Coastline
JACE
One month later
“This one's too small.”
Grant closed the apartment listing on his phone and nodded. “Agreed. Next?”
We were sitting in his truck in a coffee shop parking lot, scrolling through rental listings like normal people. Like a couple. It still felt surreal.
One month ago, the world had watched us kiss at center ice. One month ago, June had been fielding death threats and interview requests in equal measure. One month ago, I'd been convinced this would destroy everything.
Now we were apartment hunting.
“What about this one?” I turned my phone toward him. “Two bedroom, close to the arena, allows dogs.”
“We don't have a dog.”
“We could get a dog.”
Grant looked at me, eyebrow raised. “You want a dog?”
“I don't know. Maybe?” I scrolled through the photos. “It just feels like the kind of thing people do when they move in together. Get a dog. Be domestic.”
His mouth twitched. “We can table the dog conversation for after we find a place to live.”
“Fine.” I kept scrolling. “But I'm not ruling it out.”
The past month had been a blur. The league had launched an immediate investigation—interviews with the team, review of my playing time and ice assignments, examination of every decision Grant had made since taking the job.
June had coordinated our statements. Paul had oscillated between damage control and opportunism.
The media had dissected every moment of our relationship they could find evidence of.
And then, two weeks ago, the league had released their findings.
No evidence of favoritism or misconduct. Coach Sutherland maintained professional standards in all on-ice decisions. Player Hartley's ice time and roster placement were consistent with performance metrics. The relationship, while unconventional, did not compromise the integrity of team operations.
Grant had been cleared. Fully. The organization had released a statement supporting him, and Paul—opportunistic bastard that he was—had spun it as the Wolves being “progressive leaders in professional sports.”
Ticket sales had spiked. Sponsorships had increased. Turns out, being on the right side of history was good for business.
But more than that, we were free. Free to be public. Free to be together without hiding. Free to do normal couple shit like argue about apartments and whether we needed two bathrooms or if one was fine.
“This one looks good,” Grant said, showing me his screen. “Three bedroom, close to the lake, updated kitchen.”
“Three bedrooms?”
“Office for you. Gym space for rehab. Master bedroom.”
I studied the listing. It was nice. Really nice. And completely out of our price range if we were splitting it.
“Grant, this is expensive.”
“We can afford it.”
“You can afford it. I haven’t signed the big contract yet.”
“Then I'll cover more until you sign your next deal.” He said it like it was simple. Like money wasn't something we needed to navigate carefully.
“I don't want you paying for everything.”
“Why not?”
“Because—” I stopped, not sure how to articulate it. “Because I don't want to feel like I'm being taken care of. I want this to be equal.”
Grant set his phone down and looked at me. “Jace. I'm forty-one. I've been saving for years. You're twenty-six and just starting out. Our financial situations aren't equal, and pretending they are doesn't help anyone.”
“But—”
“But nothing. We split utilities. We split groceries. We figure out a system that works for both of us. But if I can afford a nicer place and you can't, I'm not going to handicap us just to make it feel fair.”
I exhaled hard. “This is weird.”
“What is?”
“This. Us. Doing normal couple things. I don't know how to do this.”
His expression softened. “Neither do I. But we'll figure it out.”
My phone buzzed. Text from Rook.
Rook:
You guys still looking for a place?
Me:
Yeah why?
Rook:
House next to mine just went on the market. Owner's relocating. Thought you might want first look before it lists publicly.
I showed Grant the text. “Rook's got a lead.”
“Where does Rook live?”
“No idea. Somewhere outside the city, I think.”
Thirty seconds later, Rook sent a listing. I opened it and felt my stomach flip.
It wasn't an apartment. It was a house. Actual house with a yard and a porch and windows that looked out toward water.
“That's not an apartment,” I said.
“No. It's not.” Grant was already reading the details. “It's a house. About forty minutes north of the city. Near the coast.”
“We can't afford a house.”
“We could if we pooled resources. And if the mortgage is comparable to city rent...” He trailed off, doing math in his head. “Actually, it might be cheaper long-term.”
I stared at the photos. The house was beautiful. Not massive, not flashy, just... real. The kind of place you could actually live in instead of just exist in.
“You want to go look at it?” Grant asked.
“Do you?”
“Yeah. I do.”
Forty minutes later, we pulled up in front of the house and I understood why Rook lived out here.
