Chapter 19 JAKE
JAKE
To the Happy Couple
Iwake to sunlight and the slow realization that my mouth probably committed crimes last night.
The hotel room is quiet except for the low hum of the AC. Curtains half drawn. A thin stripe of morning light cuts across the bed.
Talia lies right beside me.
On her side, facing me. Her hair a soft mess across the pillow. Freckles scattered over her nose like someone placed them there with careful intent. Her lips are slightly parted in sleep.
She looks… peaceful.
I stare at her a second too long.
Then the memories start coming back.
Her tucking me in.
Her hands, soft against my skin.
Gentle. Careful.
After that—nothing.
I must have been out cold.
I should be embarrassed.
I am embarrassed.
But there’s something else layered underneath it.
Something warm.
Something that feels suspiciously like being cared for.
I shift slightly, testing my limbs.
My mouth is dry. My head is… fine, actually. No hangover.
Is there even such a thing as a THC hangover? I have no idea.
Never again, I tell myself.
Never again do I take mystery gummies off a nightstand like they’re trail mix.
Though I have to admit, I slept like a baby.
So maybe next time—if there is a next time—I go for a more mindful dosage.
Talia stirs, her lashes fluttering. She blinks at me slowly, like she’s calibrating.
Then her eyes focus.
And her expression shifts.
Instantly alert.
I clear my throat, aiming for gruff and normal.
“Morning.”
Her mouth twitches. “How do you feel?”
“Very relaxed. Possibly the best sleep of my life.”
She laughs, the sound bright and light and dangerously adorable.
And then I remember something else.
Something that makes me cringe internally.
I really like you.
God.
Did I actually say that?
I turn my head toward her again.
“Thanks,” I mutter.
“For what?” she asks, quieter.
“For getting me out of there.”
She nods once.
“And for… putting me to bed,” I add, the words scraping out.
Her gaze softens.
“Sure thing, husband,” she quips.
I manage a grin, even though the word husband brings back the memory of what I told her. How much I liked her.
“So,” she asks, “are you ready to go home?”
“Yeah,” I sigh.
And I really am.
I want to get back to our little bubble. The quiet rhythm we’ve built without even trying.
I like having Talia in my house.
I like her yoga mat in the living room.
I like seeing her in the morning, hair messy, face bare.
I like watching her paint. Sharing meals with her. Existing in the same space.
Right now, I can’t think of a single thing I don’t like.
Huh.
“We should pack,” I say, too brisk.
Talia watches me for a beat, then nods. “Yeah.”
We pack in companionable silence.
I glance at her as she rolls a dress carefully and tucks it into her suitcase.
She catches me looking.
“What?” she asks.
“Nothing,” I say.
She narrows her eyes. “That’s a lie.”
I exhale. “I’m… glad we’re going home.”
Her expression softens slightly.
“Me too,” she says.
I hesitate, then say the truth I haven’t let myself admit out loud yet.
“I can’t believe how… comfortable it is,” I mutter.
Her brows lift. “Comfortable.”
“Having you there,” I say, keeping my eyes on my suitcase like it’s fascinating. “In my house.”
There’s a small pause.
Then she says softly, “Yeah?”
I nod once.
Her voice is careful. “Is that… good?”
I force myself to look at her.
“It’s good,” I say.
And then she smiles. Big and bright and happy.
We finish packing and head downstairs with the rest of the team. The bus ride back blurs into noise and exhaustion. Guys talk. Sleep. Scroll on their phones. Someone plays music too loud.
Talia sits beside me.
At some point our knees touch.
Neither of us moves away.
Later, she falls asleep against the window, and I do something I don’t even think about.
I angle my shoulder closer so her head has something to lean.
By the time we pull into the driveway, I’m actually looking forward to it being just the two of us again.
I carry her suitcase inside without asking. She follows with her tote bag, looking around like she’s checking that everything is still the same.
It is.
I’m halfway up the stairs when my phone rings.
Daniel.
My stomach tightens immediately.
I answer with a low, “Yeah.”
