Let’s do this.
I point a finger at her like I’m drawing a boundary on the ice. “Start from the beginning.”
She blinks. “The beginning?”
“Not Vegas,” I snap, then rein it in with a slow breath. “I mean today. Why you came here. Why you think moving in is the solution.”
Her gaze drops to the glass of water like it’s suddenly fascinating. “Because I can’t go back.”
“That’s not an explanation,” I say, voice tight.
She lifts her eyes, and there’s a flash of annoyance in them. Good. At least she’s not crying.
“I thought you were living with your dad,” I add, because I need something concrete. Something normal.
“I am.”
“Then why are you here?”
She inhales slowly, as if she’s trying to push down whatever is clawing up her throat. “Because I can’t stand it anymore.”
I watch her, waiting for the rest.
She swallows. “Living with him. In that house.”
My jaw tightens. Coach Petrov. The man is a legend in this league for a reason. Brilliant. Ruthless. The kind of coach who can make grown men shake with one look.
I’ve never once wondered what he’s like as a father.
Now I’m wondering too hard.
Her fingers twist together. “It’s… suffocating, okay?”
Suffocating.
I know how Petrov coaches, but what does he do at home?
“He doesn’t… hit you?” I ask before I can stop myself.
Her eyes widen. Then she shakes her head quickly. “No. Jesus, no.”
Relief hits fast and sharp, followed immediately by irritation at myself for even asking.
Still, I have the feeling she isn’t telling me everything.
I’m about to push further when I really look at her.
There are faint shadows under her eyes she probably tried to conceal. Her mouth is tight, like she’s been clenching it for days.
I take a slow sip of water, mostly to buy myself a second not to react.
None of this justifies what she did.
None of this makes legal deadlines magically optional.
And I’m angry. So fucking angry.
I force my jaw to unclench. “You missed a legal deadline,” I remind her, each word deliberate. “Do you understandwhat you did?”
