Chapter 18
DECLAN
Jace left the hotel organized.
It should not have affected me the way it did.
He still checked his pockets twice.
He still stopped three feet from the bus doors and turned in a quick circle because he thought he’d forgotten something.
He still had to jog back to the lobby table for the travel packet Tessa had put directly in front of him.
But he did not spiral. He did not swear at himself under his breath. He did not turn one small mistake into proof that he was impossible.
He came back with the packet, met my eyes for half a second, and gave me the smallest nod.
Not for anyone else.
For me.
I had no right to feel proud.
I felt it anyway.
On the bus, I sat near the front with Benny while the players took their usual spots.
I reviewed matchups and shift notes. I answered a text from ownership.
I listened to Benny talk through their second line’s defensive habits while my attention kept finding Jace in the reflection of the windshield.
He was beside Roman, legs stretched into the aisle, one thumb picking at the label on his water bottle until Roman reached over without looking and took it away.
Jace let him.
That made me look down at my tablet before Roman’s eyes could meet mine in the mirror.
The game that night was not pretty.
Road wins rarely were.
We gave up an early goal on a sloppy change, killed two penalties in the first, and spent most of the second fighting through neutral-zone mud.
Jace was sharp in a way that had teeth. Not flashy.
Not reckless. He tracked back hard, won faceoffs, absorbed a late hit without turning it into a personal crusade, then set up Brooks with a pass through traffic that had half the bench on its feet before the puck hit the net.
When he came back down the line, flushed and breathing hard, I said, “That’s the read.”
His gaze cut to mine through the noise.
Not a smile.
Better.
A clean reception of praise, taken in and held.
In the third, he scored the winner.
Of course he did.
A broken play, loose puck, his body moving before anyone else understood where the opportunity had gone.
He snapped it high glove, then hit the glass with both hands while our bench erupted behind him.
The arena booed. Our guys shouted. Roman stood in the crease eighty feet away with both arms lifted like an irritated prophet who had known the outcome all along.
Jace skated past the bench after the celebration, cheeks red, eyes bright, hair wet under his helmet.
He did not look at me.
That was how I knew he wanted to.
We won 3-2.
Postgame was controlled chaos. Training staff moving bodies through recovery. Players peeling off gear. Media waiting outside. The room smelled like sweat, wet equipment, tape, and adrenaline. I gave the team the short version because nobody needed a speech after grinding out a road win.
“Good response after the first. Better details as the game went on. Enjoy the win, don’t be stupid with the free night. Bus tomorrow is ten. If you’re late, I’ll make the entire group suffer and let them know who caused it.”
Milo groaned. “That feels targeted.”
“It is.”
The room laughed.
Jace sat at his stall with his shoulder pads still on, towel around his neck, gaze lowered to his skates. He was smiling, but not performing. Loose around the edges, physically exhausted enough that the restlessness had backed off for once.
Then media swallowed him.
I did my own availability first. Five minutes of questions about resilience, Jace’s goal, the penalty kill, road momentum.
I kept my answers measured. Professional.
Unremarkable. Tessa stood near the back with a look that said she would personally end me if I gave anyone a quote that required damage control.
When Jace stepped up to the microphones after me, I stayed longer than I needed to.
He was good with them tonight. Not polished into emptiness, but present. He gave credit to Brooks. Mentioned Roman’s saves. Made one reporter laugh without making Tessa’s shoulders climb toward her ears.
“Coach said the group adjusted well,” someone said. “What changed after the first?”
Jace took a drink from his bottle. “We stopped trying to make the perfect play and started making the next right one.”
My hand tightened around the edge of my notes.
The next right one.
He did not look at me when he said it.
I left before I did something stupid, like smile.
The bar was two blocks from the hotel, low-lit and loud, the kind of place that looked anonymous enough for a road team to be normal for a few hours if nobody posted anything idiotic.
Tessa had found a semi-private back room with high tables, leather booths, and a bartender who understood discretion after Benny tipped him like a man paying for silence in advance.
I went because head coaches were expected to appear long enough to prove they were human, then disappear before the players forgot I was still the person who could make practice unpleasant.
That was my plan.
One drink. Maybe two sips of it. Then leave.
The win changed the room. Shoulders were down. Ties loosened. Laughter came easier. Brooks and Milo argued over darts with the intensity of men negotiating a peace treaty. Roman sat in the corner booth nursing whiskey and looking like fun had happened to him against his will.
