Chapter 3 #2
Tate's grin faltered. “Got it.”
“Run it again.”
The drill continued. Coach corrected Mercer's gap control, Benny's stick positioning, Volkov's outlet timing. No one escaped scrutiny. No one got special treatment.
When Rook took a bad angle on a backcheck, Coach called him out same as anyone else. “Rook. You're cheating because your hip's compromised. Adjust your gap to compensate. Don't give them the middle.”
Rook nodded and adjusted.
Even I wasn't immune. During a power play drill, I hesitated on a one-timer, second-guessing the angle, and the puck died on my stick.
Coach's whistle cut through the air. “Hartley. You're thinking. Stop thinking. Your hands know what to do. Trust them.”
My face burned. “Yes, Coach.”
“Run it again.”
This time I didn't think. Just reacted. The puck came cross-ice, I loaded up, and fired. Top corner. Clean.
Coach didn't acknowledge it. Just moved on to the next drill.
By the end of practice, we were all skating hard, working hard, and nobody was freelancing because the system didn't allow for it. Every player had a role. Every drill had a purpose.
I hated how good it felt to just execute. To not have to carry the whole team on my shoulders. To trust that if I did my job, the system would work.
We finished with conditioning. Suicides. Coach stood at the goal line with a stopwatch and ran us until Finn looked like he might puke and even Volkov was breathing hard.
“That's it,” Coach said finally. “Good work. Stretch, then get out of here.”
We limped back to the locker room like we'd survived a zombie apocalypse. The room smelled like sweat and effort and the particular kind of exhaustion that came from being pushed past your comfort zone.
Finn collapsed on the bench, not even bothering to unlace his skates. “I can't feel my legs.”
“That's because you have child legs,” Volkov said, already half-undressed. “Weak baby legs.”
“Fuck you, Volkov. You were dying too.”
“I was breathing heavy. Is different than dying.”
Mace dumped a water bottle over his own head, the water streaming down his face. “Coach wasn't kidding. That was some full-metal-jacket shit.”
“Full metal what?” Benny asked.
“Means we just got our asses handed to us and somehow we're grateful for it.” Mace grinned through the water dripping off his beard. “I fucking love it.”
Tate was sulking in his stall, and Rook noticed. “Something to say, Hallowell?”
“No, Cap.”
“Good. Because he was right. You pinched when you shouldn't have.”
“I know.”
“Then fix it.” Rook's voice wasn't harsh, just final. The captain had spoken.
I sat down and started unlacing my skates, my hands were shaking from exertion, and told myself it was just adrenaline. My shoulders ached. My hips felt loose in that good-tired way.
“He's gonna kill us,” Finn groaned from his spot on the floor.
“Good,” Rook said, pulling off his jersey. “We need it.”
“Speak for yourself,” Finn muttered. “I'm young. I'm beautiful. I don't deserve this abuse.”
“You deserve worse,” Mercer said, flicking a piece of tape at the rookie's head. “Baby's first real practice.”
“That was not my first real practice.”
“Mitchell's practices were yoga sessions compared to this.”
Finn considered that. “Okay, fair.”
I stripped out of my gear and headed for the showers, letting the hot water beat against my shoulders and wash away the practice and the noise and the constant fucking pressure of being watched.
When I came out, most of the guys were gone. Just Rook and Benny packing up, talking quietly about the new systems. I grabbed my bag and headed for the door, pulling my hood up like I could disappear inside it.
The hallway hit me after the heat of the showers: cold concrete, fluorescent white, the faint bite of ice that never fully left the lower level. I had my head down, hood up, already halfway gone inside my own head, which is probably why I didn't see him until I walked straight into him.
I stumbled back half a step, bag nearly slipping off my shoulder. He caught my elbow to steady me, then immediately let go.
“Sorry,” Coach said, voice even. “Didn't see you.”
“My fault,” I said automatically, even though it wasn't. “Wasn't paying attention.”
We stood there for a second, too close in the narrow hallway, and I realized three things at once:
One, he smelled like coffee and something clean, soap maybe, nothing expensive or trying too hard.
Two, he was exactly my height, which meant when I met his eyes I was looking straight into them, no angle, no escape.
Three, I needed to say something before this got weird.
“Hell of a first practice, Coach,” I said, and it came out sharper than I meant it to. “You always run conditioning like we're training for the Olympics?”
His mouth twitched. Not quite a smile. “That was light. Wait until next week.”
“Can't wait,” I said, and okay, that was definitely sarcasm.
