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.”
