Chapter 7
JACE
I woke up thinking about stop.
Not in a dramatic way. Not like I’d had some life-changing dream where Coach Reid stood in fog with a whistle and handed me enlightenment.
I woke up because my second alarm was screaming from across the room, my first alarm had somehow ended up under my pillow, and my mouth tasted like I’d slept with it open.
Normal morning.
Except before I even got my feet on the floor, my brain served up yesterday’s video session in perfect clarity.
Me talking too fast.
Him saying one word.
Me shutting up.
That was the problem. Not that he’d told me to stop. Coaches told players to stop all the time. Stop drifting. Stop cheating the play. Stop arguing with refs. Stop acting like a bunch of toddlers with sticks, which was something Roman said more than any coach.
Coach said stop.
I stopped.
That was normal.
Except it didn’t feel normal.
It felt like my body had recognized the command before my pride could get involved. Like the part of me that usually had to wrestle ten other parts into a chair had just sat down because Declan Reid told it to.
I hated that thought so much I got out of bed too fast, clipped my shin on the corner of the frame, and spent thirty seconds swearing at furniture.
My apartment was a mess in the specific way it got when I’d been trying. That was the thing people never understood. When I stopped trying, it got worse. Disaster level. Dishes in places dishes had no business being, laundry becoming geology, mail disappearing into dimensions NASA should study.
This was trying mess.
Practice clothes folded on the chair but not put away. Three water bottles on the counter because I kept bringing one into each room and forgetting the previous one existed. My notebook open on the kitchen island to today’s sheet, which meant I had checked it last night.
Good.
I stared at the sheet.
Then checked it again.
Then checked my phone calendar.
Then forgot why I’d opened my phone because Vanessa had texted a photo from some coffee place and asked if I wanted to grab dinner later.
Dinner.
Girlfriend.
Normal life.
I typed, Yeah, after practice. 7?
I almost added a joke. Deleted it. Added a heart. Deleted that too because it looked weird after deleting the joke, which made no sense, but my brain got stuck on it anyway.
Finally I sent, Sounds good.
Then I stood in my kitchen in compression shorts with one sock on, thinking about a man saying stop.
“Get it together,” I told myself.
My coffee maker beeped like it disagreed.
At the arena, the day did not wait for me to have a crisis.
Milo was in the players’ lounge trying to convince Lowell that he could make money streaming himself learning chess.
“You don’t know how to play chess,” Lowell said.
“That’s the hook. People love growth.”
“People love competence.”
“False. People love watching idiots struggle.”
Roman walked past with a smoothie and said, “Finally, a brand that fits you.”
Milo pointed at him. “You are afraid of my potential.”
“I’m afraid of your microphone access.”
Tessa sat at the far table with her laptop, phone, and the expression of someone mentally deleting all of us from her life.
I dropped into the chair across from her. “Morning.”
She didn’t look up. “If you are about to ask me what time your media hit is, I will throw this pen into your eye.”
“I know what time it is.”
That got her attention. “Do you?”
“Three-fifteen. With Roman and Sokolov. I confirmed in words.”
She studied me like I might be wearing a wire. “I’m proud and disturbed.”
“Both can be true.”
“Did Reid scare you into literacy?”
The name hit weird. Not bad. Just too direct.
“No,” I said, too fast.
Her eyes narrowed a fraction.
I got up before she could do whatever witchcraft she did where she asked one mild question and somehow knew your taxes, childhood wounds, and favorite cereal.
Practice was fine.
Actually, practice was better than fine, which annoyed me because I wanted something external to blame for the way my head kept tracking the rink for him.
Where was he standing? Was he watching this drill?
Did he see me hold underneath instead of flying the zone like my skates were on fire?
When he corrected Lowell, I listened like it was secretly for me.
When he spoke to Milo, I got irritated that Milo got to hear that low, controlled voice up close even though the correction was about turning the puck over like a golden retriever with anxiety.
Ridiculous.
I was ridiculous.
At the end of practice, Coach had a short conversation with the assistants near the bench. I took three extra shots I didn’t need, missed the net on two because I wasn’t actually looking at it, then pretended I had stayed out for skill work.
Roman skated by slowly. “You done being inspirational?”
“I’m working.”
“You’re lurking.”
“Near what?”
He looked toward the bench, then back at me.
I hated him.
In the locker room, Milo was holding court about how he could absolutely survive one night in the wilderness.
“With what supplies?” Lowell asked.
