Epilogue - JAKE
The Best Kind of Overtime
The blender is louder than it needs to be.
It rattles against the counter like it has a personal grudge against my protein powder, and Bear sits two feet away, staring at it like he’s deciding whether today is finally the day he takes it down.
“Don’t,” I tell him.
His ears twitch.
The blender keeps going.
I kill the power and pour the recovery shake into a glass, leaning one hip against the kitchen island while the house hums quietly around me.
Soft music drifts down from upstairs. Something instrumental Talia likes when she’s getting ready.
There’s the faint creak of footsteps overhead. The muffled sound of a dresser drawer opening, then shutting. Bear’s collar jingles as he gets up, circles once, then flops dramatically onto the kitchen floor like he’s exhausted from supervising.
I take a drink of the shake, thinking back on the last few months.
I thought I had my life figured out.
Hockey. Routine. Control. Minimal emotional risk.
Then I woke up married in Vegas to Coach Petrov’s daughter, assuming it was the biggest disaster of my life.
I take another sip and shake my head slightly. I was so clueless back then.
Footsteps come down the stairs.
And there it is. That same stupid, overwhelming feeling I get every time I look at her.
She’s wearing a fitted black dress that skims over her body, elegant and simple, the fabric soft against her waist. If you didn’t know, you’d never guess anything had changed yet.
But I know.
Her hair falls in soft waves over one shoulder and for jewelry she’s wearing the ring I gave her.
She smiles the second she sees my face.
“What?” she asks, amused.
“You look good,” I say, because my brain can only handle one thought at a time and that one wins.
Her smile softens. “Thanks.”
I slide one hand around her waist and let the other rest against her stomach automatically.
“How’s the rookie doing today?” I murmur, bending to kiss her.
She rolls her eyes exactly the way I knew she would. “If you call our child the rookie in public, I’m leaving you.”
I kiss her again, because threatening to leave me isn’t as scary when she’s smiling.
Talia smooths a hand over my chest and looks up at me like I hung the moon. “Katia texted,” she says. “She’s on her way. She says traffic is ‘personally attacking her,’ but she’ll be here before we have to leave.”
“Good.”
I’m glad to see how close Katia and Talia have become again. The Katia I met two months ago has little in common with the woman she is now.
I respect the hell out of her.
She got clean, and now she’s kicking ass at life.
The doorbell rings, sharp and cheerful through the house.
Bear explodes. Absolutely loses his mind.
He barks once, twice, then sprints toward the front door like a furry missile.
“That’ll be her,” Talia says, already smiling.
“I gathered,” I mutter, heading down the hallway with Bear ricocheting off my legs.
I open the door.
Katia stands there in a dark green wrap dress, hair up, earrings swinging as she lifts both hands dramatically.
“Before you say anything,” she announces, “I know I’m late. I blame infrastructure.”
I lean one shoulder against the doorframe and look her over slowly.
Health looks good on her.
“You look suspiciously responsible,” I tell her.
She gasps. “How dare you. I worked very hard on my carefully curated image of whimsical instability.”
I snort.
Then I pull her into a quick hug.
She hugs me back without hesitation, easy and warm and entirely herself.
When I let her go, Bear immediately wedges himself between us and demands tribute.
“Hi, nephew,” Katia coos, crouching to rub his ears. “You’re still the cutest male in this family. Don’t tell Jake.”
“Too late,” I say.
Talia appears behind me, and the sisters fall into each other’s arms like they haven’t seen each other in weeks—even though Katia was here just two nights ago.
They pull back, still grinning at each other.
“You look great,” Talia says.
“I know,” Katia replies solemnly. “Recovery has done wonders for my skin.”
Talia laughs again, and I catch myself smiling like an idiot.
"Ready to go, ladies?” I ask.
“Wait,” Katia says, holding up one finger like a dramatic stage actress about to deliver a monologue. “Before we leave, I need to emotionally prepare myself.”
“For dinner?” I ask.
“For dinner with Dad,” she corrects. “Which is a completely different category of event.”
Talia slips on her coat, still smiling. “You survived rehab. I think you can survive a restaurant.”
Bear, sensing movement near the door, starts circling in excited loops like we’re about to embark on a cross-country expedition instead of leaving him home for two hours.
I crouch and scratch behind his ears.
“You’re not invited,” I tell him.
His tail thumps harder.
Katia crouches beside me and cups his face dramatically. “Be strong, nephew. Your parents must attend important family functions.”
He licks her nose.