“Good.” He shifted his weight, not moving away but also not crowding me. “You adjusted well today. Stayed wide on the breakouts like I asked.”
Praise. Specific. Earned.
I hated how much I wanted more of it.
“Just following the system,” I said, aiming for casual and missing by a mile.
“That's the job.” He studied me for a second, and I couldn't read his expression at all. “You always this argumentative, or is it just first-day nerves?”
Wait. Was he teasing me?
“I'm not argumentative,” I said, then realized how that sounded. “I'm just making conversation.”
“Right.” The corner of his mouth curved up. Barely. “Conversation.”
Fuck, he was funny. I wasn't prepared for funny.
I tried a different tactic. Flirting. It worked on most people. Made them uncomfortable or interested, either way it gave me control.
“You always this intense, Coach? Or do you save the scary calm routine for special occasions?”
His eyes flicked down to my mouth for half a second, then back up.
“I'm consistent,” he said. “You'll get used to it.”
“Maybe I don't want to get used to it.” I tilted my head, testing. “Maybe I like keeping you on your toes.”
He didn't move. Didn't react. Just watched me with those unreadable eyes like he was cataloging every word, every tell, every stupid thing I was doing to try to get under his skin.
“Hartley,” he said finally, voice low and even. “Go home.”
I stepped around him, shoulder brushing his, closer than necessary, just to see what he'd do.
He didn't move. Didn't flinch.
I walked away, bag on my shoulder, hood still up, and I didn't look back even though I wanted to.
Leah was waiting when I pulled into my building's parking garage an hour later. Big sister energy radiating off her like a forcefield.
“Nope,” I said, getting out. “Whatever you're planning, I'm too tired.”
“You're coming to dinner.”
“I have meal prep at home.”
“You have protein powder and sadness. Get in my car.”
“Leah.”
She physically blocked my path to the elevator, all five-foot-six of her, wearing scrubs from her shift at the hospital and looking like she'd fight me if necessary. “I haven't seen you in three weeks. You've been dodging my calls. So yes, you're coming to dinner, and no, you don't get a vote.”
I tried to step around her. She moved with me, staying in my way.
“I hate you,” I said.
“No you don't. Car. Now.”
I sighed and followed her to her beat-up Honda because arguing with Leah was like arguing with a wall. Pointless and exhausting.
She drove us to her apartment in the north end, the one she shared with her roommate who was conveniently never home when Leah decided to stage family interventions. The building was old but clean, the kind of place young professionals lived when they were still paying off student loans.
Her apartment smelled like garlic and tomatoes, something cooking on the stove that made my stomach clench with hunger I'd been ignoring for hours.
“Sit,” she ordered, pointing at the kitchen table.
I sat.
She stirred whatever was in the pot, then grabbed two beers from the fridge and handed me one. “You're allowed exactly one of these because I'm driving you home. But you look like you need it.”
“Thanks, I think.”
She sat across from me, cracking her own beer, and took a long drink before hitting me with that look. The one that said she had an agenda and I wasn't escaping until she got what she wanted.
“So,” she said. “When are you coming home to see Mom and Dad?”
I groaned. “Not you too.”
“Yes, me too. Mom's been texting me asking if you're eating properly. Dad wants to know when you're visiting. And I quote, 'It's been six weeks since we've seen him, Leah. Six weeks. Tell him to come home.'”
“I've been busy.”
“You're always busy. Come on, Jace. One Sunday. That's all they're asking for. Show up, let Mom feed you, let Dad talk your ear off about whatever project he's working on in the garage, then leave. Easy.”
“I'll go when I have time.”
“You have Mondays off.”
“I have training on Mondays.”
“You have morning skates on Mondays. You're done by noon. Drive out, have lunch, drive back. You can manage four hours.”
I took a drink instead of answering, and Leah's expression softened slightly.
“They miss you,” she said quietly. “And I know you're in your hockey bubble, but they're your parents. Throw them a bone occasionally.”
“I know. I will. Just... not this week. Practice just started and we've got exhibition games coming up and—”
“Excuses.”
“Facts.”
She rolled her eyes and got up to check the food. “Fine. But I'm telling Mom you promised to visit soon, so now you have to actually do it.”
“I didn't promise—”
“Too late. Already composing the text.” She pulled out her phone and started typing with one hand while stirring with the other.
“You're the worst.”
“I'm the best and you know it.” She set her phone down and turned to face me, leaning against the counter. “Also, speaking of personal lives...”
Oh no. I knew that tone.
