Chapter 28
HOMECOMING
JACE
We'd been back in Toronto for two days. The flight from Calgary had been quiet, both of us exhausted from the media circus. But the distance hadn't helped.
The last forty-eight hours had been a blur of rehab sessions and careful practice drills.
Yesterday's practice had been the best yet.
I'd run power play drills with the first unit, taken shots that actually had some power behind them, kept pace with Rook through neutral zone work without my leg giving out.
Tess had even smiled when she checked my mobility after.
Progress. Real, measurable progress.
But the news cycle hadn't stopped. If anything, it had gotten worse.
Photos, speculation, hot takes from people who'd never met me.
My name was trending on three different platforms, and I knew without looking that the comments would be a war zone — half defending me, half tearing me apart, all of them thinking they knew the truth.
I turned my phone face-down on the nightstand and stared at the ceiling.
I thought about Grant's mom. The way she'd opened the door and just pulled him in like it was the most natural thing in the world.
The way the house had felt like somewhere people actually got to be themselves.
I'd sat in that living room and watched Grant's shoulders drop two inches, and I hadn't been able to stop thinking about it since.
I wanted that. Wanted to know if I could have it too.
I picked my phone up and called him before I could talk myself out of it.
He picked up on the second ring. “Jace.”
“I know we just got back,” I said. “I know the timing is a disaster and June would lose her mind and we're both running on nothing.” I pushed off the bed and stood up. “But I need you to come somewhere with me today.”
“Where?”
“My parents' house.” I tested my shoulder with a careful roll.
It protested but held. “I've been thinking about it since Calgary. Since your mom.” I paused, trying to find the right words and coming up short.
“I want them to know. Not a press release, not some managed statement. I want to walk through their door with you and have them know.”
“Jace—”
“I'm not asking you to fix anything. I just don't want to do it alone.” My voice came out rougher than I meant it to. “So either you come with me, or I go by myself and spend the whole time wishing you were there.”
A long pause. “We have practice in two hours.”
“I know. After practice.” The limp was barely noticeable now as I moved toward the bathroom — another sign of progress I should've been more grateful for. “Meet me at Rosewood Coffee, the one on Third Street. It's quiet, off the usual routes. We can go from there.”
He was quiet for a moment, and I could almost hear him working through it. “We take separate cars to the facility,” he said finally. “Leave separately after practice. I'll meet you at Rosewood at one.”
“And then we go together?”
“Together.” His voice had dropped. “But we're smart about it. We park a block away. We don't hand them photos of us arriving.”
“Okay.”
“Jace.” A pause. “Are you sure?”
“No.” I turned the bathroom light on. “But I'm doing it anyway. Rosewood at one.”
I hung up before the anxiety could make me change my mind.
Rosewood Coffee was exactly as I remembered—small, tucked between a bookstore and a dry cleaner, the kind of place where locals went to escape tourists and media attention.
I arrived ten minutes early, wearing a baseball cap pulled low and sunglasses despite the overcast sky, and ordered a black coffee I didn't want.
Grant walked in not long after looking equally anonymous in a dark jacket and no Wolves gear. He spotted me in the back corner and made his way over, moving with that controlled grace that made my stomach clench every time.
“Hey,” he said, sliding into the chair across from me.
“Hey.” I pushed a coffee toward him. “Got you something. Black, two sugars.”
He looked surprised. “You remembered.”
“I pay attention.” I took a sip of my own coffee, needing something to do with my hands. “Thanks for coming.”
“Of course.” He studied my face. “How are you?”
“Tired. Sore. Terrified.” I set the cup down. “But I need to do this. Before someone else tells them, before the narrative gets away from us completely.”
Grant nodded slowly. “What do you want me to say? How do you want to... introduce this?”
“I don't know yet.” I rubbed a hand over my face. “I already told them I'm gay. That part's done. But telling them about us? About you?” I paused. “That's different.”
“Because I'm your coach.”
“Because you're important.” I met his eyes. “And because if they see the headlines before they hear from me, they'll think the worst.”
Grant was quiet for a moment. “Jace, the photos broke a while ago. They've probably already seen them.”
My stomach twisted. “I know.”
“Have they called?”
“No.” That was the part that had been eating at me. “Not once. Not my mom, not my dad, not even Leah.”
