Chapter 21 Campfire
CAMPFIRE
JACE
By day three in the cabin, I was ready to crawl out of my own skin.
Not because of Grant—having him there had been.
.. good. Better than good. The mornings waking up tangled together, the lazy afternoons where we didn't have to perform for anyone, the nights where we fell asleep to the sound of wind in the trees instead of arena noise.
It was the most peace I'd had in years, and it was driving me insane.
Because peace meant stillness. And stillness meant thinking.
And thinking meant confronting every decision I'd made that had led me here: injured, benched, hiding in the woods with my coach-turned-whatever-the-fuck-we-were, trying to figure out how to go back to a life that suddenly felt too small for what I wanted.
I needed to move. Needed fresh air and trees that weren't framed by a window. Needed to prove to myself that my body still worked even if it was slower, weaker, more broken than it used to be.
“I need to get out of here,” I said.
Grant looked up from the book he'd been reading—some dense thing about hockey systems that made my brain hurt just looking at it. “Out where?”
“Outside. A walk. A hike. Something.” I gestured toward the window where afternoon light was filtering through the pines. “I've been sitting on my ass for three days and I feel like I'm dying.”
“You're recovering.”
“I'm going stir-crazy.” I stood up, testing the leg automatically. Still sore, still tight, but manageable. “Come on. Just an easy trail. I promise I won't do anything stupid.”
Grant closed the book and studied me with that look—the one that catalogued every tell, every weakness, every risk before making a decision. “Okay. But we do it my way.”
“Okay.”
“The second you feel pain we turn back.”
I wanted to argue that I knew my own limits, but the truth was I'd spent months ignoring those limits and look where it had gotten me. So I swallowed the automatic pushback and said, “Deal.”
Twenty minutes later we were in Grant's car heading down a forest service road he'd found on his phone, some easy loop trail that was rated for families and people who didn't know what real hiking was.
The trailhead was small—just a wooden sign and a dirt parking lot with one other car. Grant parked and turned to look at me, and I saw the worry he was trying to hide behind his coach mask. “Last chance to change your mind.”
“I'm not changing my mind.”
“Then let's go.”
I grabbed my water bottle from the cupholder and climbed out of the car before I could say something embarrassing about how much it meant that he cared enough to worry.
The trail started gentle—wide and well-maintained, winding through tall pines that blocked most of the wind.
The air was cold and clean, smelling like snow and earth.
I took the first few steps carefully, testing my weight on the bad leg, feeling for the pull of scar tissue or the warning ache that meant I was pushing too hard.
It held.
Grant fell into step beside me, matching my pace without making it obvious. Not hovering, exactly, but present in a way that said he was ready to catch me if I stumbled. I should've been annoyed. Instead, I was grateful.
“This okay?” he asked after a few minutes.
“Yeah. It's good.” And it was. The rhythm of walking, the quiet sound of our boots on dirt, the way my body remembered how to move even when it was slower than I wanted. “Thanks for doing this.”
“You don't have to thank me.”
“I know. But I'm going to anyway.” I glanced at him, caught the small smile pulling at his mouth. “What?”
“Nothing. Just... you're different up here.”
“Different how?”
“Softer. Less guarded.” He kept his eyes on the trail ahead. “I like it.”
My chest did that stupid thing it had been doing since the first night he'd shown up at my door. “Don't get used to it. The second we're back in Toronto, I go back to being a pain in the ass.”
“Looking forward to it.”
We walked in comfortable silence for a while, and I let myself get lost in the rhythm. Step, breathe, step, breathe. The leg was holding up better than I'd expected, and the shoulder was manageable as long as I didn't try to use it for anything stupid. I felt almost normal. Almost whole.
“How's the leg?” Grant asked, pulling me out of my thoughts.
“Fine. Stop asking.”
“Not possible.”
I rolled my eyes but didn't argue.
We rounded a bend in the trail and came to a small clearing with a fallen log positioned perfectly for sitting. Grant gestured toward it. “Break.”
“We've only been walking for twenty minutes.”
“And we're taking a break.” His voice had that tone—coach voice, no negotiation. “Sit.”
I sat. He handed me the water bottle and I drank, trying not to think about how fucking domestic this felt. Two guys on a hike, sharing water, taking care of each other. Normal. Easy. Everything I'd convinced myself I couldn't have.
