Chapter 3
JACE
The worst part was that being early felt good.
I hated that.
You’re early.
Two words. Not praise, exactly. Not a parade. But he’d noticed.
That was the problem.
People noticed when I screwed up. They noticed when I was late, when I forgot something, when I talked over someone because my thoughts were already three exits ahead and my mouth had merged without signaling. They noticed the mess.
Declan Reid had noticed the effort.
Which was inconvenient as hell, because now my brain had decided to carry that around like a prize I didn’t ask for.
By the time I got into the locker room, the guys were in their usual states of half dressed, half caffeinated, fully obnoxious.
Lowell was taping a stick with the focus of a surgeon.
Sokolov was arguing with Milo Brooks about whether cereal counted as soup.
Roman sat in his stall, pads half on, reading something on his phone with the disgusted expression he reserved for group texts and government forms.
He looked up when I walked in.
“You’re alive.”
“Disappointing for you.”
“Deeply.” His gaze dropped to my notebook, still in my hand. “You bring school supplies now?”
“Shut up.”
He smiled into his coffee. “New coach has you color-coding feelings?”
I threw my glove at him. He caught it without looking, which was annoying, because goalies already got enough opportunities to feel superior.
“I was early,” I said, then immediately regretted saying it because it sounded like I wanted a cookie.
Roman’s eyebrows rose. “Voluntarily?”
“I set alarms.”
“How many?”
“Not important.”
“More than three?”
“Go stretch your groin or whatever you people do.”
He leaned back. “Either he likes you or he’s building a case file.”
My stomach did a weird little drop at likes you, which pissed me off because it didn’t mean anything. Coaches liked players who listened. Coaches liked production. Coaches liked not having to chase their highest-paid center around like a golden retriever with a tax problem.
“He doesn’t like me,” I said.
“Then case file.”
“Maybe he’s just good at his job.”
Roman studied me for half a second too long. “That sounded almost respectful.”
“Temporary brain injury.”
“Report it to medical.”
I flipped him off and went to get dressed.
Practice was sharp from the start. Reid didn’t waste time with speeches. He gave the drill, gave the reason, gave the standard. Three lines. No fog.
“First pass has to be available before the pressure arrives. Holloway, don’t curl out unless Lowell is under control. Lowell, if he leaves early, you eat the wall and that’s on both of you.”
Clear.
I ran it once and caught myself trying to jump the route anyway, the familiar itch crawling through my legs. Go now. Create speed. Beat them before they know you’re gone. But his instruction was still sitting there, solid and specific.
Don’t curl out unless Lowell is under control.
So I stayed.
Lowell made the play. We broke clean. I hit Milo through the middle and he buried it.
Reid blew the whistle. “That. Again.”
Not good job. Not finally. Not see what happens when you listen, Holloway?
Just that.
Again.
It worked better than it should have.
Which meant I got irritated.
At the boards, while we waited for the next rep, Milo bumped my shoulder. “You and Coach have some kind of mind-meld thing going?”
“No.”
“He gives you weirdly exact instructions.”
“He gives everyone instructions.”
“Yeah, but with you it’s like he’s defusing a bomb.”
Roman glided past the crease. “He is.”
“Everybody’s a comedian,” I muttered.
But I felt it too.
Reid wasn’t easier on me. If anything, he watched me closer. He caught every cheat, every drift, every moment I lost patience and tried to turn structure into speed. But he didn’t make it a moral issue. He didn’t act like my brain trying to sprint ahead was proof I didn’t care.
He just brought me back.
“Stop. Start again from the hash marks.”
“Why?”
“Because your feet left before your eyes finished reading the play.”
That shut me up because it was exactly what had happened.
I skated back to the hash marks, annoyed and focused, and did it right.
After practice, I checked my phone and got hit with the entire outside world at once.
Vanessa: Babe can you send me a selfie from the locker room? Not shirtless, the brand wants authentic athlete boyfriend not thirst trap.
Vanessa: Also we got invited to that launch tomorrow. You need to come. It’s good exposure.
Vanessa: Did you post the restaurant tag from last night? They asked.
Vanessa: Jace??
There was a picture too, Vanessa in oversized sunglasses holding an iced coffee, perfect mouth curved in a smile, Denver sunshine doing exactly what she wanted it to do.
She was beautiful. She was also good at her job in a way most people didn’t respect because they thought being watched wasn’t work.