“What?” I asked warily.
“I'm seeing someone.”
I sat up straighter. “You're what?”
“Seeing someone. Dating. The thing normal people do.”
“Who?”
“His name is Dean. He's a resident at the hospital. Orthopedics.”
“How long?”
“Two months.”
“Two months? And you're just telling me now?”
She raised an eyebrow. “You want to talk about communication breakdowns, Mr. I-Don't-Answer-Texts-For-A-Week?”
Fair point.
“What's he like?” I asked, already running through the mental checklist of things I needed to know to determine if this guy was good enough for my sister.
“He's nice. Smart. Funny. Good with patients. Has his shit together.”
“That's the PR version. What's he actually like?”
Leah smiled, the real one that reached her eyes. “He's good, Jace. Really good. He laughs at my terrible jokes. He brings me coffee on long shifts. He doesn't get weird about me making more money than him. And he's never once tried to use me to get to you, which is a refreshing change.”
That last part made my jaw tighten. “Has that been a problem?”
“It's always a problem. You're semi-famous. People are weird about it.” She waved a hand dismissively. “But Dean doesn't give a shit about hockey. Thinks it's boring, actually, which I find deeply amusing.”
“He thinks hockey is boring?”
“Deeply, profoundly boring. Said he tried to watch a game once and fell asleep in the second period.”
I should've been offended, but instead I found myself relaxing slightly. A guy who didn't care about hockey meant a guy who wasn't dating Leah to get close to me or the team. That was something.
“When do I meet him?” I asked.
“You don't.”
“What do you mean I don't?”
“I mean you're not doing the intimidating brother routine. Not yet. We're taking it slow, and I don't need you showing up and scaring him off with your hockey player energy.”
“I don't have hockey player energy.”
She laughed. “Jace. You absolutely have hockey player energy.
You walk into a room like you own it. You're built like you could bench press a car.
And you have resting asshole face that makes grown men nervous.
So no, you're not meeting him until I decide you're ready to behave like a normal human.”
“I'm normal.”
“You're absolutely not normal. You're a professional athlete who lives in a bubble and hasn't had a serious relationship in three years. Normal people don't live like that.”
“I've been busy.”
“You've been hiding.” She said it gently, but it still landed like a punch. “But that's a different conversation. Right now, we're talking about Dean, and the answer is no, you can't meet him yet. Maybe in a few months if things keep going well.”
I wanted to argue, but she was right. I would absolutely show up in full big brother mode and probably scare the guy off. Leah deserved better than that.
“Fine,” I said. “But if he hurts you—”
“You'll what? Fight him? He's an orthopedic surgeon. He could probably diagram exactly where to hit you to cause maximum damage.”
“I'm serious.”
“So am I.” She came back to the table and sat down, reaching across to squeeze my hand. “I appreciate the protective instinct. I do. But I'm okay. He's good to me. And if that changes, you'll be the first person I call to help me bury the body.”
“Deal.”
She grinned and got up to serve dinner. The pasta was incredible—some kind of homemade sauce situation that tasted better than anything I'd eaten in weeks.
We ate and talked about her roommate's terrible dating life, Dad's latest garage project involving a vintage motorcycle he had no business trying to restore, and Mom's book club drama that somehow involved a feud over who got to host next month.
Normal sibling shit. The kind of conversation that had nothing to do with hockey or performance or being Jace Hartley the Brand. Just me and Leah, the way it had been since we were kids.
“This is good,” I said, gesturing at the pasta.
“I know. Mom's recipe. She'd kill me if she knew I wasn't sharing it with you so you could make it yourself.”
“I don't cook.”
“You could learn.”
“Why would I learn when you make it for me?”
She threw a piece of bread at my head. “You're impossible.”
“You love me.”
“Debatable.”
We finished eating, and she packed me leftovers despite my protests. When she drove me back to my building, she put the car in park and turned to look at me.
“Go see Mom and Dad,” she said. “I'm serious. They miss you.”
“I will. Soon.”
“This month.”
“Leah—”
“This month, Jace. Or I'm telling Mom you're living on protein shakes and spite, and she'll show up at your apartment with a week's worth of food and an interrogation plan.”
The threat was real. Mom absolutely would do that.
“Fine. This month.”
“Good.” She handed me the container of leftovers. “And text me more. I like knowing you're alive.”
“I'll try.”
“Love you.”
“Love you too.”
I got out and watched her drive away, then headed inside with the leftovers and the warm feeling that came from being around family who gave a shit about you even when you were being difficult.