“Tough weekend?” Daniel asks.
“You have no idea,” I mutter, stepping into the hallway so Talia won’t hear everything.
Daniel doesn’t waste time. “I need to flag something for you.”
“Go ahead,” I say, already bracing.
“Your marriage certificate,” he says. “It’s a record.”
I frown. “Yeah. I know.”
“It could become public,” he continues, “if anyone goes looking.”
My chest goes tight.
“What do you mean, public?”
“It’s not like it’s posted on a billboard,” Daniel says, patient. “But records can be accessed. Media outlets, bloggers, anyone with a reason to dig. Especially if they catch wind of anything.”
My jaw clenches.
Of course they would.
Coach’s daughter. Team captain. Vegas.
It’s the kind of headline people love.
“Fuck,” I mutter.
Daniel continues, “I know we talked about it briefly, but I wanted to remind you so no one important gets blindsided.”
I have a good idea who he means by “no one.”
I stare at the wall, pulse thudding.
“Okay,” I say finally. “Thanks, Daniel”
I hang up and stand there for a second, phone still in my hand, staring at nothing.
I walk back toward the living room, already figuring out how to break it to Talia.
She’s in the kitchen, setting her bag down on the counter, when her phone buzzes.
She glances at it.
Her eyes widen.
“What?” I ask.
She holds up the screen like it’s evidence.
“Dad,” she says, voice thin. “He wants us over for dinner. Tomorrow.”
For a second, the house feels too quiet.
Like even the walls are holding their breath.
I glance at her phone and read the message.
Dad:
Tomorrow. Dinner. You and Jake. 7 p.m.
I drag a hand down my face.
Perfect timing, Daniel would call it.
Talia is still staring at her screen like it might detonate.
“Why is he inviting us? He usually just ignores me because he’s so busy with hockey,” she says quietly.
My brain is already moving. Calculating angles. Outcomes. Damage control. I don’t answer right away.
“Jake?” she prompts.
I exhale slowly.
“We have to tell him.”
Her brows knit together. “Tell him what?”
“I just spoke to Daniel. He reminded me the media can access public records. If this gets out, it won’t stay quiet. We need to move fast. I’d rather he hear it from us. Wouldn’t you?”
Understanding hits her in stages.
First confusion.
Then dawning horror.
Then wide-eyed panic.
“Oh,” she breathes. “Oh no.”
“Yeah. But he took it well when we told him we’re dating. Living together. Marriage isn’t that much of a stretch.”
Her hand flies to her hair. “Oh God. I hope so. So we do it at dinner tomorrow?”
“There’s no better time.”
“There are definitely better times,” she says faintly. “Like… never?”
Despite everything, I almost smile.
“Talia. We tell him it was private. Simple courthouse ceremony. We don’t need to share the… colorful details. We can handle this.”
She lets out a long breath. “Okay. Okay. You’re right.”
“Tomorrow,” I say.
“Tomorrow,” she echoes.
***
Coach Petrov’s house looks exactly like I remember.
With an immaculate trimmed lawn in front, the kind of place where nothing is out of place because nothing is allowed to be.
I park at the curb and kill the engine.
Beside me, Talia sits very still.
She’s dressed nicely, hair pinned back, makeup subtle. Like she’s armor-plated herself into the version of “normal girlfriend” her father expects.
Her fingers twist together in her lap.
She looks at the front door like it might bite.
“You okay?” I ask.
She lets out a breath that sounds like it hurts. “No.”
I nod once. “Same.”
I reach over and cover her hand with mine.
“But we can do this,” I say quietly. “Together.”
We step out of the car and walk up the path to the house side by side.
I knock.
A moment passes. Then the door opens.
Coach Petrov fills the frame like a shadow. Broad shoulders. Hard eyes. That controlled expression he wears when he’s deciding whether to punish someone.
His gaze flicks to me first.
Then to Talia.
Then back to me.
I can almost see him cataloging details. Posture. Breathing. Distance between us. Where my hands are. Where her hands are.
“Coach,” I say, polite.
