Chapter 24 Exposure #2
“Maybe. Or maybe you'll need more time. Either way, we follow Tess's protocol. No pushing past your limits just because prelims are coming.”
“I know.” But his eyes said otherwise. Said he'd push as hard as he needed to in order to make that roster.
We sat in silence for a moment. The kind of comfortable quiet that came from knowing someone well enough that you didn't need to fill every gap.
“Grant,” he said finally. “Thank you. For letting me practice today. For trusting me.”
“I didn't have much choice. You and Tess clearly had this planned.”
“Maybe. But you could have said no anyway. Could have made it an order.” He met my eyes. “You didn't. So thank you.”
“You're my player. Of course I want you back on the ice.”
“I should go,” he said, standing. “Tess wants me back for recovery work in an hour.”
“Jace—”
He stopped at the door, turned back.
“You really did do well today,” I said. “The team needed to see you out there.”
His smile was small but genuine. “Good. Because I needed to be out there.”
He left, and I sat staring at the closed door for a long time.
My phone buzzed twenty minutes later.
June:
My office. Now. Bring Hartley.
My stomach dropped. June didn't summon people to her office unless something was wrong. And the fact that she wanted both of us meant it was something that involved both of us.
Fuck.
I found Hartley in the training room with Tess, ice packs strapped to his shoulder and leg. “June wants to see us. Now.”
His eyes widened slightly. “Both of us?”
“Both of us.”
Tess looked between us, frowning. “What's this about?”
“I don't know yet. But we need to go.”
Hartley stripped off the ice packs and followed me down the hallway.
June's office door was open. She was sitting behind her desk with her tablet, expression carefully neutral in a way that made my chest tighten.
“Sit,” she said.
We sat.
She closed the door, moved back behind her desk, and pulled up something on her tablet. Then she turned it around to face us without a word.
Photos. Grainy but unmistakably clear. Jace and me at the cabin—one showed us sitting on the porch, shoulders touching.
Another caught us on the trail, my hand on his lower back as I guided him over rough terrain.
A third showed us through the cabin window, close enough that there was no innocent explanation for the proximity.
The blog post headline read:
WOLVES COACH SUTHERLAND AND STAR PLAYER HARTLEY: CABIN RETREAT RAISES EYEbrOWS
Below it, the article speculated about the “unusual closeness” between a head coach and his player. About the “questionable optics” of a week-long private retreat. About whether this explained Hartley's “preferential treatment” in practice.
My blood went cold.
“This went live three hours ago,” June said, voice perfectly calm.
“It's on a mid-level sports blog with decent traffic.
Not major media yet, but it's getting picked up.
I've had five different outlets reach out asking for comment.
Two of them are legitimate sports journalists who won't let this go easily.”
I couldn't look away from the photos. Couldn't stop seeing us through someone else's eyes—how close we were standing, how casual the touches looked, how it very clearly wasn't just coach and player.
“Who took these?” My voice came out flat.
“I don't know. Could be a local who recognized you. Could be someone who was staying nearby and saw an opportunity. Could be someone who was tipped off that you'd be there.” June paused. “Does it matter?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I'm working on finding out. But in the meantime, we have a problem.” She pulled the tablet back. “Right now, this is speculation. Gossip. No hard evidence beyond proximity. But that changes the second either of you confirms anything or someone gets actual proof of a relationship.”
Hartley spoke for the first time, voice tight. “What do we say?”
“Nothing. Absolutely nothing beyond the official statement.” June pulled up something else on her tablet.
“I've already drafted a response that went out an hour ago.
This is not uncommon in professional sports and reflects the organization's commitment to player health and wellbeing. We have no further comment.'”
“Will that be enough?”
“For now. But only if you both stick to it. Consistently. No off-the-record comments. No 'setting the record straight.' Nothing.” She looked between us. “I need to know right now—is there anything else out there? Any other photos? Text messages? Emails? Witnesses who might come forward?”
I thought about Rook. About Owen. About every moment we'd been careful and every moment we hadn't.
“No,” I said. “We've been careful.”
June's eyes narrowed slightly, like she was trying to decide if I was lying. “No one saw you together at the cabin besides whoever took those photos?”
“We didn't see anyone else. It was remote.”
She turned to Hartley. “What about you? Anyone you might have told? Friends? Teammates? Family?”
Hartley's expression stayed neutral. “No. There's nothing.”
June studied us both for a long moment.
“I hope you're telling me the truth,” she said finally. “Because if something else surfaces and I wasn't prepared for it, I can't protect you.”
“There's nothing else,” I said.
“Good.” She pulled up another tab on her tablet and turned it around. This time it showed the league's Code of Conduct, highlighted section about relationships between coaching staff and players.
“The league has explicit rules about this.
A head coach entering into a romantic or sexual relationship with a player under his direct supervision is grounds for immediate termination.
No appeals. No second chances. It's designed to prevent favoritism, coercion, and abuse of power dynamics.” She paused.
“If the league investigates and finds evidence that you two are in a relationship, Grant loses his job.
Permanently. And Jace, you'll be traded immediately to remove you from the situation.”
My chest felt like it was being crushed. “June—”
“I'm not done.” Her voice was harder now.
“Beyond the league rules, there's the court of public opinion.
If this story gets bigger—if actual proof surfaces—you become a cautionary tale.
The coach who couldn't keep it in his pants. The player who slept his way into preferential treatment. Neither of you will ever fully shake that reputation.”
Hartley's face had gone pale. “We understand.”
“Do you? Because those photos suggest otherwise.” She closed the tablet.
“Here's what happens now. No private meetings unless they're documented with witnesses. No closed-door sessions in your office. No car rides together. No being seen in public together outside of required team functions. And absolutely no more cabin trips or anything that could be photographed.”
“For how long?” I asked.
“Until this blows over. Which could be a week, a month, or the rest of the season depending on how the media cycle plays out and whether anything else surfaces.” She looked at me.
“And Grant, I need you to be especially careful about any perception of favoritism.
Hartley's ice time needs to be justifiable. His role needs to make sense given his performance and health status. No special treatment.”
“I don't give him special treatment.”
“Then it won't be a problem.” But her tone said she wasn't convinced. “I'm trying to protect you both. But I can only do that if you're smart enough to protect yourselves. Can you do that?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Yes,” Hartley echoed.
“Good. Now get out of my office. And for god's sake, don't do anything stupid.”
We left without another word.
In the hallway, Hartley stopped and leaned against the wall. “Fuck.”
“Yeah.”
“My place is out. Yours is too. Anywhere public is definitely out.” He ran a hand through his hair. “So where does that leave us?”
“It leaves us being careful,” I said. “Being smart. Not giving them anything else.”
“And us? Do we just... stop?”
I wanted to say no. Wanted to tell him that we'd find a way, that we'd be more careful, that I wasn't willing to give this up just because of some photos and a blog post.
But those photos had been a wake-up call. We'd thought we were being careful, and someone had still gotten close enough to capture us together. Had still found evidence of what we were trying to hide.
“We need to cool it,” I said, hating every word. “At least until this dies down. Until the media loses interest.”
“How long?”
“I don't know. A few weeks. Maybe longer.”
He looked miserable. “I hate this.”
“Me too. But June's right. If we get caught—if there's actual proof—we lose everything. Both of us.”
“I know.” He pushed off the wall. “I should go. Tess is waiting.”
“Jace—”
“It's fine. I get it.” But his voice said it wasn't fine. “We'll be careful. We'll be smart. We'll pretend there's nothing between us.”
He left without looking back.