Chapter 20 #2
The drive home was quiet. Denver slid past in late-evening patches of light, traffic thinning as I got closer to the house.
I kept both hands on the wheel. I did not check my phone at red lights.
I did not think about whether Jace was answering Vanessa or avoiding her, whether Roman had pushed, whether he was overstimulated and pretending not to be, whether he had eaten anything since the airport.
That last one got through.
I gripped the wheel harder and forced my attention back to the road.
The house was dark when I pulled into the driveway.
Olivia’s car was gone because Olivia was in Chicago, living a life that made sense on paper and barely touched mine anymore.
The porch light had come on automatically.
Inside, Tiny began his usual thunderous greeting before I had even opened the door.
He met me in the entryway with the enthusiasm of a creature who believed every absence was a betrayal and every return required full-body forgiveness.
“Hey, big man.”
Tiny shoved his enormous head into my stomach hard enough to make me step back, then sneezed on my shirt.
“Appreciate that.”
He followed me to the kitchen, nails clicking on the floor, leaning his whole weight against my leg every time I stopped moving. I fed him, let him out, brought him back in when he barked at nothing for the benefit of the neighborhood, then stood at the island while he drank water like a horse.
The house felt too large.
Not empty in a dramatic way. Just unused. Clean counters. Mail stacked neatly by the sink. Olivia’s favorite mug in the cabinet, untouched. The couch cushions exactly as I had left them. No suitcase by the stairs. No heels kicked off near the door. No voice calling from another room.
Tiny finished drinking and came to stand beside me, staring up with droopy, expectant eyes.
“You miss him too?” I muttered before I could stop myself.
Tiny wagged once at the tone, then shoved his head under my hand.
I scratched behind his ears.
Him.
Not Olivia. Not my wife. Jace.
Tiny had met Jace twice and treated him like a returning war hero both times. He remembered the hands that scratched under his collar, the restless energy that matched his own, the man who got on the floor in expensive jeans and let a hundred and sixty pounds of mastiff drool against his shoulder.
I remembered too much else.
I showered. Changed into sweats. Heated leftovers and ate standing at the counter because sitting at the table alone felt worse. I checked the team schedule again. Answered Benny. Ignored the urge to open Jace’s contact.
At 10:47, my phone buzzed.
I picked it up before the sound ended.
Jace: Green.
Nothing else.
I stood in the kitchen with the refrigerator humming behind me and Tiny pressed against my shin, and every part of me understood.
Not a greeting.
Not an apology for leaving.
Not a demand.
A report.
A choice.
He had not come to my office because we had made a rule.
Nothing at work. He had followed it. He had waited until he was away from the arena, away from the plane, away from the public spaces where I was Coach Reid and he was Holloway, franchise center, twenty-three-year-old star with too many eyes on him.
He had sent the color when it was allowed.
I exhaled slowly.
Me: Eat?
The reply came after a minute.
Jace: Yes.
I did not trust the simplicity of that answer.
Me: Actual food.
Another pause.
Jace: Airport sandwich. Protein shake. Half a bag of pretzels I found in my backpack, not proud of it.
My mouth almost moved.
Me: Add something with protein now if you have it.
Jace: Bossy.
I stared at that one word and felt the old shape of him in it. Not defiance, not really. A hand raised from under the surface.
Me: Color?
The answer came faster.
Jace: Green.
Me: Then follow the instruction.
Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.
Jace: Yes, Coach.
I set the phone down because holding it through the reaction felt dangerous.
Tiny huffed, impatient with my lack of attention. I scratched his head again while the kitchen light reflected off the black screen.
Five minutes passed.
Six.
My phone buzzed.
Jace: Turkey slices. Cheese. Apple. Water.
Me: Good.
The word sat there between us, plain and loaded.
I imagined him in his apartment, probably still in sweats, hair damp from a shower or wrecked from his hands, standing in front of an open refrigerator because the instruction had cut through whatever else was happening in his head. I imagined him reading good and going quiet for half a breath.
