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 saysgood 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.