“A knife. Matches. Protein bars. Confidence.”
Sokolov said, “You die in six hours.”
“Why does everyone keep saying six? Give me at least twelve.”
“Because after six we stop looking,” Roman said.
I laughed with everyone else, but half my attention stayed snagged on the hallway outside, listening for Coach’s voice. That was the first time I noticed it clearly enough to name.
I was waiting for him.
Not for instructions. Not for a correction. Just him.
The thought made me miss Benny asking whether I needed my steel checked, then I had to ask him to repeat it, which made him look at me like I was one more loose screw in a building full of them.
I got through media. I said the right things. Tessa gave me a small approving nod when I did not make a joke about Sokolov’s “team identity” answer sounding like it had been assembled by robots. I should have felt accomplished.
Instead, when everyone scattered afterward, I found myself taking the long route back through the equipment hall.
Coach’s office was that way.
So was the exit if you were committed to lying to yourself.
I was halfway down the hall when Tiny appeared from around the corner, dragging his leash behind him like an escaped convict.
“Oh, buddy,” I said, crouching automatically. “Jailbreak?”
Tiny came at me with all the grace of a tipped vending machine. I caught his head before he could crush my knees. His whole body wagged.
Behind him, Coach Reid turned the corner. “Of course.”
I looked up. “He chose freedom.”
“He chose the person most likely to reward bad behavior.”
“I haven’t given him anything.”
“You’re on the floor with him.”
“That’s emotional support.”
“For who?”
I had no answer that wasn’t too honest.
Tiny shoved his face under my arm. I scratched behind his ears and tried not to think about how close Coach was standing, about the black sleeves pushed up over tattooed forearms, about the fact that he looked less like a head coach and more like a problem I should not keep walking toward.
“You heading out?” he asked.
“Yeah. Soon. Just had media.”
“I saw the clip.”
My stomach did an embarrassing little dive. “Already?”
“Tessa sent it.”
“Was I terrible?”
“No.”
“Glowing review.”
“You answered the question asked, resisted making Sokolov worse, and didn’t interrupt Roman.”
“So, elite.”
His mouth almost smiled. “Functional.”
“I’ll take it.”
Tiny flopped one massive paw onto my sneaker, pinning me in place. Coach sighed and bent to gather the leash, and for a second we were both looking down at the dog instead of each other. It should have made the moment easier.
It didn’t.
“My sister wants a dog,” I said, because my mouth hated silence.
“Your sister in school?”
“Yeah. Harper. University. She sends me listings for dogs she can’t afford, in apartments that don’t allow dogs, with schedules that would be unfair to dogs.”
“Sounds determined.”
“She’s a Holloway. We call it determined when we like the person and stubborn when we don’t.”
“Older or younger?”
“Younger. Twenty-one. Terrifying. She once made my dad apologize to a waitress because he said he didn’t need a menu and then changed his mind.”
Coach’s eyes warmed in a small way I didn’t know what to do with. “Your dad still in Michigan?”
“Yeah. Cal. Works less now because I bully him with money.”
“You bully your father?”
“I send him things he didn’t ask for and then refuse to return them. Last month, new snowblower.”
“Did he need one?”
“No idea. He owns one now.”
“That’s not bullying. That’s inefficient affection.”
I laughed before I could stop myself.
It felt too easy.
He asked about Michigan. I asked what city he hated playing in most. He said Winnipeg in February with the dead seriousness of a man describing war.
I said my worst road trip was juniors in Manitoba when the bus bathroom door broke and Milo, who was not on that team but spiritually would have been responsible, somehow still got blamed in the story.
He told me Tiny had once eaten an entire rotisserie chicken, including some of the container, then looked offended when taken to the emergency vet.
I was still crouched with my hand on the dog’s neck. My knees had started to ache.
I did not stand up.
Coach didn’t leave.
That was the second time I noticed.
He could have ended the conversation twelve different ways. He was good at that. Efficient. Controlled. A man who turned silence into punctuation.
Instead, he asked, “Does Harper get to many games?”
“Couple a year. School keeps her busy. She pretends she doesn’t care, then sends me twelve paragraphs after about everyone’s defensive failures.”
“Smart woman.”
“She’d like you.”
The words came out before I screened them.
His gaze lifted to mine.
I looked down at Tiny too fast. “Because you’d agree with her about my defensive failures.”
“Probably.”
There. Safe again.
Mostly.
My phone buzzed. Vanessa.