She sighs like this is the greatest honor of her life.
Talia shakes her head fondly and grabs her purse from the counter.
“Okay,” she says, looking between us. “Now are we ready?”
I stand and move to the door, holding it open.
“After you.”
***
Coach Petrov is already at the restaurant when we arrive there.
Of course he is. Viktor Petrov was probably born early to his own birth.
He stands when he sees us, and even now, even after everything, my spine straightens automatically.
Old habits. Locker-room habits. Captain habits.
He greets Katia first, and there’s a softness in his face that I don’ think I’ve ever seen on his face. Then Talia. Then me.
“Morrison,” he says with that same grave formality he uses for everything, from roster decisions to passing the salt.
“Coach,” I answer automatically.
Katia snorts as she sits down. “You two are never going to stop doing that, are you?”
“No,” Petrov and I say at the same time.
Talia laughs softly and squeezes my hand under the table.
The dinner is surprisingly nice.
Katia tells us about her new apartment, which is apparently “small but everything she ever wanted,” and about the elderly neighbor downstairs who keeps trying to set her up with her grandson. She’s also started working at a community center and seems to be enjoying it.
I study Coach while Katia talks. The way he keeps glancing at his daughters when he thinks they’re not looking. There’s something more reflective in him tonight.
He sets his glass down.
The sound is soft, but it still shuts the whole table up.
Every instinct in my body kicks in immediately.
This is the pause before the serious part.
The moment in a team meeting when everyone stops moving because whatever comes next matters.
Katia notices too. “Why do I feel like I’m about to get grounded?”
Coach exhales slowly.
Then he turns to her. “Katia,” he says. “I am proud of you.”
Deafening silence follows the words.
Katia blinks.
I think all of us do.
Petrov keeps going, his voice low and careful, like he’s crossing terrain he doesn’t fully trust.
“You have worked very hard,” he says. “Harder than I understood at the time. And… I did not always see what you needed from me.”
Katia’s face changes completely.
The joking expression falls away. Her eyes widen. Her mouth parts slightly, but no words come out.
Coach looks down at the table for a second before forcing himself to continue.
“I thought discipline would solve what pain had broken,” he says. “I was wrong.”
Talia’s hand tightens in mine.
I squeeze back automatically, because I’m stunned too.
Viktor Petrov apologizing was not on any version of tonight’s bingo card.
Katia swallows hard.
“Dad…” she whispers.
He lifts one hand, not to stop her, but because he needs the momentum to get through this.
“I am not saying I understand everything now,” he says. “But I know I failed to understand enough then. And I am sorry.”
Katia looks like someone just reached into her chest and rearranged the furniture.
Her eyes shine instantly.
She lets out a shaky laugh. “Wow. Okay. Thanks, Dad.”
Petrov then turns to Talia.
I feel her go very still beside me.
“Talia,” he says.
She swallows. “Yes?”
His expression softens in a way I’ve only seen once or twice.
“You have always been strong,” he says. “Stronger than I gave you credit for.”
Her fingers tremble in mine.
“And I underestimated your work,” he continues. “Not because it lacked value. Because I know nothing about art and therefore treated my ignorance as judgment.”
Katia lets out a disbelieving little huff.
Coach ignores her.
“I was wrong about that too,” he says. “Your paintings are selling for prices I find frankly irrational.”
Talia lets out a startled laugh through what looks suspiciously like tears.
“But I have been told that means they are very good,” he adds, with the grave sincerity of a man reporting battlefield data.
I can’t help it. I laugh.
Then I lift Talia’s hand under the table and squeeze it once, hard.
She glances at me, eyes shining, and I can see how much this costs her to hear. How much it means.
Coach reaches for his glass, then stops halfway. He sets it back down.
He looks at both of them. Then at me. Then back at the table, as if gathering whatever courage this requires.
“I have made a decision,” he says.
The room stills again.
“I will resign as coach of the Metro Raptors after this season.”
For one second I genuinely think I misheard him.
The table goes completely silent.
“What?” Katia blurts first.
Talia turns so fast toward him her hair swings over her shoulder. “Dad, what?”
I’m not proud of the fact that I just stare at him like a rookie who forgot how language works.
He’s serious.
I can tell.
There’s no drama in his face. No bluff. No test.
Just certainty.
Questions explode all at once.
“Are you serious?” Katia demands.
“Why would you do that?” Talia asks over her.
“Coach—” I start.
He lifts a hand.
Instantly, we all quiet down.