Chapter 29
JACE
I woke up before my alarm and hated that immediately.
Usually my alarm had to drag me out of sleep like a body from a lake.
Three separate alarms, one across the room, one on my phone, one on my watch vibrating against my wrist until I wanted to chew through my own arm.
This morning my eyes opened at six-oh-two, and my brain was already standing at the foot of the bed with a clipboard.
Olivia was home.
Declan had told her.
Or he hadn’t.
Or he’d started and stopped.
Or she’d cried.
Or he had slept in the same bed as her because that was still his house and his marriage and none of my business except it had my fingerprints all over it.
I rolled onto my back and stared at the ceiling of my apartment.
The room was too bright in the wrong places.
A slice of winter light leaked through the gap in the curtains and cut across the pile of laundry I’d sworn I’d deal with two days ago.
My duffel bag sat by the door, half unpacked, one sock hanging out like it was trying to escape.
The hoodie I’d worn to Declan’s house was on the chair.
I looked at it too long.
Then I made myself look away.
No texting.
That was the rule I had made for myself before I even left his house.
Not one he gave me. Mine. A thing I could do because I wasn’t a kid waiting outside the principal’s office.
I was a grown man with a job and a life and a therapist-approved list of coping strategies I used maybe forty percent of the time, which still counted as progress if you asked me and not Harper.
Do not text Declan this morning.
Do not ask if he is okay when he is dealing with the consequences of choices you both made.
Do not make his marriage ending about your anxiety.
I repeated that in my head while brushing my teeth too hard.
Then I forgot whether I’d taken my meds.
“Fuck.”
I stood in the bathroom with the toothbrush in my mouth and tried to rewind the morning.
Bottle. Cap. Water. Did I drink water? There was a glass on the counter, but that meant nothing.
I left glasses everywhere. The pill bottle was next to the sink because last night I’d been responsible for approximately eight minutes before I got distracted by a highlight clip Roman sent me and then spent forty minutes reading comments I knew better than to read.
I picked up the bottle and counted back from the prescription date like a detective with poor evidence.
Close enough.
No double dose. No guessing.
I set a reminder to ask my doctor about one of those weekly pill cases old people used, then remembered I had bought one two months ago. It was probably in a drawer. Or my car. Or the bag I took on the last road trip.
Normal. Be normal.
I showered, got dressed, put the wrong shirt on inside out, fixed it, then spent five full minutes searching for my phone while holding it.
That was when I almost texted him.
My thumb opened the thread on muscle memory.
Last message from last night.
Me: Home. Don’t answer. Just wanted you to know I made it.
Declan: Thank you.
That was it. Two words. Responsible. Careful.
I stared until the screen dimmed.
No texting.
I locked the phone, shoved it in my pocket, grabbed my keys, forgot my coffee on the counter, went back for it, then left without my wallet. I only realized when I got to the elevator and had to jam my hand between the closing doors like an idiot.
By the time I made it to the rink, I was eight minutes early and felt like I’d been late for years.
The parking lot was half full. Gray morning, salt crusted along the edges of the pavement, players moving from cars to staff entrance with their heads down against the cold. Everything looked normal. That pissed me off for no reason I could explain.
How did the world just continue?
How were guys carrying sticks and coffees while Olivia Reid had slept in a guest room, maybe, and Declan had sat alone with that giant dog and the ruined duck, maybe, and I had woken up wanting to climb out of my own skin?
I parked crooked, noticed, swore, backed out, fixed it badly, then decided that was between me and God.
Inside, the building smelled like coffee, rubber flooring, cold air, and gear.
Familiar enough that my body tried to settle before my head would allow it.
I nodded at security. Said hey to one of the equipment guys.
Managed not to check my phone for the full walk to the locker room, which deserved a parade no one offered.
Roman was already there.
Of course he was. Roman had the energy of a divorced vampire who existed entirely on black coffee and judgment. He sat in his stall, half dressed, taping a stick with slow precision. He didn’t look up when I came in.
“You parked like you were fleeing a bank robbery,” he said.
“Good morning to you too.”
“You hit two lines.”
“I was making sure other cars respected my personal space.”
“Your personal space extends into Benny’s spot.”
“Benny doesn’t respect anything.”
Roman tore the tape with his teeth and finally looked at me.
That was the problem with Roman. Most guys looked and saw whatever I handed them. A joke. A shrug. Some bright, stupid distraction. Roman looked like he was checking the structural integrity of a bridge after an earthquake.
