“Okay,” I say slowly, trying to steady the ground beneath my feet. “Related how?”
Silence.
She swallows.
“Is he like a distant uncle twice removed or something?” I push.
“No.”
The word lands heavy.
I stare at her.
She meets my gaze this time.
“He’s my dad.”
Coach Petrov. Talia Petrov.
No.
No.
That’s not—
That can’t—
My brain rejects it.
Refuses it.
Because if that’s true—
If that’s true—I married my coach’s daughter.
"Don't move," I say, my voice a hollow echo of its former self. "I think I need to throw up."
6
TALIA
Coach’s Daughter
Idon’t move, just like he told me.
He walks to the bathroom with unsettling calm, like he’s heading into a business meeting instead of a meltdown.
Then the bathroom door slams shut with a heavy, definitive thud.
I stay exactly where I am, frozen in the middle of the suite, not knowing what I’m supposed to do with myself.
Does he expect me to leave?
Does he want me to stay?
Should I… make him herbal tea?
I decide on the safest option.