It was quiet. Peaceful. The kind of place where you could hear the ocean and the wind and nothing else. Trees on one side, open space on the other, and beyond it all, the water.
Rook's truck was already in the driveway of the house next door. He walked over as we got out, hands in his pockets, looking relaxed in a way I rarely saw him at the arena.
“You made good time,” he said.
“We were motivated.” Grant shook his hand. “Thanks for the heads up.”
“No problem. Figured you guys might want some space from the city. Out here, people mostly mind their own business.” Rook looked at me. “How's the shoulder?”
“Good. Tess says another two weeks and I'm cleared for full contact.”
“Good.” He nodded toward the house. “Owner's inside. She's expecting you.”
The owner was a woman in her sixties named Margaret who was relocating to be closer to her kids. She showed us through the house with the kind of detached politeness that said she didn't follow hockey and had no idea who we were.
It was perfect.
Open floor plan. Hardwood floors. Kitchen with windows that looked out toward the water. Three bedrooms upstairs. Basement that could be converted to a gym. A porch that wrapped around the front.
“There's an office upstairs,” Margaret said, pointing. “Previous owner used it for work-from-home setup. And the basement has good ventilation if you wanted to use it for exercise equipment.”
Grant and I exchanged looks. This was exactly what we'd been talking about in the truck. Office. Gym. Space to actually live instead of just crash between practices.
“Can we have a minute?” Grant asked.
“Of course. I'll be outside.”
When she left, I turned to Grant. “This is a house.”
“I noticed.”
“We were looking at apartments.”
“We were. But this is better.” He moved to the window, looked out at the water. “This is space. Privacy. Room to actually build something instead of just surviving.”
I joined him at the window. The view was incredible—trees, water, sky. No buildings. No traffic. Just quiet.
“Can we actually afford this?” I asked.
“If we're smart about it, yeah. Mortgage would be comparable to city rent for a decent apartment. And we'd be building equity instead of throwing money away.”
“But it's a house, Grant. That's... that's permanent.”
He turned to look at me. “Is that a problem?”
“No. I just—” I stopped, trying to articulate what I was feeling. “A month ago, I thought we were going to lose everything. Now we're looking at houses. It feels fast.”
“We don't have to decide today. We can keep looking. Find something that feels right.”
“This feels right,” I admitted. “That's what scares me.”
Grant's hand found mine. “Jace. We've been hiding for months. Sneaking around. Pretending we didn't want exactly this. Now we can actually have it. That's not fast. That's finally being honest about what we want.”
I laced my fingers through his. “You really want to live here? With me?”
“Yeah. I do.”
“What about the team? The commute?”
“Forty minutes. I've driven worse.” He squeezed my hand. “And having space that's ours, away from the arena and the media and everyone's opinions, feels worth it.”
I looked around the house again. Imagined waking up here. Having coffee on the porch. Coming home after practice to something that was actually ours instead of just mine or his.
“Okay,” I said.
“Okay?”
“Let's do it. Let's make an offer.”
Grant smiled, and it was the real one. The one that made his whole face change. “You sure?”
“Yeah. I'm sure.”
We made an offer that afternoon. Margaret accepted two days later.
The next three weeks were a blur of paperwork, inspections, and coordinating move dates. The team knew—of course they knew, Rook had made sure of it—and guys had offered to help move furniture. Finn had somehow already planned a housewarming party that I absolutely did not agree to.
But now, standing on the porch of our house with boxes stacked in the living room and Grant carrying in the last of his stuff from his apartment, it felt real.
“That's the last of it,” Grant said, setting down a box labeled kitchen.
“Good. I'm exhausted.”
“You barely carried anything. Shoulder's still healing.”
“Exactly. I'm exhausted from supervising.”
He laughed and pulled me close, careful with my shoulder. “Come here.”
I went willingly, letting myself lean into him. We stood there on the porch with the ocean in the distance and the sound of waves underneath everything else.
“This is ours,” I said quietly.
“Yeah. It is.”
“I keep waiting for something to go wrong.”
“Nothing's going to go wrong.” His arms tightened around me. “We fought for this. We earned it.”
I pulled back to look at him. “I love you.”
“I love you too.”
We kissed, and it was soft. Easy. The kind of kiss that came from being comfortable instead of desperate. From having time instead of stolen moments.
When we pulled apart, I saw headlights coming up the driveway.
“Who's that?” I asked.
“Rook. He said he'd bring beer to celebrate.”