22. Jayce
TWENTY-TWO
Jayce
C oach Mercer’s office smells like stale coffee and that pine-scented cleaner they hose down locker rooms with. He’s got last season’s playbook splayed open between us, half the pages dog-eared. I trace a finger over a power play diagram they botched last week.
“You look like shit,” Mercer says, not looking up from his notes, his white mustache twitching. “Less hungover than last month, though.”
Well look at him, being all himself.
Mercer is a jolly fellow in his early sixties, sporting a snow-white mane and a belly that could double as a holiday ornament. Although he bears an uncanny resemblance to Santa Claus, he’s not always in the business of spreading cheer. Instead, he’s as direct as a GPS and as fierce as a cat defending its favorite sunbeam.
“I’m not exactly sober now, but I’m trying,” I say, since I want to be honest with him so that he knows who he’s offering this opportunity to. Showing up to our training facility was hard enough and I wanted to say hello to the team, but I don’t think I can. Not today. I was doing really well lately, even had a day without alcohol, but just thinking about coming here today made me have a drink in a bar all by myself. Pathetic, I know.
I’ll run out of here the minute Mercer lets me go.
I almost didn’t make it into the office. “Got my first therapist appointment on Monday.” And fuck, I need it.
Mercer slams the playbook shut. “That’s what I want to hear. It’s a start and we’ll get you back on your feet, boy. Scouting reports first. Night classes starting in two months—sports management, psychology. You shadow me at practices, all games, keep your mouth shut until I say otherwise.” He leans back, creaking in his ancient swivel chair, and just stares at me. “They don’t teach you how to handle a rookie sneaking around with the GM’s daughter or a goalie with a Xanax habit. That kind of thing only comes from years of—”
“Cleaning up disasters guys like me create?”
“Exactly. You’ll learn from me—I’m your mentor. Opportunities like this don’t come around often, but I know you’ll be an exceptional coach one day.”
I nearly blush. Mercer isn’t one to give compliments readily.
“That’s why I’m not letting you sink.”
He tosses me a laminated badge with assistant coach thorne printed in red block letters. “Home game next Thursday. Boston’s bringing their new Swedish defenseman—kid skates like he’s allergic to his own blue line.”
I flip the badge between my fingers and somehow…it feels like a new beginning.
“Thank you.”
“Go sit in section 208. Bring someone…” He hesitates, polishing his glasses on his Falcons shirt. Rosie’s laugh flashes through my mind, the way her eyes crinkle when she’s trying not to smile. “Someone who’ll stop you from climbing the glass when Riley takes a cheap shot.”
We both grin, but then his eyebrows draw together.
“Summer of 2005,” he starts, and I feel it—a jolt of tension shooting through me. I know exactly where this is going. “My hip gave out. Forced me to walk away too. And believe me, I know exactly how you feel, even though I was a lot older than you back then.”
The words hit harder than I expected—years of unspoken pain. “People don’t talk about what professional sport does to you. How you start depending on it and how it slowly breaks you down. Day after day. Every hit, every stride. They don’t tell you how it destroys your bones or how it feels when you’re forced to quit. It’s not like they hand you a medal when you’re done. Just a body that’s betrayed you. Not many players get the luxury of leaving on their own terms.”
I swallow hard, but I can’t look away from him.
His eyes soften for a moment, like he’s seeing something more than just me—the younger version of himself. He leans in a little closer. “I let you have your moment, boy. God knows I wouldn’t reach out to just any player. But you…” He pauses, like he’s weighing every word. “You’re different. You’re special. Don’t forget that. I see a lot of myself in you. Even though you’re a damn sight better man than I ever was. You’re gonna pull yourself together. You hear me?”
I nod, throat tight. “Yes. Thanks, Coach.”
“Now go,” he says. “Get your ass back, and make sure you’re sitting next to me on that bench soon. Sober. And I’m saving you a damn good spot on our bus too. Don’t make me regret it.”
I took an Uber to Lincoln Center.
I tell myself it’s because the subway would’ve taken forty minutes, not because my palms start to sweat every time I pass a store or bar. To distract myself, I call my mom. I don’t do it nearly enough, and I know she’s been worried, just like my dad. She puts me on speaker, and I hear him grunt every so often while I talk to them about my coaching plans. Mom asks me to visit soon, and I promise her I will, even though I know deep down I can’t—not until I’m not feeling so filthy inside.