His jaw tightens slightly at the title, like he’s reminding himself I’m not at the rink.
“Morrison,” he replies.
Then, to Talia, softer but still edged, “Come in.”
We step inside.
The house is absolutely spotless. A trophy case lines the hallway, filled with coaching awards and framed photos.
There’s one of Talia from years ago, standing beside another girl who looks a lot like her. They have their arms around each other, laughing.
Coach closes the door behind us and leads us straight into the dining room.
The table is already set. White plates. Crystal glasses. Linen napkins folded with military precision.
Talia walks in first. Her shoulders are straight, chin lifted, but I see the tension in the way her fingers flex at her sides.
I pull out her chair before taking the seat beside her.
Coach settles at the head of the table and gestures for us to serve ourselves.
We do. For a while, the only sound is the quiet clink of cutlery against porcelain.
Then Petrov speaks.
“Jake,” he says, his voice measured. “Since you are dating my daughter, I think it is only fair that I ensure your intentions are pure. As any good father would.”
He glances at Talia when he says good father.
Okay. I expected this.
Here we go.
“You have a reputation,” he continues evenly. “You enjoy women.”
His gaze settles fully on me now.
“And you do not like to be tied down to just one.”
Talia’s fork scrapes faintly against her plate.
I don’t look at her.
“That was my reputation for a long time,” I say evenly. “But people change.”
I hold his gaze.
“I realized I like belonging to someone. Having someone steady at my side. Someone to come home to after a long day.”
My voice doesn’t waver.
“I like knowing there’s one person I would do anything for. And knowing she would do the same for me.”
I pause.
“So with all due respect, I’m not that man anymore.”
Coach’s eyes sharpen.
“I have watched men like you for thirty years,” he says. “Talented. Rich. Untouchable.”
His voice remains calm, controlled.
“They do not want commitment. Their career is what matters most. They enjoy the freedom of being alone.”
The implication hangs in the air.
And the wreckage they leave behind.
“I don’t shy away from commitment,” I say quietly.
I reach for Talia’s hand.
She threads her fingers through mine immediately.
His gaze drops to our joined hands. Then returns to my face.
I take a steady breath.
“In fact,” I say, “we have something to tell you.”
Talia’s grip tightens.
Coach’s expression doesn’t change.
He looks between us once.
Then says, flat and without humor, “I hope no one is pregnant.”
Talia makes a small choking sound.
“No,” I answer calmly. “No one is pregnant.”
“But we wanted to tell you, that we got married.”
The fork in Talia’s other hand slips against her plate with a sharp clink.
Coach doesn’t move.
Doesn’t blink.
For a second, I wonder if he even heard me.
“It was private,” I continue. “Small. It was just the two of us. But we wanted you to be the first person to know.”
The room is so quiet I can hear Talia’s breathing.
Coach looks at us with a pained expression.
Any minute now the shouting will start and I draw soothing circles on Talia’s hand. If this gets out of hand too much, we will leave. I won’t allow him to treat my wife with anything but respect.
Coach gets up from the table. Will he hit me? Will he throw us out?
He walks to a sideboard and opens a cabinet.
Pulls out a bottle of vodka.
Three glasses.
He sets them on the table.
The sound of glass against wood is deliberate.
Measured.
He pours.
The liquid hits crystal with a soft, steady sound.
He slides one glass to Talia.
One to me.
Then he lifts his own.
His eyes lock on mine.
For a second, I think this is going to be a warning disguised as a toast.
Maybe it still is.
“To my daughter,” he says first.
His voice tightens slightly.
“May you never settle for less than you deserve.”
Then his gaze shifts to me.
“And to you, Jake.”
A pause.
“If you hurt her… I will not forgive it.”
Then, finally:
“To the happy couple.”
He drinks.
Talia stares at him like she doesn’t know whether to cry or laugh and sets her glass back down without drinking.
I lift the glass and take a swallow.
The vodka burns all the way down.
Coach sets his glass down carefully.
He doesn’t smile.
But he nods once and I know what he means.
You made your choice. Now live up to it.