Chapter 17 Doctor’s Orders #2
“Why?”
His eyes snapped to mine, and there was fire there despite the pain meds. “Because I knew what would happen if I didn't. The front office would flag me. They'd start monitoring every little thing. They'd see me as damaged goods. Injury-prone. A risk.” His voice cracked slightly. “I'd lose my spot.”
“So you lied.”
“I didn't lie. I just didn't tell the whole truth.”
“That's the same fucking thing!” My control broke, voice rising.
“You hid a significant injury that could have ended your career. You played through pain that could have caused permanent damage. And you dragged Tess into it, made her complicit in hiding medical information that I needed to know about.”
“I was fine! I managed it. I did the rehab. I did everything right.”
“Except you didn’t. That old tear is showing signs of re-injury. Because you pushed too hard, too fast, and now your body is breaking down.”
He flinched like I'd hit him.
“This isn't about toughness,” I continued, voice rough. “This isn't about wanting it bad enough. This is about your health. Your future. Your ability to walk normally when your career is over.”
“I don't care about that. I care about playing.”
“Well I fucking care! I care that you could have ruined your leg. I care that you're risking permanent damage. I care that you lied to me about something that could have cost you everything.”
The room went quiet except for the beeping of the monitor.
Jace stared at me, and I watched his expression shift—from defiant to something softer, more vulnerable. “Grant—”
The door opened.
Tess walked in first, followed immediately by June. Our PR director looked like she'd run from the arena—hair slightly messed, makeup immaculate, phone already in her hand.
“Don't say anything else,” June said immediately, eyes locked on Jace. “Not a word. Not until we figure out what the narrative is.”
I stood, putting myself between her and the bed. “This isn't about narrative. This is about his health.”
“Everything is about narrative when you're the face of a franchise.” She turned to Tess. “What's the actual medical situation?”
Tess glanced at me, then at Jace, clearly uncomfortable before telling June everything.
“Fuck.” June started typing on her phone. “Okay. Here's what we say: ongoing evaluation, precautionary measures, no timeline yet. We don't mention the hamstring. We don't mention any previous injuries. We frame it as caution, not catastrophe.”
“June—” I started.
“No.” She looked up at me. “I know you want to do the right thing here, Grant, but the optics matter. Star player down right before prelims? The media is going to go insane. We need to control this before it becomes a story about hidden injuries and medical negligence.”
“Medical negligence is exactly what this is.”
“That's not helping.” She turned back to Jace. “Did anyone else see the imaging? Anyone outside this room know about the hamstring?”
“Just Dr. Warren,” Tess said quietly.
“Good. We keep it that way. The official statement is shoulder injury, timeline uncertain. We buy ourselves time to figure out the full situation before we have to answer questions.”
“He's not playing,” I said.
Everyone turned to look at me.
“Grant—” June started.
“He's not playing. Not in three weeks. Not in six weeks. Not until he's fully healed and cleared by an independent medical professional who doesn't have a vested interest in getting him back on the ice.”
Jace sat up straighter despite the pain. “Coach, you can't—”
“I can and I am. You're benched. Full stop.”
His face went hard, anger flashing in his eyes despite the pain meds. “The team needs me. The prelims—”
“The team needs you healthy more than they need you hurt.” I turned to June. “Put out whatever statement you want. Frame it however you need to. But he's not playing until I say he can, and I'm not saying he can until he's actually ready.”
June's eyes narrowed. “You're making this decision right now? In a hospital room, while he's sedated?”
“Yes.”
“Grant, if we bench him, the speculation is going to be brutal. People are going to ask questions. They're going to wonder if there's more to the story.”
“Let them wonder.”
“And if they find out about the hamstring? If they find out he hid it and we let him play?” Her voice dropped. “That's a scandal. That's investigations. That's lawyers and insurance companies and a media shitstorm that could destroy all of us.”
“Then we get ahead of it. We admit there was a previous injury that wasn't properly documented. We take responsibility. We move forward with better protocols.” I looked at Tess. “Starting with you never hiding injuries again.”
She flinched but nodded.
“You're willing to throw us all under the bus for this?” June asked.
“I'm willing to do what's right. Even if it costs me.”
June stared at me for a long moment, then turned to Jace. “You have anything to add?”
