Chapter 25 Truth
TRUTH
JACE
Rehab sucked.
Not the exercises themselves—those were fine, manageable, the kind of controlled pain that meant progress.
What sucked was the endless fucking monotony of it.
Resistance bands. Range of motion work. Ice.
Heat. Massage. Repeat. Six hours a day of doing things that would've taken thirty seconds on the ice but now required detailed attention and careful monitoring.
Tess was thorough. Exactly the same as she'd been before the photos broke two days ago. If anything, she seemed more focused—like she'd decided the best way to deal with the media shitstorm was to ignore it completely and just do her job.
“How's that feel?” she asked, pressing on a trigger point that made me wince.
“Fine.”
“Scale of one to ten.”
“Four. Maybe five.”
“So realistically a seven.” She made a note on her tablet without looking up. “You're still compensating. Favoring it without realizing.”
“I'm not—”
“Jace.” She looked at me then, expression flat. “I can tell when you're lying about pain. Don't.”
I exhaled hard and told the truth. “Seven. Yeah.”
“Better.” She moved to my leg and started to work on my hamstring. “This is tighter than yesterday. You overdid it.”
“I followed your protocol.”
“You followed my protocol and then did extra work when you thought no one was watching.” Her voice wasn't accusatory. Just factual. “I can see the inflammation. The muscle fatigue. You can't hide it from me.”
Busted.
“I need to be ready,” I said quietly.
“Then stop doing stupid shit that sets you back.” She pressed harder on a knot, and I hissed through my teeth. “You promised me you'd be honest. You promised you'd follow the plan. That includes not adding extra reps when my back is turned.”
“I'm just trying to—”
“I know what you're trying to do. And I'm telling you it won't work.” She switched to a different angle, working deeper into the muscle. “You can't rush healing, Jace. Your body doesn't care how badly you want to play in prelims. It heals on its own timeline.”
“What if that timeline isn't fast enough?”
“Then it isn't fast enough.” She looked at me. “But if you keep pushing past your limits, you'll make it slower. You'll re-injure yourself. And then instead of maybe being ready for prelims, you'll definitely be out. Is that what you want?”
“No.”
“Then trust the process. Do the work I tell you to do. Nothing more, nothing less.” She stepped back, wiped her hands. “You made me a promise, remember? That you'd be honest. That you'd follow protocol. I'm holding you to that.”
I thought about that conversation. About signing the compliance agreement. About choosing my career over my pride.
“You're right. I'm sorry.”
“Don't apologize. Just do better tomorrow.” She checked her tablet. “You're done for today. Ice the shoulder for twenty minutes, then you're clear. And Jace?”
“Yeah?”
“Whatever's happening with the media, with the photos, with all the noise—I don't care. That's not my job. My job is getting you functional enough to play hockey again.” Her voice was firm. “So when you're in this room, we focus on that. Nothing else matters. Understood?”
“Understood.”
She left, and I sat there in the treatment room alone, icing my shoulder and trying to compartmentalize. Trying to separate the rehab work from the media circus. Trying to focus on what I could control—the exercises, the recovery, the slow march toward being game-ready.
Everything else would have to wait.
I was halfway through the ice protocol when the door opened and Rook walked in.
He stood in the doorway in workout clothes, arms crossed, expression unreadable. He looked at me for a long moment, then jerked his head toward the hallway.
“Come on,” he said.
“I'm icing—”
“You're done icing. Get dressed. We're going to the gym.”
“Rook, I really don't—”
“Wasn't a request, Hart.” His voice was calm but firm. Captain voice. The one that didn't allow for argument. “Get dressed. Five minutes.”
He left before I could protest.
I peeled off the ice pack and got dressed slowly, my stomach churning with anxiety.
I pulled on sweats and a hoodie and followed him down the hallway to the facility gym. The door was closed, which was unusual for this time of day. Usually guys filtered in and out, doing maintenance work or extra conditioning.
Rook pushed the door open and I saw why it was closed.
The entire team was there.
My pulse spiked. “What is this?”
“Team meeting,” Rook said simply, and closed the door behind me.
I looked around the room. Volkov leaned against the squat rack, massive arms crossed, expression neutral.
Mace stood near the bench press, looking uncomfortable.
Finn sat on a medicine ball, bouncing slightly, eyes bright with curiosity.
Benny was in the corner, quiet and watchful. Tate, Mercer, Callahan, Sato—everyone.
“Sit,” Rook said, gesturing to a bench.
I sat. My shoulder ached. My leg ached. My entire body was vibrating with tension.
Rook moved to stand in the center of the room, and the space went quiet. He looked at each player in turn, then back at me.