I knew it was work.
I just didn’t always want to be part of the set.
I typed, Practice ran long. I’ll post later.
Then deleted it because it sounded annoyed.
Typed, Sorry, just got off ice. I’ll handle it.
Sent that.
Her reply came fast.
Vanessa: Thank you baby. Also wear black tomorrow. Navy clashes with the backdrop.
I stared at that longer than I needed to. The letters didn’t blur exactly, they scattered. Tomorrow. Launch. Black suit. Post tag. Selfie. Treatment. Video. Call Dad. Pay Harper’s bill even if she yells. Don’t forget laundry. Don’t forget to eat. Don’t forget not to be a dick.
My hand tightened around the phone.
Roman passed behind me. “Influencer diplomacy?”
“International incident.”
“You going to survive?”
“Historically, yes.”
He didn’t laugh. “You look fried.”
“I’m fine.”
“Sure.”
That was the thing about Roman. He let you lie, but he never believed you.
My sister called while I was sitting in my car with the engine off, trying to remember where I was supposed to go next. I answered because if I didn’t, she’d text Dad and say I was dead.
“Do not send me money,” Harper said instead of hello.
“Great talking to you too.”
“I’m serious.”
“I haven’t sent you money today.”
“Today is doing suspicious work in that sentence.”
I smiled despite myself and leaned back against the headrest. “How’s school?”
“Expensive. Full of nineteen-year-olds who think Nietzsche is a personality. My roommate has started making overnight oats in mason jars, so I’m considering moving into the library.”
“You love the library.”
“I love quiet. Different thing.”
I heard people talking in the background, a door closing, then her voice got clearer. “You sound weird.”
“I said six words.”
“Yeah, and none of them were at the wrong volume. What happened?”
“Nothing happened.”
“Liar.”
“I had practice.”
“You always have practice. You usually sound like you’re trying to outrun bees afterward.”
I rubbed at my forehead. “New coach is just... different.”
“Different good or different I need to fly to Denver and commit a felony?”
“Please don’t commit felonies. You’re terrible at secrets.”
“I am excellent at secrets. I never told Dad about the mailbox.”
“That mailbox attacked me.”
“You backed into it while yelling at a drive-thru speaker.”
“I was under pressure.”
“You were ordering nuggets.”
Warmth spread through my chest, easy and familiar. Harper was the only person who could make me feel like a dumbass and loved in the same breath.
I looked through the windshield at the arena doors. “He asks clear questions.”
“Who, Coach Different?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s the big revelation?”
I picked at a loose thread on my hoodie. “People usually ask why I can’t just do stuff the normal way. He asked what helps.”
Harper was quiet for once.
Then, softer, “That is different.”
I swallowed and hated that my throat felt tight over something so small. “Don’t make it a thing.”
“I’m not.”
“You are. I can hear your face.”
“My face is neutral and supportive.”
“Your face is annoying.”
“Your face is on billboards, unfortunately.”
I laughed. The pressure in my chest eased.
Before we hung up, I sent her money anyway. She texted me thirty seconds later.
Harper: I hope both sides of your pillow are warm.
Me: Love you too.
By the time I got back inside for video, my body wanted food, my brain wanted seventeen things, and my patience had gone to live somewhere else.
Reid caught me outside the video room.
“Holloway. Stay after.”
My first reaction was automatic defense. “For what?”
“Video.”
“I watched video.”
“More video.”
“Am I in trouble?”
“No.”
That threw me off more than yes would have.
The room emptied slowly after the team session, guys clacking water bottles and chirping each other on the way out. Roman paused at the door and looked between us.
“You need a witness?”
“Leave,” I said.
He pointed at Reid. “He bites when cornered.”
Reid didn’t miss a beat. “Noted.”
Roman left laughing.
Then it was just me and Coach Reid in a dim video room with a paused clip on the screen and my leg bouncing so hard the chair squeaked.
Reid sat two seats away, not crowding me, remote in hand. “I want to look at your routes on controlled exits.”
“Because I’m cheating.”
“Because you’re reading options before the first one is complete.”
I glanced at him. “That’s a nicer way to say cheating.”
“It’s a more accurate way.”
That shut me up again.
He played the clip. Paused. Rewound. Played it slower.
“There,” he said. “Tell me what you see.”
