Chapter 22 Return
RETURN
GRANT
The highway signs started saying Toronto and I realized I'd been gripping the steering wheel like it was the only thing holding me together.
The cabin was behind us now, fading into memory like a dream I'd half-convinced myself hadn't happened.
But Jace was asleep in the passenger seat beside me—mouth slightly open, head tipped against the window, hair a mess—and that was real enough.
Proof that the past week hadn't been some fever dream born of desperation and bad decisions.
I'd woken him early that morning, told him we needed to head back.
He'd argued, of course, because that's what Jace did when he didn't want to face something.
But I'd seen the resignation underneath the protest, the way he'd already started packing before I'd finished talking.
He knew we couldn't hide forever. Knew the calendar was closing in whether we were ready or not.
He'd fallen asleep twenty minutes into the drive, knocked out by pain meds and exhaustion. I'd let him sleep. Let him have a few more hours of peace before reality came crashing back in.
My phone buzzed in the cupholder for the third time in ten minutes.
I glanced down—Paul's name lighting up the screen—and sent it to voicemail without answering.
June had called twice already. So had my assistant coach.
Messages kept piling up, each one a reminder of the world I'd been ignoring while holed up in the woods with my injured star player.
I wasn't ready to answer them yet.
I just needed a few more miles of quiet before the machine started grinding again.
At a red light, I let myself look at Jace.
The bruising on his face had faded to a dull yellow, but I could still see the ghost of impact.
His shoulder was wrapped under his hoodie, the sling abandoned somewhere in the cabin because he'd insisted he didn't need it anymore.
His leg was stretched out carefully, finding the most comfortable position in the cramped space.
He looked younger when he slept. Less guarded. The sharp edges smoothed out, the armor stripped away, leaving just a twenty-six-year-old kid who'd been carrying the weight of a franchise on his back and didn't know how to put it down.
I felt protective and furious at the same time.
Protective because he was hurt and vulnerable and mine in a way I had no right to claim.
Furious at the injury that had put him here, at the lie he'd built to hide his pain, at the system that had taught him to destroy himself for applause, at myself for wanting him anyway when I knew better.
The light turned green and I forced my eyes back to the road.
Traffic thickened as we got closer to the city, the highway clogging with afternoon commuters and delivery trucks. I merged lanes carefully, avoiding any sudden movements that might jostle Jace awake. He needed the rest. Needed whatever peace he could steal before we walked back into the fire.
The city skyline came into view, glass towers catching the afternoon light.
I glanced at Jace again and found his eyes open, staring out the window at the familiar streets sliding past. “You're awake,” I said.
“Yeah.” His voice was rough, groggy. “How long was I out?”
“Couple hours.”
“Fuck. Sorry.”
“Don't apologize. You needed the rest.” I kept my eyes on the road, navigating through traffic. “How are you feeling?”
“Like shit.” He shifted in his seat, winced. “But I'll live.”
“That's the goal.”
He was quiet for a moment, then asked, “You ready for this?”
“No. But we're doing it anyway.”
“Yeah.” He rubbed a hand over his face, trying to wake himself up fully. “What's the plan?”
“Get you home. Get you settled. Then we talk about what comes next.”
He didn't argue. Just nodded once and went back to staring out the window.
I pulled into the parking garage of his building twenty minutes later and killed the engine. For a moment, neither of us moved. Just sat there in the sudden quiet, staring at concrete pillars and expensive cars, neither of us ready to cross the threshold back into our regular lives.
Jace sighed but he looked at me smiled. “Home sweet home.”
I reached over, squeezed his hand once. “Come on. Let's get you upstairs.”
I helped him out of the car, steadying him with a hand at his elbow when his leg protested the movement. He was limping worse than he had been at the cabin but he gritted his teeth and moved anyway, stubborn as ever.
We made it to the elevator, rode up in silence, and walked down the hallway toward his door. I had my hand on his lower back, supporting him without making it obvious, and felt him tense as we got closer.
“You okay?” I asked.
“Yeah. Just...” He trailed off, jaw tight. “I don't know. Feels weird being back.”
“It'll get easier.”
“You don't know that.”
“No. But I'm choosing to believe it anyway.”
He almost smiled. Almost. Then he pulled out his keys and unlocked the door.
The second it swung open, I knew something was wrong.
Voices. Movement. The smell of takeout food. And then—
“Surprise!”
