Page 78 of Pucking Daddy

"But if they do?"

"Then they learn real quick that my personal life isn't up for team discussion." I grab a whistle from my belt. "Let's move."

Practice goes smoother than I expected for the first hour.

The drills I'd planned are demanding enough to keep everyone focused, bodies too tired for gossip.

I push them through neutral-zone transitions until their legs burn, then shift to penalty-kill situations that require the kind of mental sharpness that leaves no room for wandering thoughts.

My own included.

But somewhere around the power-play reps, I catch myself watching the stands. The glass. The corridors beyond where press still lingers despite security. Looking for cameras. For reporters sneaking shots through the barriers.

Looking for threats.

Kowalski, one of the younger defensemen, fumbles a breakout pass for the third time in a row. He curses under his breath, stick slapping the ice in frustration.

I skate over before I've consciously decided to move.

"Hey." I stop beside him, keeping my voice low. "You're anticipating the hit that's not coming. Your eyes are in the wrong place."

"Sorry, Coach. I know it's sloppy, I just—" He shakes his head. "Lots of cameras today."

I look at him. Twenty-two years old, barely one season under his belt, still convinced every mistake will end his career. I remember that feeling. Sometimes I still feel it.

"Breathe," I say. "Keep your head up. Watch the slot, not the glass."

He blinks. "That's it?"

"That's it. You're good at this. Trust that."

I skate away before he can respond, but I catch Nate's raised eyebrow from the bench. He has heard. He has noticed. Later, probably, he'll make some comment about me going soft.

Maybe I am.

Maybe having Zara in my house—Zara in my life—has shifted something I don't fully understand yet.

Midway through the second power-play set, my phone buzzes in my jacket pocket on the bench. I ignore it. Then it buzzes again. And again.

"Coach?" Nate's voice cuts through my focus. "That's the third time."

I pull the phone out. Three missed calls from my lawyer. A text message that just says:

Call me immediately.

The ice feels very far away suddenly. The sounds of practice—skates carving, pucks striking boards, players shouting—fade to white noise.

"Take over," I tell Nate. "Run the five-on-four until I'm back."

I am already moving toward the tunnel before he can answer.

My lawyer picks up on the first ring. "Jaxon. We have a problem."

"What kind of problem?"

"Your ex-wife's legal team filed a motion this morning. They're citing the tabloid coverage as evidence of an unstable home environment."

I stop walking. The tunnel stretches ahead of me, cold and empty.