My parents, they’re good people.
The kind of people who’ve worked hard their whole lives to keep things simple, to keep things normal. They won’t even accept any of my money, even though I’m just trying to make their lives a little easier. But every time I buy them stuff, it’s like I’m somehow punishing them. And I can’t disappoint them. Not like this. Not when I’m so far from the man they think I am.
It broke my heart when Mom found me at home, vomiting after another night of heavy drinking. She cried. The memory still feels like a weight on my chest, like I’m suffocating. I promised myself that the next time I see them, I’ll have something to show for myself, something to be proud of. I want to tell them I’ve made it back, that I’m better, but I can’t do that when all I think about is sitting at a bar, getting drunk, every moment I’m not with Rosalie.
And that’s why I’m walking straight into the Peter Jay Sharp Theatre. Because I have to get my life together before it falls apart any further.
The theater lobby smells like hair spray as I enter.
A security guard eyes my Falcons hoodie and the way I wear my cap backward but lets me through when I mumble, “Rosalie Huntington’s guest.”
Inside, the sound of piano music swirls around, accompanied by the shouts of a teacher or instructor—I’m not sure what they’re called here—giving directions.
Rosie’s suspended mid-leap when I slip into the back row, all legs and arched spine. The Sugar Plum Fairy tutu makes her look like a Barbie dipped in frosting. When she spots me slouching in the shadows, her pirouette stutters. The choreographer—some tiny woman in neon legwarmers—screeches something…in French?
I give Rosie an apologetic smile, but she beams back at me, and suddenly everything feels lighter, brighter. That’s why I rushed here. I felt bad and just…needed to see her. And then, like a fool, a thought flickers through my mind. What if I just…became Mr. Rosalie Huntington? What if I spent my days carrying her bags, watching her dance all day long?
But then the thought fades, as quickly as it came.
No, she deserves someone with ambition, someone who knows exactly where they’re going. Even though the temptation to let her pull me into her orbit is overwhelming, I push it aside. I’ll get my shit together. I’ll become worthy of her. Even if it takes every ounce of patience I’ve got.
For twenty-seven minutes, I watch her muscles flex under satin. I notice her mouthing the counts between breaths. Five-six-seven-eight. And I find myself matching my heartbeat to her rhythm. When they break for water, she bounds up the aisle with a towel around her neck. Sweat glues stray hairs to her temples.
“Stalking is illegal in forty-eight states,” she says, collapsing into the seat beside me.
“Your text said, ‘Come see me crush the Sugar Plum Fairy.’”
“I said, ‘Come see me as the Sugar Plum Fairy,’ you illiterate jock.” She nudges me with a new pointe shoe. I only found out recently that ballerinas apparently need a new pair of shoes every single day when they’re training hard. “Leah! Stop lurking.”
A redhead suddenly emerges from the rows, two cups in hand. “So this is the guy who made you late to rehearsal on Tuesday?” She hands Rosie a cup that smells like green tea, and Rosie takes a sip.
“He’s my baby ,” Rosalie says with a playful smirk, then leans in to kiss me. “And my stalker.”
I can’t help but grin too. “You two are absolutely killing it up there.”
Leah laughs. “Thank you. You really should see Rosie’s solo.”
“Can’t wait,” I reply.
“It’ll be a while until I’m free, though,” Rosie says, a hint of concern in her voice.
“That’s okay. I’m happy to watch you,” I say. “I love everything you do.”
Leah gives a quick goodbye before walking off, leaving me with Rosie, who leans in for another kiss. “Addict,” I say and kiss her, long, because hell, I know I’m the one addicted to kissing her.
“You ready to hit the club after?” she asks, reminding me of what we agreed to do tonight.
I nod. “Yeah, we really need to ask around. Do you know if Vaughn’s going?”
“I’m in a group chat with Charlotte, him, and a few others. They all agreed to go. I said I’d go with them, just like always, so I guess we’re good.”
I grimace. “I hate Vaughn.”
“It’ll be fine,” she teases, pressing another kiss to my lips. “But try not to get lost staring at my ass.”
I smirk, feeling the heat between us. “I’ll try, and I’ll fail.”
Who am I even lying to? The hell I’m trying. No, I’m staring at her ass, her boobs, her face, her whole fucking body, and all I can think about is how she’s mine.