Jace was different.
I had seen him relaxed in pieces. After a good shift.
Teasing Roman. Talking to his sister on the phone with affection he pretended was annoyance.
But tonight the tension seemed to slide off him in visible layers.
He laughed with his whole body. He leaned into conversations instead of bracing for them.
He told a story with his hands, forgot the middle, got sidetracked by Milo’s shirt, came back to the story three minutes later, and somehow everyone followed.
He drank too fast.
I noticed by the second beer.
Roman noticed too. He took the third bottle out of Jace’s hand, said something too low for me to hear, and replaced it with water. Jace complained, then drank half the water anyway.
I should have stayed in the booth with Benny.
Instead, I watched the way Jace’s mouth curved when he wasn’t guarding it. The flush high on his cheeks. The loose bend of his neck when he tipped his head back to laugh. The fact that he had unbuttoned the top of his shirt and rolled his sleeves unevenly, one cuff neat, one a disaster.
My phone rang.
Olivia.
For one disorienting second, the sound seemed louder than the entire bar.
I stepped outside to take it.
The cold hit my face as the door shut behind me, muting the music to a bass thud through brick. A few smokers stood near the curb. I walked past them toward the quieter side of the building.
“Hey,” I said.
“Hi.” Olivia sounded tired. Not upset. Just worn thin. “Did I catch you at a bad time?”
“No. We’re at a team thing, but it’s fine. You okay?”
“Yeah. Long day. My client moved the morning session up, then acted like I personally invented time zones.” She gave a small laugh. “I saw the score. Congratulations.”
“Thanks.”
“Jace had the winner, right?”
My eyes closed briefly. “Yeah.”
“He’s something else.”
“He is.”
The silence after that was not long, but I felt every inch of it.
Olivia exhaled. “I don’t think I’m going to make it back this weekend.”
I stared at the streetlight reflecting in a puddle near the curb. “Okay.”
“I’m sorry. The Chicago project is a mess, and if I stay through Sunday I can keep it from becoming a whole thing next week.”
“You don’t have to explain.”
“I know. I just...” She paused. “I don’t want you to think I don’t want to come home.”
Home.
Tiny’s food bowls by the kitchen island. Olivia’s winter coat still in the front closet. The side of the bed she barely slept on anymore.
“I don’t think that,” I said.
I was not sure if it was true.
“I miss him,” she said softly.
“Tiny?”
“He’s easier to miss than you. He doesn’t make me feel guilty.”
The honesty landed without drama. That made it worse.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“Me too.” Another pause. “We’ll talk when I’m back?”
“Yes.”
“Okay. Good night, Dec.”
“Good night, Liv.”
The call ended.
I stayed outside for another minute with the phone in my hand and the cold working through my jacket.
There were choices I could still make. There were lines not yet crossed, damage not yet done in ways that could not be softened by saying we had tried to be careful. I knew that.
Then I went back inside.
Jace stood near the bar with a woman’s hand on his chest.
She was pretty. Mid-twenties maybe, dark hair, confident smile, wearing a green dress that had not been chosen by accident. She was leaning close enough to be heard over the music, her fingers hooked lightly in the open placket of his shirt while she laughed up at him.
Jace looked loose, amused, a little unfocused from alcohol and attention. Not encouraging exactly. Not stopping it either. He said something, and she touched his arm with her other hand.
My reaction was immediate and unacceptable.
Heat. Then anger. Then the clean, brutal image of walking over there, removing her hand, and telling Jace to get outside.
I did none of those things.
I was his coach. Not his lover. Not his partner. Not a man with any public claim at all.
So I turned around and left.
The night air hit harder this time. I was halfway to the taxi line before the bar door opened behind me.
“Declan.”
I kept walking.
“Coach.”
That stopped me.
Not because of the title. Because of the strain under it.
I turned near the curb. Jace was coming toward me without his jacket, sleeves rolled wrong, hair a mess from his hands. The cold did not seem to register.
“Go back inside,” I said.
His mouth parted. “Seriously?”
“You’ve been drinking. Go back with Roman.”
“I’m not drunk.”
“You’re not sober enough for this conversation.”
He laughed once, sharp and disbelieving. “Oh, that’s convenient.”
“Jace.”