“Maybe they're waiting for you to reach out first.”
“Or maybe they're pissed. Maybe they saw the headlines and decided they don't want anything to do with it.” I stared out the window at people passing by on the sidewalk.
Normal people having normal days. “My dad's never been great with this kind of attention.
And my mom—she always worried about my reputation, my career.
This is exactly the kind of scandal she'd hate.”
“You don't know that's what they're thinking.”
“I don't know what they're thinking at all. That's the problem.” I rubbed my face. “The silence isn't a good sign.”
He reached across the table and took my hand. Just for a second, then pulled back when he remembered where we were. “Then we go there. We tell them the truth before anyone else gets to spin it for them.”
“What if they already believe the worst?”
“Then we prove them wrong.” His voice was steady. “But you can't know what they're thinking until you talk to them. And waiting longer just makes it worse.”
He was right. I'd been putting this off since we got back from Calgary, telling myself I was waiting for the right moment, the right words. But really, I was just scared. Scared of the silence. Scared of what it meant.
“We should bring something,” I said finally, needing to focus on something practical. “Can't show up empty-handed after ignoring this for so long.”
“What do they like?”
“Mom loves those raspberry-filled donuts from the bakery next door. Dad pretends he doesn't care about flowers but he always comments when Mom has fresh ones.”
Grant stood. “Then let's get both.”
We walked next door to the small bakery, the bell jingling as we entered. The woman behind the counter smiled at us, completely oblivious to who we were or what buying donuts together might mean to anyone with a camera.
“Dozen donuts, please,” I said. “Mix of raspberry-filled and chocolate glazed.”
While she boxed them up, I found myself watching the door, waiting for someone to walk in with a phone out, ready to capture us together. But nobody came. Just normal people getting coffee and pastries.
Grant paid before I could pull out my wallet. “I've got it.”
“You don't have to—”
“I want to.” He took the box from the counter woman and handed it to me. “Come on. Flowers next.”
The corner shop had a small selection, mostly wilted carnations and tired-looking lilies. But there were white roses in the back cooler, fresh and clean.
“Those,” I said, pointing.
The shopkeeper pulled them out, wrapped them in brown paper with twine. Simple. Classic. The kind of thing my mom would put in a vase on the kitchen table and pretend wasn't a big deal even though she'd rearrange them three times to get them perfect.
Grant paid for those too, ignoring my protests.
“You're meeting my parents,” I said as we walked back to his car. “I should be paying.”
“You're introducing me to your parents because the media forced your hand. I'm paying for the flowers.”
We got in the car, and I sat there with the roses in my lap and the donut box on the console between us, staring at my phone.
Still nothing from my family. No missed calls. No texts.
Just silence.
“They're going to hate me,” I said quietly.
“They won't.”
“You don't know that.”
“No. But I know you.” Grant started the car. “And if they can't see how hard you've worked to protect them from this, how much you care about their opinion, then they're not paying attention.”
I wanted to believe him. Wanted to think that my parents would understand, would support me, would see past the headlines to the truth.
But the silence said otherwise.
“Ready?” Grant asked.
I looked at the flowers in my lap, the bakery box between us, and felt my stomach twist with anxiety. “No. But let's go anyway.”
He pulled out of the parking spot and headed toward my parents' neighborhood. Every mile closer made my chest tighter. Every red light gave me another moment to imagine how this could go wrong.
By the time we turned onto their street, my hands were shaking.
“Jace.” Grant's voice was calm. “Breathe.”
I took a breath. Then another. It didn't help.
“What if they slam the door in my face?”
“Then we leave. And we try again later.”
“What if they tell me they're ashamed?”
“Then they're wrong.” He glanced at me. “But they won't. I don't think that's why they haven't called.”
“Then why haven't they?”
“Maybe they're scared too. Maybe they don't know what to say. Maybe they're waiting for you to make the first move.” He pulled over a block away from the house, just like he'd promised. “Only one way to find out.”
I stared at my parents' house in the distance. The same house I'd grown up in. The same front door I'd walked through a thousand times.
It had never felt this far away before.
Grant parked on the street, killed the engine, and we sat there for a moment.
“Last chance to bail,” I said.
“Not a chance.” He picked up the flowers and donuts. “Come on. Let's do this.”