Grant sat down beside me, close enough that our shoulders touched. “You okay?”
“Yeah. I'm good.” I paused, then added quieter, “I miss them.”
“The team?”
“Yeah.” I stared out at the trees, feeling the admission settle heavy in my chest.
Grant was quiet for a moment, and when he spoke, his voice was soft. “They miss you too.”
“You don't know that.”
“I do. Rook asks about you every day. Mercer's been texting me updates about stupid locker room shit he thinks you'd find funny.
Even Finn's been moping around like someone stole his favorite toy.” He bumped his shoulder against mine.
“You matter to them. Not because of what you do on the ice. Because of who you are.”
My throat went tight. “Don't make me cry on a fucking hiking trail.”
“Noted.” But I heard the smile in his voice.
We sat there for a few more minutes, drinking water and not talking, and I felt something shift inside me. A decision taking shape, edges still blurry but the center becoming clear. I wasn't ready to name it yet, wasn't ready to say it out loud. But it was there, growing stronger with every breath.
“Come on,” Grant said finally, standing and offering me his hand. “Let's keep moving.”
I took it, let him pull me up, and we headed back down the trail.
By the time we made it back to the parking lot, the sun was lower in the sky and my leg was starting to protest. Not pain, exactly—just the deep ache that said I'd done enough. Grant noticed immediately, of course, because the man missed nothing.
“How are you feeling?”
“Tired. But good.” I leaned against the car, stretching the leg carefully. “That helped. Being out here, moving. It helped.”
“Good.” He opened the trunk and pulled out a small backpack I hadn't noticed before. “So here's an idea. There's a campsite about half a mile from here. Close to the car, easy access, completely flat. We could set up for the night. Camp under the stars. Head back to the cabin tomorrow morning.”
I stared at him. “You planned this.”
“I brought supplies just in case you wanted to.” He looked almost sheepish. “Figured you might need more than just a walk.”
Something warm bloomed in my chest. “You're full of surprises, Coach.”
“Is that a yes?”
“Hell yes.”
The campsite was exactly what he'd promised—a small clearing with a fire ring, close enough to the car that we could see it through the trees. Grant pulled out a tent and sleeping bags and a small camp stove. I just stood there and watched him work.
“You camp a lot?” I asked.
“Used to. Before...” He trailed off, but I knew what he meant.
“Well, I'm glad you remembered how.” I grabbed one of the tent poles and immediately regretted it when my shoulder protested. “Fuck.”
“Let me.” Grant took the pole from me gently.
We worked together, him driving stakes into the ground and securing the structure while I threaded poles through loops and tied off guy lines.
I struggled with one of the knots, fingers clumsy from the cold, and swore under my breath. Grant appeared beside me, hands covering mine, guiding the rope through the right pattern. “Like this.”
His breath was warm against my neck, and I felt the familiar pull of wanting him.
“Got it?” he asked, voice low.
“Yeah. Thanks.”
He stepped back, and I finished securing the line, then turned to find him watching me with that look—the one that made my pulse spike and my brain go quiet.
He kissed me, soft and brief. “Come on. Let's get the fire going.”
We built the campfire together. Grant arranged the kindling while I fed small sticks into the growing flames. By the time the sun set completely, we had a decent blaze crackling in the ring, heat pushing back the cold and casting dancing shadows across the clearing.
We sat side by side on a log, shoulders touching, and watched the fire burn. The night was quiet except for the pop of wood and the distant sound of wind moving through the trees.
“Can I ask you something?” Grant asked.
“Yeah.”
“Your hands.” He didn't look at me, just kept watching the flames. “They shake sometimes. I've noticed it for a while now.”
“It's nothing,” I said automatically. “Just nerves before games. Everyone gets—”
“Jace.” He turned to face me then, and his expression was gentle but firm. “I'm not everyone. And I've seen the difference between pre-game adrenaline and what you're dealing with.”
“It's anxiety,” I said finally, the words feeling like an admission of failure. “Panic attacks, sometimes. Started about two years ago.”
“After the playoff miss.”
“Yeah.” I stared at my hands, watching them rest steady against my thighs in the firelight.
They weren't shaking now, but I could still feel the phantom tremor, the memory of every time they'd betrayed me.
“It wasn't like this before. I mean, I always got nervous before big games, but that was normal. That was just... part of it.”
“What changed?”