I dropped my bag too loudly and started pulling out gear.
“Sleep?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“How much?”
“Enough.”
“That’s not a number.”
“I didn’t know there was going to be math.”
He leaned back. “Did you eat?”
“Yes.”
“What?”
“Why are you doing intake like a nurse with a gambling problem?”
“Because you get weird when you don’t eat.”
“I get weird always. It’s part of the brand.”
“Jace.”
I hated my name in that tone. Not Declan’s tone. Roman’s was flatter, older, less command and more I have dragged you out of enough stupid situations to recognize the smell of one.
I sat down and pulled off my sneakers. “Toast. Eggs. Protein shake. Half a banana.”
“Half?”
“The other half looked questionable.”
“It was a banana, not a moral test.”
“Texture matters.”
Roman watched me shove one sock into my skate, then take it out because the seam was wrong and I knew if I left it I’d feel it the entire practice and probably commit a felony by the neutral zone drill.
He lowered his voice.
“Did he tell her?”
My hands stopped.
Not dramatically. Not enough for the room to notice. But inside me, everything went white and sharp for one second.
Benny was across the room complaining about someone using his towel. Milo was laughing. Water ran somewhere down the hall. The world stayed noisy enough to hide the fact that Roman Vega had just pulled the floor out from under me.
I looked at him.
He didn’t look smug. He didn’t even look surprised. Just tired, maybe, and careful in a way I wasn’t used to seeing from him.
“Did who tell who what?” I asked.
It came out too fast.
Roman’s mouth flattened. “Don’t insult both of us.”
My skin felt too tight under my pads and I didn’t even have pads on yet. “Roman.”
“I don’t know everything.”
I laughed once, quiet and ugly. “That’s comforting.”
“I know enough.”
“How?”
He set the stick aside. “Because I have eyes. Because you’ve been different for months.
Because Coach Reid says your name like he’s trying not to say something else.
Because you almost slipped yesterday and looked like someone had put a gun on the table.
Because Tessa has been acting like a fire marshal in a fireworks factory. Pick one.”
My stomach turned.
“Fuck.”
“Yeah.”
“Does anyone else know?”
“I’m not taking a poll.”
“Roman.”
“I don’t think so. Not like this.”
I bent forward, elbows on my knees, and pressed my fingers into my hair.
Too much input. Too many sounds. Tape ripping.
Shower turning on. Laughing. The buzz of the lights.
My own pulse in my neck. My brain started throwing images at me so fast I couldn’t sort them.
Declan’s kitchen. Olivia’s note on the fridge.
Vanessa’s face when I ended it. Declan’s hand on my jaw.
Roman watching. Tessa knowing. The whole thing spreading like spilled oil.
Roman’s voice cut through, lower.
“Breathe before you puke in your skate.”
“I’m not going to puke.”
“You look undecided.”
I sat up and forced air into my lungs.
In. Hold. Out.
I hated that it worked.
Roman waited. He didn’t touch me. He knew better unless I asked. That made my throat hurt a little, which annoyed me, so I grabbed my base layer and started putting it on with more aggression than clothing deserved.
“It’s not some stupid hookup,” I said, so low the words barely made it past my teeth.
“I figured.”
“You don’t get to say that like you figured out my Netflix password.”
“I’m not.”
I yanked the sleeve into place. “He told her last night. Or he was supposed to. I don’t know what happened because I didn’t text him, because apparently I’m capable of personal growth when tortured.”
Roman looked at me for a long second. “You didn’t text him?”
“No.”
“Good.”
I shot him a look. “Say that with less surprise.”
“I’m proud of you, idiot.”
That landed badly. Not because it was bad. Because I wanted Declan to say it and hated myself for needing that while he was probably standing in the wreckage of his marriage.
I looked down at my hands. They were moving again, fingers picking at the edge of my tape. I made them stop. They started again.
Roman leaned forward, forearms on his knees. “Listen to me. I’m not here to solve your shit. I can’t. I also can’t tell you this isn’t messy, because it is.”
“Helpful.”
“But I know you.” His voice stayed even. “When you get scared, you either bolt or try to fix everything in one impulsive sprint. Don’t do either today.”
My chest felt crowded. “I’m trying.”
“I know.”
“No, I mean I’m actually trying. I woke up and didn’t text him. I ate. I got here early. I checked my bag twice. I’m sitting here while my head is doing the fucking carnival ride thing and I’m still putting gear on.”