Page 87 of Pucking Daddy

Jake Morrison's voice cuts through the fog.

I blink, realize I have been staring at the same spot on the boards for thirty seconds while the team runs drills around me.

"Morrison."

The veteran captain glides closer, stopping just outside casual conversation distance.

He has that look on his face—the one that says he is about to offer wisdom I probably need and definitely do not want.

"You're somewhere else today."

Not a question. Jake spent fifteen years reading opponents on the ice; reading his coach is not much harder.

"Personal stuff." I keep my voice flat. "Nothing that affects the team."

"Didn't say it did." He shrugs, adjusting his gloves. "Just noticed the younger guys picking up on it. Rodriguez asked me if you were sick."

Damn it. The last thing I need is my focus issues bleeding into team morale.

"I'll tighten up."

Jake nods slowly, like he is weighing his next words. "Talia mentioned meeting Zara at the family event. Said she's good people."

The observation lands with more weight than it should have. Jake is not prone to idle comments.

"She is."

“Having someone in your corner helps.” He holds my gaze. “Before I found Talia, I tried to handle everything on my own. Never rely on anyone, you know. But it wasn’t good for me. Talia basically had to force me to accept help.”

I am not sure if he is talking about the custody battle, the coaching pressures, or the increasingly complicated thing between me and Zara. Maybe all three.

"Point taken."

Jake pushes off, skating backward with the ease of someone who has spent more time on ice than solid ground.

"For what it's worth, Coach—you don't have to figure everything out alone. That's what teammates are for."

He rejoins the drill before I can respond.

I watch the players cycle through the formation, forcing myself to track individual positioning, stick angles, the small adjustments that make the difference between good and great.

Rhys is overcompensating on his left turns. Declan keeps dropping his shoulder before the shot. Normal issues, fixable things.

But my eyes keep drifting to the empty seats beyond the glass, thinking about how Zara will look tonight, standing beside me while cameras flash and questions probe.

Nate appears at my elbow, clipboard in hand. "You good?"

"Fine."

"Liar." He does not bother sugarcoating it. That is one of the things I value about my assistant coach—no bullshit, even when I am the one shoveling it.

"You've been watching the same line for ten minutes. They're starting to get paranoid."

"Tell them paranoia builds character."

Nate snorts. "Tell them yourself. After you actually look at the penalty kill we're supposed to be reviewing."

He shoves the clipboard into my hands.