Chapter 18 No Response #2
Finally, he said, “Next time you make a decision this big, I want a phone call. Before it happens. Not after.”
“If there's time, you'll get one.”
“That's not good enough—”
“It's going to have to be.” I met his eyes. “Because I'm not compromising player safety for protocol. Not for you. Not for anyone.”
The standoff lasted another beat. Then Paul turned and headed for the door.
He paused with his hand on the handle. “You're on thin ice, Grant.”
“I've been on thin ice since I got here.”
He left without another word.
I sat there for another minute, jaw tight, hands curled into fists on the desk.
Then I grabbed my coat and walked out. If the organization wanted a war, they could have one.
But I wasn't going to sit here and wait for them to make the next move.
Not when Jace was out there somewhere, alone, probably spiraling, probably convinced I'd ruined his life.
I needed to find him. And if Rook was right, Owen was the key.
Owen's bar was called The Penalty Box.
Cute. Real fucking cute.
I stepped inside and scanned the room. A handful of regulars sat scattered at tables, nursing beers and watching the game on the small TV above the bar. The bartender was restocking glasses, back turned, lean and quick in his movements. I walked up to the bar and waited.
He turned around, wiping his hands on a towel, and stopped when he saw me. He didn't smile. “Can I help you?” he asked.
“I'm looking for Jace Hartley.”
His expression didn't change, but I saw the flicker of recognition. The slight stiffness in his shoulders. “Don't know him,” he said.
“Bullshit.”
Owen set the towel down and crossed his arms. “Even if I did, why would I tell you?”
“Because I'm his coach. And he's injured, off the grid, and not answering his phone.”
“Maybe he doesn't want to talk to you.”
“Maybe. But I need to know he's okay.”
Owen studied me for a long moment, eyes narrowed, like he was deciding whether I was worth the risk. “You the one who benched him?” he asked.
“Yeah.”
“Good.”
I blinked. “What?”
“He needed someone to stop him.” Owen's voice was quiet but firm. “He's been running himself into the ground for months. If you're the guy who finally said no, then good.”
I didn't know what to say to that. Owen grabbed a glass and started polishing it, movements precise, like he was giving himself something to do with his hands. “You want a drink?” he asked.
“I want to know where he is.”
“You'll get that. But first, you're gonna stand there and let me figure out if you're worth the information.” He set the glass down and leaned against the bar, studying me. “How long?”
“How long what?”
“How long have you two been fucking?”
The directness of it caught me off guard. I felt my jaw tighten, felt the instinct to deny it, to play dumb, to protect Jace and myself and whatever the hell we'd had before I'd destroyed it. But Owen's eyes were steady, unflinching, and I realized lying would be pointless.
“I'm not—” I started, then stopped. “It's not like that.”
“Sure it is.” Owen's voice was matter-of-fact, no judgment, just observation.
“I've known Jace since we were kids. I can read him better than anyone. And the way he talks about you?” He shook his head slightly.
“Man lights up like someone flipped a switch.
Even when he's pissed at you—which he is, by the way—he can't stop talking about you.”
“He told you about us?”
“Didn't have to. I'm not blind.” Owen grabbed another glass, started polishing.
“He called me a couple nights ago. Drunk off his ass and pissed at the world. Spent an hour telling me about you—how you see the game different than anyone else, how you pushed him harder than any coach ever has, how you actually gave a shit when he was falling apart.” He glanced up at me.
“Most guys don't talk about their coach like that unless there's something else going on.”
I didn't say anything. Couldn't.
“Then there's the way he looks at his phone,” Owen continued.
“Waiting for texts. Smiling at stupid shit you probably said.
Getting annoyed when you don't respond fast enough.” He set the glass down.
“And the guilt. That's the big tell. He feels guilty about wanting you, which means he knows it's complicated.
Knows it's risky. Knows it could blow up in his face. But he wants you anyway.”
“Wanted,” I said quietly. “Past tense.”
“Yeah, well. You fucked that up pretty good, didn't you?”
The bluntness should've pissed me off. Instead, it just made me tired. “I didn't have a choice.”
“You did,” Owen said. “You just chose his health over his pride. Which was the right call, for the record. But that doesn't mean it didn't hurt him.”
“I know it hurt him.”
Owen leaned forward slightly, voice dropping.
“It looks like you made a decision and expected him to just accept it.
But Jace doesn't work like that. Hockey isn't just what he does, it's who he is.
You took that away from him, even temporarily, and now he doesn't know what the fuck he's supposed to be.”
“I was trying to protect him.”
“I know. And he knows that too, even if he won't admit it right now.” Owen sighed, grabbed a pen, and pulled a napkin closer.
“But here's the thing, Coach. Jace doesn't need someone to protect him from hockey.
He needs someone to protect him from himself.
And maybe you're that guy. Maybe you're the first person who's ever actually put him first instead of treating him like an asset.” He started writing on the napkin.
“But if you're gonna go up there and try to fix this, you need to understand something.”
“What?”
“He's not just angry about the benching.
He's angry because he let himself care about you, and now he thinks you're gonna leave him like everyone else does when he stops being useful.” Owen slid the napkin across the bar.
An address. Directions. “So if you're going up there to tell him you were right and he was wrong, save yourself the drive.
But if you're going up there because you give a shit about him—not as a player, but as a person—then go. Because he needs that more than he needs hockey right now.”
I picked up the napkin, stared at the address like it was a lifeline. “Does he know you're giving me this?”
“No. And he's gonna be pissed when he finds out. But I'd rather have him pissed and safe than alone and spiraling.” Owen met my eyes. “Two hours north. Middle of nowhere. Barely any cell service once you get past the main road, so don't expect to call ahead. And Coach?”
“Yeah?”
“Don't be a dick about it. He's hurting. And he's scared. And the last thing he needs is you showing up like you're still his coach instead of someone who actually gives a fuck.”
I folded the napkin, shoved it in my pocket, and nodded once. “Thanks.”
“Don't thank me yet. If you break his heart worse than it already is, I know where you work.” Owen's voice was light, but the threat was clear. “And I've got a lot of friends who'd be real interested in making your life difficult.”
“Noted.”
I turned to leave, but Owen's voice stopped me one more time. “Hey, Coach?”
I looked back.
“For what it's worth?” Owen's expression softened slightly. “He talks about you like you matter. Like you're not just another person using him for what he can do on the ice. So maybe you're good for each other. Maybe you're both just too fucked up to see it right now.”