Jace froze in the doorway, and I looked past him to see half the fucking team crammed into his living room.
Rook sitting on the arm of the couch, Callahan bouncing on his toes near the kitchen, O'Rourke leaning against the counter with his arms crossed and a small smile pulling at his mouth.
Cho was there too, and a couple others I recognized from practice.
Takeout bags covered the coffee table. Someone had hung a lopsided banner that said Welcome Back in what looked like marker on printer paper. The whole thing screamed “planned by guys who'd never thrown a party before and didn't know what the fuck they were doing.”
It should've been ridiculous. Instead, it made my chest go tight.
Callahan bounded forward like an overexcited puppy. “Hart! Holy shit, you look terrible. But like, in a cool way. Battle scars and stuff.” He stopped a few feet away, grinning. “We brought food. And beer. And Rook made us promise not to ask stupid questions, but I have so many stupid questions.”
“Finn,” Rook said from the couch. Warning.
“What? I'm just saying—”
“Don't.” Rook stood up, walked over slowly, and looked at Jace with those tired captain eyes that saw too much. “You're still ours,” he said simply. “You don't get to disappear.”
I watched Jace's throat work. He nodded once, not trusting his voice, and Rook clapped him carefully on the good shoulder.
“Come on,” Rook said. “Sit down before you fall over. You look like you're about to pass out.”
Jace let himself be guided to the couch, moving stiffly, and I stayed in the doorway watching the team absorb his condition.
O'Rourke pushed off the counter and walked over to me, voice low. “Coach.”
“O'Rourke.”
“You brought him back.”
“Yeah.”
“Good.” He paused, studied my face. “You look like shit too.”
“Thanks.”
I stepped inside and closed the door behind me, watching the guys settle into an easy rhythm. Callahan told a terrible joke that made Jace's mouth twitch despite himself. Rook handed him a container of lo mein and told him to eat something.
It was awkward and heartfelt and exactly what he needed.
After about thirty minutes, when the energy started to wind down and guys began making noises about leaving, I caught Jace's eye and tilted my head toward the bedroom. He nodded slightly, understanding.
Rook noticed. “You guys need to talk?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Won't take long.”
“Take your time.” Rook looked at Jace.
I walked into Jace's bedroom, knowing he'd follow when he was ready. The room was exactly as he'd left it—bed unmade, clothes on the floor, the organized chaos of someone who'd left in a hurry and hadn't looked back.
I heard the bedroom door close and turned to find Jace leaning against it, arms crossed, expression guarded. “That was unexpected,” he said.
“Good unexpected or bad unexpected?”
“I don't know yet.” He was quiet for a moment, jaw working like he was deciding something. Then: “You texted Rook, didn't you?”
“Yeah. This morning. Told him we were heading back today.”
“And he organized all of that.” Not a question.
“Looks like it.”
Jace stared at me, and I could see him moving toward something and then I watched him choose not to go there. His shoulders dropped slightly. His expression shifted into something carefully neutral.
“I'm okay,” he said.
“I know.”
“I mean it.”
“I know you do.” I held his gaze and didn't push. He wasn't ready, and pushing wouldn't get me anywhere he'd let me stay. “We don't have to do this right now.”
He glanced back toward the door, at the muffled sound of the guys still moving around in the other room.
“They're going to eat all the lo mein,” he said.
“Callahan already has.”
He huffed and pushed off the door. “Come on, then.”
We went back out, and within thirty seconds Rook had handed Jace a container of food without being asked. Jace took it like he was on autopilot. I stayed near the edge of the room and watched him settle back into the noise.
Callahan launched into some story about a disastrous power play drill where Mercer had accidentally sent the puck into the stands and nearly hit a photographer. O'Rourke added his own commentary, dry and cutting, and Jace laughed.
After about forty-five minutes, guys started drifting toward the door. Schedules to keep, families to get back to, the usual Sunday evening exodus. Rook was the last to leave.
“You good?” Rook asked.
“Getting there.”
“Good. Because we need you back.”
Jace's throat worked. “Yeah. I know.”
Rook clapped him on the good shoulder and headed for the door. He stopped beside me on the way out, voice dropping low. “You bringing him to the facility tomorrow?”
“Yeah. We need to talk to Paul and medical. Get everything on record.”
“He ready for that?”
“He will be.” I met Rook's eyes. “Thanks for this. For showing up.”
“Wasn't for you, Coach.” But there was no heat in it. “See you tomorrow.”