Chapter 17
JACE
I woke up before my alarm.
That never happened.
For a second, I lay there staring at the hotel ceiling, suspicious of my own body.
My phone was on the nightstand, facedown because I’d put it there after Declan told me to sleep.
Water bottle empty beside it. Door locked.
Suit jacket hung over the chair instead of dumped on the floor. Shoes lined up near my bag.
Evidence.
That was what it felt like. Evidence that I had followed instructions after midnight and not argued myself into something worse.
I should have felt embarrassed.
I should have been crawling out of my skin over how fast I’d obeyed him, how simple it had been, how much relief had punched through me when his text came in with one word.
Sleep.
Instead, I felt calm.
Not happy. Not fixed. My brain was still my brain.
It started moving the second I realized I was awake, practice schedule, breakfast, media availability, Vanessa’s Aspen text I hadn’t answered, whether I had packed extra socks, if I’d left my headphones in the plane seat, the way Declan’s voice had sounded when he said I’m not going to touch you tonight.
But under all of it was space.
Like someone had taken the whole disaster pile in my chest and put labels on three boxes.
Red.
Amber.
Green.
I rolled onto my side and grabbed my phone, then stopped with my fingers around it.
No texts before morning.
He hadn’t said that. He’d said not to text again tonight. It was morning now. Technically.
My thumb hovered over the screen.
This was how it happened. Loopholes. Technicalities. My brain loved a technicality when it wanted something. It could build an entire legal defense around a word choice while the reasonable part of me sat in the corner holding its head.
I put the phone back down.
Then immediately picked it up again to check the time.
6:11.
Team breakfast at eight. Bus at nine-thirty. Morning skate at ten-fifteen.
Plenty of time.
Which, historically, was a dangerous thought.
I sat up before I could negotiate myself into another twenty minutes and lose an hour.
The room felt too quiet, so I turned on the lamp, then the bathroom light, then turned the bathroom light off because it was too bright and made my eyes hurt.
I took my meds. I showered. I put my clothes on in the wrong order and had to take off my hoodie because I’d forgotten deodorant, which annoyed me way more than it should have.
Still calm.
Unsettlingly calm.
I kept waiting for shame to show up. Some massive delayed wave of what the fuck are you doing, Jace. He’s your coach. You have a girlfriend. He has a wife. You’re building rules with a married man in a hotel lounge like that’s a normal Tuesday.
The shame was there. Of course it was. It lived right under my ribs now, a constant pressure I could function around but not ignore.
But there was something else too.
Awareness.
Last night hadn’t been accidental. That was the part I couldn’t walk back. Not a collision. Not a fight that got too intense. Not Declan imposing something on me because he was stronger, older, in charge.
I had asked for language.
He had used it.
I had chosen to listen.
By seven-thirty, I’d repacked my bag twice, lost my key card once, found it in the pocket I’d checked three times, and made it downstairs early enough that Roman looked personally offended when I walked into breakfast before him.
He paused with a plate in one hand. “Who are you?”
“Shut up.”
“You’re early.”
“I own a clock.”
“You own several. Historically, they’ve been decorative.”
I grabbed eggs, toast, fruit because I could hear Declan’s voice in my head saying actual food, and coffee because I was still a person with rights.
Roman watched my plate. “That’s suspiciously balanced.”
“Are you my nutritionist now?”
“No. I’m your friend, which is worse because I can’t invoice you.”
I sat down across from him. The room was full of low morning noise, forks on plates, chairs scraping, Milo talking too loudly about how hotel oatmeal was a hate crime.
Usually I could handle breakfast rooms. Today every sound arrived separately.
The hiss of the coffee machine. Someone’s laugh.
A knife tapping. The elevator dinging again and again.
Declan came in with Benny and Tessa.
I didn’t look at him.
I felt myself not looking at him, which was basically the same thing as staring.
My attention latched onto the shape of him at the edge of my vision, dark quarter-zip, coffee in hand, phone tucked away, beard trimmed close.
He said something to Tessa, and she answered without slowing down, already scrolling on her tablet.
My foot started bouncing under the table.
Roman glanced down.
I stopped.
Then started again.
He didn’t comment. That was new. Roman could be a dick, but he was careful when it counted, and the fact that he was choosing not to ask made my throat feel tight.
Vanessa had texted.
Vanessa: Aspen confirmed. Sent you the details. We can talk tonight?
