Page 24 of Breakaway Daddies

As she reaches for the door, I step forward, gently catching her wrist. Her eyes widen in surprise, reflecting the dim light of the hallway.

“Jinx,” I murmur, rubbing the back of my neck with a touch of nervousness. “Listen… Rowan’s been a wreck since he got hurt. He’s not taking care of himself, and if we leave him alone, I don’t think he’ll do his therapy the way he should. That’s why we asked you to…”

Her expression softens like butter melting in a warm pan. “I know,” she admits quietly. “I could see it in his eyes—they seem to lack their usual spark. He was ready to just throw in the towel an hour ago.”

I nod, weighed down by worry. “Yeah. And if he doesn’t push through this, he’s gonna regret it forever. You’re the only one who might be able to get through to him. Can you come over, keep him on track? Make him do his exercises?”

Jinx bites her lip, mulling over the request. “I don’t know, Bruno… This was supposed to be a therapy session and look how it turned out…”

“Well, it definitely lifted his spirits. But we can keep it professional…if you are to stay here. This will be extra work for you but…it will help Rowan a lot.”

“I can’t just move here, Bruno. My pets?—"

“You can bring them,” I interject quickly, my voice firm with determination. “All of ’em. I don’t care if there are tanks and heat lamps everywhere. Whatever it takes to make it work.”

Her lips twitch into a small, reluctant smile, and she lets out an exaggerated sigh, full of playful resignation. “Damn it, Varga. You know I can’t say no to a sad, injured puppy.”

I chuckle. “So that’s a yes?”

She giggles, her eyes twinkling. “Yeah. I’ll be here. Just don’t make me regret it.”

Jinx steps out the door, her boots crunching against the gravel as she pulls her hoodie snugly over her head. The night air is crisp and cool, with a faint breeze that carries the distant hum of the city.

As the door clicks shut behind her, Thomas erupts with a loud, triumphant cheer, pumping his fist into the air with unabashed excitement. “Hell yeah! We got a hot chick living with us!” he exclaims, his voice echoing slightly in the small space.

I can’t help but shake my head, a grin spreading across my face despite myself. “She’s not moving in permanently,” I counter, though I can’t deny the hint of amusement in my tone.

“Yet,” Thomas retorts with an exaggerated waggle of his eyebrows.

I roll my eyes and give him a playful shove toward the couch, causing him to stumble slightly. “Idiot,” I chide, though there’s no malice in my words.

Truthfully, though, a seed of worry nestles in my mind. This whole arrangement feels like a precarious balancing act, poised to teeter into something complex and unwieldy at any moment.

Jinx is a whirlwind—a burst of fun, wild energy, unpredictable and untamed. She’s not the kind of person who’s easily anchored.

Still, there was something in the way she looked at Rowan tonight, an intensity in her eyes, the way she agreed so swiftly to help him…

I sigh deeply, rubbing the bridge of my nose with apprehension. This could either be the best idea I’ve ever concocted… or an absolute disaster waiting to unfold.

CHAPTERSEVEN

Jinx

I perch on the cold,hard edge of the rink’s wooden bleachers, arms tightly crossed over my chest, eyes fixed on the practice unfolding before me.

The team moves across the ice with a lethargic pace, their usual crisp movements replaced by sluggishness.

The skaters seem out of sync, their passes a beat too late, their shots lacking the usual precision. There’s an undeniable void of energy, a palpable absence that hangs heavy in the air.

Each time a puck sails toward the net, it either slips past the backup goalie with ease or is barely nudged aside. He’s trying desperately, diving and sprawling, but he’s just not Rowan.

The defense hesitates, caught in moments of indecision, unsure whether to press forward or fall back. Their doubt is mirrored by the forwards, who approach the net with uncharacteristic caution, their usual aggressive charges nowhere in sight.

It’s clear they don’t have confidence in the net being securely guarded.

Behind the bench, Coach Walker paces like a caged lion, massaging his temple as if trying to ward off an impending migraine. His jaw is clenched so tightly it seems it might shatter under the pressure.

Jordan Gray, the assistant coach, yells out directions, his voice hoarse from frustration, but even his usually commanding tone sounds strained.

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