He was looking at me with something that might have been betrayal or anger or fear—I couldn't tell through the pain meds and exhaustion. “I can play. I can push through it. I've done it before.”
“And look where that got you,” I said quietly.
His jaw clenched. “I won't let the team down.”
“You're not letting anyone down by taking care of yourself.”
“Bullshit.” His voice cracked. “You're benching me right before the biggest games of the season. You're taking away my chance to prove I'm not—” He stopped, breathing hard.
“Not what?”
“Nothing.” He looked away. “Just do what you want. You're the coach.”
The dismissal in his voice hurt more than it should have.
June sighed and typed something else into her phone. “Fine. I'll put out a statement. Ongoing evaluation, no timeline, precautionary measures. But if this blows up, Grant, it's on you.”
“I can live with that.”
She left without another word, and Tess followed after giving Jace one more guilty look.
The room was quiet except for the beeping monitor.
“You should rest,” I said finally.
“I'm fine.”
“You're not fine. You have a separated shoulder and a battered leg and a concussion.”
“I said I'm fine.” His voice was hard, closed off. “You made your decision. I heard you. Now leave me alone.”
“Jace—”
“Get out, Coach.”
Not Grant. Coach.
I stood there for a moment, wanting to say something that would fix this. Wanting to explain that I was trying to protect him, that I was terrified of losing him, that I cared too much to watch him destroy himself for hockey.
But his face was turned away, jaw tight, and I knew he didn't want to hear it.
So I left.
Two days later, I picked him up from the hospital to drive him home to Toronto.
He'd been discharged with a list of medications, physical therapy protocols, and strict orders not to do anything that could aggravate either injury. The media had been camped outside the hospital, so we went out a back entrance and loaded him into my car while June ran interference.
The drive from Boston to Toronto was six hours.
Jace sat in the passenger seat with his arm in a sling, staring out the window. He hadn't said more than ten words to me since the hospital. Hadn't looked at me directly. Hadn't acknowledged that anything had changed between us.
I gripped the steering wheel and kept my eyes on the road and tried not to think about how much it hurt.
“You need to stop for anything?” I asked around hour three.
“No.”
“You hungry? We could grab food—”
“I'm fine.”
“Jace—”
“I don't want to talk to you.” His voice was flat, empty. “Just drive.”
So I did.
By the time we reached Toronto, the sun was setting and my hands were cramping from gripping the wheel too hard. I pulled up outside his building—sleek, modern, the kind of place where hockey stars lived when they were young and single and made too much money.
I got out and moved to help him, but he was already climbing out on his own, wincing but determined.
“I've got it,” he said when I reached for his bag.
“You have one functional arm. Let me help.”
“I said I've got it.”
But he didn't. He struggled with the bag, pain flashing across his face, and I took it from him despite his protest.
“Stubborn,” I muttered.
“Learned from the best.”
We made it to his door, and he fumbled with his keys one-handed. I wanted to reach out and steady him. Wanted to cup his face and make him look at me. Wanted to say all the things I'd been holding back for six hours.
Instead, I set his bag down inside the door and stepped back.
“You have everything you need?”
“Yeah.”
“Physical therapy starts Monday. I'll coordinate with Tess—”
“I’ll handle it myself.”
“Jace, you need support. You need—”
“I need you to leave me alone.” He finally looked at me, and his eyes were hard.
Cold in a way I'd never seen before. “You made your call. You benched me. You took away my chance to play in the prelims. So congratulations, Coach. You kept me safe. You did the right thing. Now get the fuck out of my apartment.”
“I'm not your enemy,” I said quietly.
“You're not my anything.” He stepped back, hand on the door. “Thanks for the ride.”
The door closed in my face.
I stood there in the hallway for a long moment, staring at the wood grain, feeling the weight of everything I'd lost settle into my bones.
I'd done the right thing. I knew that. Benching him was the only choice that kept him safe, that protected his future, that gave him a chance at a full recovery.
But it didn't feel right.
My phone buzzed.
June:
Statement went live. Media wants interviews. Call me.
I silenced it and walked back to my car.
The drive back to my own place was a blur. I parked in the garage and sat there in the dark, hands still on the wheel, and let myself feel it. The guilt. The grief. The terror that I'd just lost him in every way that mattered.
And the worst part was knowing I'd do it again.