I stared at it until the words stopped making sense.
Talk tonight meant real talk. Not logistics. Not room reservations. Not what time is your flight, did you eat, can you wear the blue suit. Real talk.
Across the room, Declan laughed quietly at something Benny said.
My stomach dropped.
Olivia probably texted him in the morning. Maybe he woke up and called her. Maybe he said love you with that warm voice while I was in my room feeling calm because another woman’s husband told me to sleep.
The coffee machine hissed again, sharp and loud.
Milo’s chair scraped backward.
Someone behind me dropped a fork.
My skin prickled all at once, like every nerve had decided to face outward.
Too many sounds. Too many things to answer.
Too much guilt, attraction, schedule, breakfast, Roman’s concern, Vanessa’s text, Declan across the room, my own stupid foot bouncing under the table like it wanted to leave without me.
I picked up my phone.
Opened Declan’s thread.
My thumb hit the letters before I could overthink it.
Amber.
I sent it, then locked the screen so fast it clicked against the table.
Roman looked up. “You good?”
“Yep.”
The lie came out too bright.
My phone vibrated thirteen seconds later.
Declan: Put both feet on the floor.
I did it.
Declan: Unclench your left hand.
I looked down. My fist was tight around my napkin. I opened my fingers.
Declan: Eat three bites. Then water.
No are you okay. No what happened. No big dramatic rescue from across the breakfast room. He didn’t even look over right away.
I ate a bite of eggs.
They tasted like nothing, but I chewed and swallowed.
Second bite. Toast.
Third. Fruit that was too cold.
Then water.
My phone vibrated again.
Declan: Name the next required task.
I breathed out slowly through my nose.
Me: Bus at 9:30.
Declan: Before that.
My brain scrambled, irritated because he was right. There was a before that. There was always a before that, and I hated when people acted like the obvious thing was obvious because sometimes my head skipped the middle step and then everyone got mad at the ending.
Me: Brush teeth. Grab bag. Key card. Lobby.
Declan: Good. Set a timer for 8:55. When it goes off, you leave your room whether you feel ready or not.
I stared at the word.
Good.
Not good boy. Not performative. Not some line out of the shit I’d half read and then panic-closed when the article got too intense. Just good. Approval without softness. A handhold without making me feel handled.
Me: Yes, Coach.
His reply took longer.
Declan: Color now.
I checked in with my body because that was apparently a thing I was learning to do instead of waiting for it to riot.
Still loud. Still guilty. Still overstimulated.
But the room had edges again.
Me: Green edging amber.
Declan: Then stay at breakfast five more minutes. No phone except timer. After that, execute the list.
I almost smiled.
Execute the list. Like I was a professional who could be trusted with a plan, not a disaster to be dragged through basic functioning.
I put the phone facedown.
Roman was watching me carefully now. Not nosy. Not stupid either.
“What?” I said.
“Nothing.”
“That’s never true.”
He took a sip of coffee. “You look less like you’re about to crawl through the ceiling.”
I picked up my fork. “Personal growth.”
“Terrifying.”
For five minutes, I sat there and let the room be loud without making it my job to fight every sound. Declan didn’t come over. He didn’t need to. That was the strange part. The instruction held even from across the room.
At 8:55, my timer went off while I was standing in my hotel room holding two different shirts and no memory of why I’d opened the closet.
Leave whether you feel ready or not.
I dropped both shirts into my bag, zipped it, grabbed my key card and toothbrush, then had to go back for my phone because of course I did. But I was in the lobby by 9:07.
Declan walked past me near the front desk.
No one else would have noticed the pause.
“Color?” he asked, barely turning his head.
“Green.”
“Keep it there.”
The words settled low in my body.
“Yes, Coach.”
His hand flexed once around the strap of his bag, then he kept walking.
Morning skate was fine. Not great. Fine.
My passes were clean, my timing a half beat off until the second drill, then better once repetition took over.
Hockey was easier than everything else because the choices came fast enough that my brain didn’t have time to split into ten pieces.
Read, move, adjust. Body first. Thought second.
Declan corrected me twice in front of everyone.
Both times professional.
Both times my body remembered the hotel lounge.
“Shorter route, Holloway.”
I cut shorter.
“Again.”
I did it again.
“Better.”
That one stayed with me through the rest of skate like heat under my gear.