“We've got a situation,” he said. Voice calm. Measured. “Media's having a field day. Front office is scrambling. And our teammate is in the middle of it.” He paused. “So we're going to talk about it. Here. As a team. And whatever gets said in this room stays in this room.”
No one argued.
“Hart.” Rook looked at me. “Before anyone asks you anything, I want you to know something. You're our teammate. You're our brother. And nothing that happened between you and Coach changes that. Got it?”
My throat was too tight to speak. I just nodded.
“Good.” Rook crossed his arms. “Now. Someone ask the question so we can move forward.”
Silence. No one wanted to be the first.
Then Volkov spoke. “Is true? The photos. The relationship. Is real?”
The room held its breath.
I looked at Rook, and he was watching me with those eyes. And then he smiled.
Permission.
I took a breath. “Yeah. It's real.”
The room erupted in groans.
My heart sank. This was it. This was them rejecting me, pulling away, deciding I was too much of a liability to keep around.
But then Finn stood up, grinning like a maniac. “Pay up, fuckers. I called it.”
Benny pulled out his wallet. “You're kidding.”
“Nope.” Finn held out his hand. “Fifty bucks. Each of you.”
Mercer groaned and fished out cash. “I thought you were just hooking up.”
“Hooking up counts!” Finn crowed. “I said they were together. I win.”
“Technically Rook wins too,” Tate muttered, handing over bills. “He knew before any of us.”
I stared at them. “You... you bet on this?”
“Obviously,” Finn said, counting his winnings. “I've been watching you two eye-fuck each other since first practice. It was only a matter of time.”
“What?” My voice came out strangled.
“First practice,” Mace said. “Rook and I both noticed. You were staring at him like he was solving all your problems just by existing.”
“And Coach was staring at you like he wanted to bench you and fuck you in equal measure,” Tate added. “It was painfully obvious.”
My face burned. “Why didn't anyone say anything?”
“Because it wasn't our business,” Rook said simply. He moved to sit on a bench near me, elbows on his knees. “You're both adults. What you do off the ice is your call. We just needed to hear it from you.”
I looked around the room, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Waiting for someone to say they had a problem with it. Part of me almost wanted the outrage—at least that would be familiar. At least I'd know how to handle it.
But nobody said anything.
The silence stretched out, and I felt myself deflate slightly.
“So... that's it?” I said finally. “Nobody's going to freak out? Say something? Demand a trade?”
Callahan looked genuinely confused. “Why would we do that?”
“Because I'm gay. And I've been sleeping with our coach. And that's—” I gestured helplessly. “That's supposed to be a big deal.”
“It is a big deal,” Benny said. “But not because you're gay.”
“Then because—”
Finn interrupted, standing up with sudden theatrical seriousness. “Wait. You're right. We should be outraged.”
I blinked. “What?”
“Guys.” Finn turned to the team, face grave. “We need to talk about this. This is serious.”
Mace caught on immediately, standing with exaggerated shock on his face. “Oh my god. You're right. I can't believe it. I just can't believe it.”
“What the fuck, Hart?” Tate stood too, putting his hand over his heart. “How could you do this to us?”
I felt a grin starting despite myself. “You're fucking with me.”
“Our coach?” Mercer stood, shaking his head in mock disappointment. “Of all people, you chose our coach?”
“He's not even that hot!” Finn threw his hands up. “He's like a six. Maybe a seven on a good day when the lighting's right.”
“And he's old,” Callahan added, getting into it now. “Like, ancient. Practically retirement age.”
I laughed. “He's forty-one, you asshole.”
“Exactly! Ancient!” Finn grabbed a jockstrap from his stall. “You could have done so much better!”
“Could have picked literally anyone else!” Tate grabbed one too.
Volkov stood slowly, face completely serious. “This is unacceptable, Hartley.”
Even Rook was getting into it now, standing with his arms crossed. “Very disappointing choice. Expected better from you.”
“You guys are the worst,” I said, laughing now.
“We trusted you!” Benny was trying not to smile. “We thought you had standards!”
“Yeah!” Finn wound up and threw the jockstrap. It hit me square in the chest. “This is for your terrible taste in men!”
“He's not a six!” I grabbed it and threw it back. “He's at least an eight!”
The room erupted.
“He defended it!” Callahan was wheezing with laughter.
“Hart thinks Coach is hot!” Tate threw another jockstrap. “This is amazing!”
Now they were all grabbing them—used, sweaty athletic gear flying through the air. I was dodging and laughing and trying to throw them back.
“This is for the old man!” Mercer lobbed one.