Page 86 of Pucking Daddy

JAXON

Just a Marriage of Convenience

The city skyline stretches out beneath the balcony like a promise I am not sure I can keep.

Dawn creeps across the glass towers, painting them gold and copper, while I stand there with coffee growing cold in my hands.

Three hours until practice. Twelve hours until the gala.

And somewhere between those markers, I have to figure out how to maintain a facade that is becoming harder to distinguish from reality.

Lily's laughter drifts up from inside—that bright, unguarded sound that makes every complicated decision feel worth it.

Zara's voice follows, warm and patient, coaxing my daughter through what sounds like a debate about breakfast options.

I press my thumb against the ring finger where a band will soon sit. The nervous tic has appeared since we agreed to this arrangement.

Marriage of convenience.

The words taste bitter, clinical, nothing like the heat that sparks whenever Zara walks into a room.

The sliding door opens behind me.

"You're brooding." Zara steps onto the balcony, arms crossed against the morning chill.

Her hair is still damp from the shower, curling at the ends in a way that makes my chest tight. "I can see the storm clouds forming from inside."

"Strategizing."

"Same thing, with you." She moves to stand beside me, close enough that I catch her scent—something soft, floral, completely at odds with the steel in her spine.

"Lily wants waffles. I told her we'd check with you first since Mrs. Henriksen mentioned the new syrup situation."

The syrup situation. My daughter discovered maple syrup three weeks ago and now attempts to drown everything in it, including eggs.

"Moderation," I say. "Two squares, normal amount."

Zara's lips curve. "I'll negotiate."

She turns to go, and I speak before thinking. "The gala tonight. Are you—"

"Ready?" She glances back, one eyebrow raised. "I've survived diaper explosions, toddler tantrums in grocery stores, and a four-year-old who decided to cut her own hair with safety scissors. I can handle a charity event."

"That's not what I meant."

The humor fades from her expression, replaced by something more guarded. "I know what you meant. And yes, I'm ready. This is what we agreed to."

She disappears inside before I can respond, leaving me alone with the growing light and the weight of what we set in motion.

***

The arena hits differently when my head is not in it.

Skates carve into ice. Sticks crack against pucks.

The familiar symphony of practice should center me, but instead, I keep drifting—thinking about Zara's face when I proposed this insane plan, the way she finally agreed without flinching, like she understood exactly what is at stake.

"Coach."