“So,” I say lightly, trying to keep it casual. “How was your day?”
He gives me a look that clearly says,are you serious?
“It was practice,” he replies.
I grin. “Wow. That sounds… thrilling.”
The corner of his mouth twitches. “You’re hilarious.”
“I try.”
He studies his plate for a moment, then exhales. “Petrov was in one of his moods.”
My stomach tightens, but I keep my expression neutral. “What kind of mood?”
“The one where he thinks we’re all lazy and incompetent,” Jake says dryly.
I snort before I can stop myself. “That tracks.”
His brows lift. “You agree?”
“I grew up with him,” I remind him, taking a sip of wine. “I’ve seen him yell at the TV because someone on the ice did something ‘stupid’ and they weren’t even on his team.”
A quiet laugh escapes him, low and surprised, and it’s such a rare sound in this house that something warm spreads through my chest.
We keep eating, and I notice the way his jaw slowly unclenches.
He tells me about drills. About a rookie who nearly crashed into the net trying to stop. About Declan chirping someone so relentlessly that Petrov threatened to make them skate laps until opening night.
I listen, completely absorbed. Hearing Jake talk about hockey is different from listening to my dad talk about it.
With my dad, it’s criticism. Strategy wrapped in pressure.
With Jake, it’s instinct. Control. Ownership.
He makes me want to pay attention.
He sets his fork down and reaches for the salt and pepper shakers.
“Okay,” he says, shifting into that captain voice. Calm. Commanding. Distractingly attractive. “Petrov wants us running a new system. It’s all about pressure and spacing.”
I blink at him. “You’re about to teach me hockey using condiments?”
He ignores the sarcasm and slides the salt shaker to the center of the table. “This is the puck. This,” he says, placing the pepper shaker beside it, “is me.”
He grabs a sugar packet and sets it across from the salt. “Winger.”
“The defense is here.” He claims the butter dish without hesitation.
I laugh, but I’m also watching his hands.
Strong. Steady. Precise.
And I can’t stop thinking about what those hands did last night.
What they felt like.
Focus, Talia.
