Page 89 of Pucking Daddy

I delete it without responding.

Another buzz. Same number.

Your ex-wife's team has been forthcoming. Your silence speaks volumes.

I type a response—something sharp about harassment and legal consequences—then delete that too.

Engaging will only fuel the fire.

The door opens. Jake sticks his head in, spots me, and enters without invitation.

"Nate said you needed a minute." He sits down on the opposite bench, stretching out his legs. "Figured I'd provide moral support."

"By ignoring my obvious desire for solitude?"

"Exactly." He grins, that easy captain's smile that has defused a thousand locker room tensions.

"What's the real issue? And don't say nothing, because I've seen nothing, and this isn't it."

I consider lying. Deflecting. The same strategies I use for years to keep people at arm's length.

“Everyone’s digging for dirt. My ex-wife will be all over this.”

Jake's expression does not change, but something shifts behind his eyes. "Looking into what?"

"Everything. My relationship with Zara. Her background. Whether we're legitimate or just putting on a show for the court."

"And are you?"

The question hangs there, simple and devastating.

"I don't know anymore." The admission surprises me as much as it probably surprises him. "It started practical. But..."

"But it's not staying that way."

I do not confirm. Do not need to.

Jake is quiet for a long moment, then nods like he has reached some internal conclusion. "My advice? Stop fighting it."

"Fighting what?"

"Whatever's happening between you two." He stands, brushing off his practice jersey.

"You're not the type to do things halfway, Halberg. If you're in this, be in it. The pretending is gonna crack under pressure anyway—might as well make it real."

He leaves before I can argue.

Not that I have a good counter.

I make it through the rest of practice on autopilot, running drills and offering corrections while my brain processes Jake's words.

Stop fighting it.

Simple advice, impossible to follow.

The drive home feels longer than usual, city traffic crawling while I rehearse what I will say to Zara.

Something professional.