I started answering before the clip even settled in my head. “Their F2 is late, D is flat-footed, if I loop lower I can pull him with me and open the seam, but if Lowell bobbles it, then yeah, we’re dead, and Roman complains, and everyone acts like I personally invented turnovers.”
Reid waited.
I shifted. “What?”
“You jumped from read one to consequence four.”
“I got there, didn’t I?”
“You did. I’m asking if you can separate the steps.”
My knee stopped bouncing for half a second.
Nobody asked that.
People told me to slow down, which was like telling a fire alarm to consider jazz. They told me to focus, as if I wasn’t focusing on too much at once. Reid was asking me to show the work.
“I can try,” I said, more carefully than I meant to.
So we did.
It should have been boring. It wasn’t. He paused clips and made me name one thing at a time. Puck. Pressure. Support. Exit. If I got ahead of myself, he brought me back without snapping.
“Start with the puck.”
“I know where the puck is.”
“Say it anyway.”
“That’s stupid.”
“Maybe. Do it.”
I exhaled hard. “Puck is on Lowell’s backhand.”
“Pressure?”
“Coming from inside shoulder.”
“Support?”
“Me, too high.”
He clicked the remote. “So?”
“So I come lower.”
“Good. Next.”
There it was again. That simple, controlled acknowledgment. Not a gold star. Not a performance. Just confirmation that I’d met the expectation.
My chest loosened in a way that made me uncomfortable.
After the fourth clip, Reid set the remote down. “What helps you stay organized?”
I laughed because I thought he was joking.
He wasn’t.
The laugh died awkwardly. “What?”
“What helps?”
I stared at him. “People don’t ask that.”
“What do they ask?”
“Why aren’t you organized?” I said before I could stop myself. “Why didn’t you write it down? Why didn’t you set a reminder? Why are you late if you care? Why is your apartment a crime scene if you can remember every faceoff tendency from a team we played two months ago?”
His expression didn’t shift into pity. Thank God. Pity made me want to crawl out of my skin.
“And?” he asked.
I looked down at my hands. My fingers were worrying the edge of my notebook page into a soft curl.
“Lists help if I remember the list exists. Alarms help unless I turn them off and immediately forget why. If instructions are vague, I’ll fill in the gaps, and sometimes I fill them wrong.
If there are too many things at once, I get loud or I shut down. Depends on the day.”
I hadn’t meant to say that much.
The room felt too quiet after.
Reid leaned back in his chair, calm as ever. “Okay.”
I looked over. “That’s it?”
“That’s useful.”
“Usually this is where someone tells me to try harder.”
“Are you not trying?”
The question hit wrong. Or right. I didn’t know. My face got hot.
“I’m always trying,” I said, and it came out rougher than I wanted. “That’s the problem. It doesn’t look like it.”
Reid held my gaze for a second, then nodded once. Like he believed me. Like the answer didn’t surprise him.
“Then we’ll make it look less like guesswork,” he said.
I blinked. “We?”
“You and the staff. Me, when it’s my instruction. Specific expectations. Written when possible. You communicate early if you’re losing the thread.”
“That sounds simple.”
“It won’t be every day.”
My mouth twitched despite everything. “You always this cheerful?”
“No.”
“Special occasion?”
He picked up the remote again. “Next clip.”
I groaned, but I watched.
When I finally left the arena, the sun was already dropping behind the mountains, and my phone was full of messages I hadn’t answered.
Vanessa wanted to know if I’d confirmed tomorrow.
Tessa had sent a reminder for a media hit.
Dad had texted, Call when you can, no rush, which meant he would pretend not to be waiting.
Usually that would have sent my thoughts scattering in every direction.
Tonight, under all the noise, one thing stayed steady.
Puck. Pressure. Support. Exit.
Start with the puck.
I sat in my car and wrote it down in my notes app before I could lose it.
Then, because apparently I had become a person who made questionable choices in the name of self-improvement, I set alarms for tomorrow. Three of them. Fine, five. One labeled notebook. One labeled eat something. One labeled phone away before you walk in.
I stared at the last one for a while.
The irritating truth was I’d spent most of the day thinking about what Declan Reid said. Not his face. Not the tattoos Roman had joked made him look like a retired hitman. Not any of that.
His words.
Clear. Specific. Useful.
I started the car and pulled out of the parking lot, annoyed to discover that some part of me was already waiting for tomorrow morning.