My body responded with an intensity that had nothing to do with immediate sex and everything to do with obedience offered from miles away.
That was new.
Or maybe it was not new. Maybe I had only refused to name it before the hotel room gave everything a body.
Jace: Sleep?
I read it twice.
Not I can’t sleep.
Not are you going to tell me to sleep.
A question. A request shaped like a door left open.
Me: Soon.
Jace: Define soon.
There he was.
Me: Brush teeth. Set clothes for tomorrow. Put phone on charger across the room. Lights out in thirty.
The reply did not come right away.
I waited.
Tiny gave up on me and lumbered to the living room, where he collapsed onto his bed with a dramatic groan.
My phone vibrated.
Jace: Clothes is where this plan gets ambitious.
Me: Shoes and hoodie by the door count.
Jace: That’s not clothes.
Me: It is preparation. Do it.
Jace: Yes.
Then, a minute later:
Jace: Coach.
I did not answer immediately. I knew better than to feed every impulse. His or mine.
Me: What?
Jace: Nothing. Just wanted to type it.
The honesty landed low and heavy.
I looked toward the dark windows over the sink. My reflection looked back at me, broad shoulders, tired face, a man standing alone in a house that still held the outline of a marriage.
I should have put the phone down.
Instead, I typed with more care than the message required.
Me: Finish the list.
Jace: Doing it.
Me: Color before lights out.
Jace: Okay.
I walked through the house while I waited. Checked the back door. Turned off the kitchen light. Let Tiny out one last time, then stood in the cold air while he inspected the yard as if major diplomatic incidents had occurred since his last patrol. My phone stayed in my hand.
That was the realization that arrived without mercy.
Not the desire. I had admitted that in pieces, in alleys, in hotel rooms, in the way my hands remembered his body.
Not the guilt. That had been there from the beginning, disciplined and ugly and deserved.
This was different.
I was waiting.
Listening for the vibration. Measuring minutes. Building my own stillness around a message from him.
I had told myself this dynamic worked because Jace needed structure and I could provide it. Because his brain responded to clear expectations. Because a color system was practical. Because rules kept both of us from turning want into damage.
All true.
Not enough.
I wanted the message because it told me he had thought of me when the day got quiet.
I wanted the obedience because it was trust made visible.
I wanted to be the person he checked in with before sleep, not because he was incapable of managing without me, but because he chose the shape we had made together.
My phone buzzed at 11:22.
Jace: Green. Teeth brushed. Shoes and hoodie by door. Phone going across room now. If I don’t answer, it’s not drama, it’s because you told me not to touch it.
I sat on the edge of the couch. Tiny lifted his head from his bed, decided I was not doing anything interesting, and dropped it again.
Me: Good. Sleep.
Jace: You too?
I stared at the question.
Simple. Dangerous.
He was asking for reciprocity without making it heavy. Not a declaration. Not a demand that I admit what this was becoming. Just a mirror held up between us.
Me: Yes.
Jace: Okay.
A second later:
Jace: Green.
Again.
As if he wanted that to be the last thing between us.
I did not reply. There was nothing to add that would not become too much.
I set the phone beside me on the couch, then picked it up again almost immediately and opened the thread.
Green.
One word. Clean. Trusting. Controlled.
I sat alone in the quiet house with my dog snoring across the room and my wife hundreds of miles away, holding my phone like it had become a pulse point.
This was not a phase.
Not curiosity. Not a reaction to a dying marriage or a reckless attraction sharpened by secrecy. Not just control, not just sex, not just the relief of being wanted by someone who looked at me like instruction could be a form of shelter.
Jace had become important.
I looked at his last message until the screen dimmed.
Then I tapped it awake again.
Green.
I had spent weeks believing Jace was waiting for me.
Now, in the silence after him, I understood I had started waiting too.