paint?”
I’m suddenly aware I don’t know enough. “Acrylic and oil. Photorealistic. Also abstract.”
The clerk nods like that’s helpful. “Budget?”
“I don’t know,” I admit. “Whatever makes sense.”
She leads me down an aisle, picking up things and explaining them. Different brush types. An easel. A set of high-quality oils. A proper glass palette. Linseed oil. Solvent.
I choose a few things that feel right.
Then I spot something near the front: a small leather sketchbook with thick paper, the kind that can handle multiple mediums.
I pick it up and run my thumb over the cover.
That feels like her.
I add it to the pile.
When I leave the shop, the bag in my hand feels heavy.
***
Half an hour later, I walk back into the house.
I close the door quietly behind me, the bag from the art store hanging low at my side like I’m smuggling something illegal.
The lights are on in the living room. A soft lamp glow spills across the hardwood floor. The painting is still propped above the mantel, richer now, fuller. More alive.
She’s here. I can feel it.
I hear faint movement upstairs. A drawer sliding shut. Soft footsteps.
My chest tightens unexpectedly.
I didn’t think this part through.
Buying the supplies was easy. Giving them to her is something else entirely. It feels… exposed.
I stand there for a second like an idiot, staring down at the bag in my hand.
What exactly am I supposed to say?
Here. A wedding present.
Here. Sorry I was a jerk when you moved in.
No.
Absolutely not.
I move quickly before I can talk myself out of it.
I step into the living room and set the bag down near her painting, angled so she’ll see it immediately.
I don’t linger, but head for the stairs immediately, my pulse thudding harder than it should.
Coward.
I strip off my shirt when I reach my bedroom, tossing it somewhere behind me. My body aches from training.
I take a quick shower, letting the hot water pound against my shoulders until the worst of the tightness fades.
Afterward, I pull on a pair of sweats and grab a book from my nightstand, more out of habit than real interest.
By the time I get into bed, the house is quiet.
I stare at the ceiling, hands folded behind my head, wondering how she’ll react when she finds the gift.
I hope she likes it.
I exhale slowly, closing my eyes.
Sleep starts creeping in around the edges.
Then—
A shriek.
I bolt upright instantly, adrenaline punching through the fog.
Footsteps thunder up the stairs.
Fast.
Uncontrolled.
My door flies open.
Talia stands there, breathless, eyes wide, clutching the leather sketchbook to her chest like it’s oxygen.
Her face is lit up.
Not just happy.
Radiant.
“Oh my God,” she says.
Before I can even react, she crosses the room in three quick steps and throws her arms around me.
Her body collides with mine, warm and solid, and for a second I freeze completely.
Her cheek presses against my shoulder. Her arms wrap around my neck. The sketchbook gets crushed between us.
“Jake,” she says, laughing breathlessly. “Jake, oh my God.”
My brain short-circuits.
She’s hugging me.
She’s hugging me in my bed.
I become painfully aware of the fact that I’m shirtless.
My hands hover awkwardly in the air for a second before I settle them lightly on her back, unsure what the hell I’m doing.
“You—” she pulls back just enough to look at me, her hands still gripping my shoulders. “You bought these for me?”
I shrug, aiming for casual.
“You needed them,” I say gruffly. “You paint. You should have decent tools.”
Her eyes search my face like she’s trying to see past the words.
“They’re perfect,” she whispers.
I look away. “They’re supplies.”
Her arms tighten around me again in a quick, fierce hug.
“Thank you,” she says into my shoulder.
Her voice is warm. Genuine. Unfiltered.
It does something to my chest I don’t know how to deal with.
“You’re welcome,” I mutter.
She pulls back again, still beaming. She holds up the sketchbook like it’s treasure.
“This is beautiful.”
I nod once.
“You like it.”
“I love it,” she corrects immediately.
My mouth twitches despite myself.
She laughs, shaking her head like she can’t believe it.
“This is the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me.”
She’s vibrating with happiness. Practically bouncing on her feet.
“I can do studies now,” she says, more to herself than to me. “And the oils—Jake, these are professional grade. Do you know how expensive these are?”
I grimace. “I don’t really care. You’re a professional. You need professional materials. Seems pretty straightforward to me.”
She looks at me again, softer now.
“Thank you,” she repeats.
I shift awkwardly under the attention.
“You’re welcome,” I say again, quieter this time.
She stares at me for another second like she’s memorizing something.
Then, suddenly, she leans forward and presses a quick kiss to my cheek.
My entire body goes still.
It’s fast.
Light.
She pulls back, cheeks flushed, smiling like she just got away with something.
“Goodnight, Jake,” she says.
Then she turns and practically skips out of the room, clutching the sketchbook and bag like they’re precious cargo.
Her footsteps fade down the hall.
I sit there for a long moment, staring at the doorway.
My cheek still warm.
I fall asleep with a smile on my face.
***
After practice the next day Petrov calls us together with his usual sharp whistle.
“Locker room,” he barks.
We file in, sweat-soaked and tired.
I drop onto the bench, reaching for a towel.
Petrov stands at the front, arms crossed.
“Listen up,” he says.
The room quiets instantly.
“We have a charity weekend coming up.”
Groans ripple through the room.
Petrov ignores them.
“Mandatory attendance,” he continues. “Players and staff.”
My stomach tightens slightly.
“It’s out of town,” Petrov adds. “Travel Friday. Return Sunday.”
He starts listing details. Events. Appearances. Press.
Then his eyes land on me.
He pauses.
Just for a second.
“Family and partners are welcome,” he says deliberately.
The room perks up immediately.
A few guys grin. Someone whistles.
Petrov doesn’t react.
He just keeps looking at me.
He expects me to bring her.
Of course he does.
Because husbands bring wives.
Because serious relationships show up.
Because this lie has weight now.