Chapter 33
DECLAN
Jace stole my hoodie before coffee.
He did it badly, standing in the hallway with his hair damp from the shower, one arm already through the sleeve, his expression caught between guilt and defiance when I came out of the bedroom.
“That’s mine,” I said.
He looked down at the dark gray fabric like this was new information. “Is it?”
“It has my name on the tag.”
“Lots of people are named Reid.”
“It’s team-issued.”
“Then technically it belongs to the organization, and we’re about to have a lot of conversations about organizational boundaries, so maybe don’t start.”
Tiny sat beside him, tail thumping against the wall, fully prepared to defend the theft.
I leaned a shoulder against the doorframe and looked at them both. “You two working together now?”
Jace shoved his other arm through and pulled the hoodie down. It hung loose on him, but not by much. “He supports my healing.”
“He supports anyone holding toast.”
Tiny huffed.
Jace’s face softened when I crossed the hall toward him. The humor stayed, but it made room for the thing under it, the fatigue from yesterday, the knowledge sitting between us like a third cup of coffee neither of us had ordered.
I caught the front of the hoodie and tugged him closer.
He came without making me ask.
The kiss was brief because it had to be. Soft because the morning couldn’t handle anything sharper yet. His hands found my waist under my T-shirt, cold fingers pressing against warm skin, and he exhaled against my mouth like he’d been bracing for impact since he opened his eyes.
“You slept?” I asked.
“Some.”
“Nightmares?”
“No. Just woke up four times and checked the time even though I didn’t need to be anywhere yet. Then I had a ten-minute argument with myself about whether brushing my teeth before feeding Tiny made me a bad guest.”
Tiny’s tail thumped harder at the word feeding.
“You fed him?”
“I gave him a piece of toast.”
“Jace.”
“It was a corner. A responsible corner.”
“There’s no such thing.”
“He disagrees.”
I kissed him once more, then stepped back because if I didn’t, I’d forget every boundary we’d agreed to keep.
Coffee first. Food. Separate cars. Different entrances. Normal faces.
The new version of our life looked a lot like the old one from the outside, but it felt different under my skin. Not safer exactly. More honest in the way a bruise is honest once you stop pretending it doesn’t hurt.
Jace ate standing up, then remembered sitting down was an option and moved to the island with his plate.
He set two alarms on his phone for things he did not explain to me.
One for leaving. One, he said after a second, for “not accidentally taking your entire pantry with me because my brain thinks packing snacks is the same as solving legal exposure.”
I let him have that one without comment.
When he left through the side door, he checked the street the way he always did. I hated how automatic it had become. He hated it too. I could see it in the set of his shoulders.
Before he stepped outside, he turned back.
“No more waiting until we get caught,” he said.
It was not a question.
“No,” I said. “No more.”
He nodded once, then went.
I gave him fifteen minutes before I left for the rink.
The day moved like it had teeth.
Practice. Staff meetings. Video. A call from my agent I didn’t return because I didn’t yet know what version of the truth I was ready to give him.
Twice I saw Jace across the arena and had to look away sooner than instinct wanted.
He was good on the ice, sharp despite the exhaustion, barking at Benny for missing a read, laughing when Roman sprayed snow at his skates during a stoppage.
To anyone else, he looked like Jace Holloway, fast, bright, irritatingly alive.
To me, he looked like a man holding himself together with alarms, caffeine, and force of will.
At one thirty, I got the message from Tessa.
Counsel can meet at four. Conference room C. External employment advisor retained by ownership for policy matters. Confidential consult. I’ll walk you in separately.
I stared at the words for longer than necessary.
External employment advisor retained by ownership.
Not independent in the full sense. Not ours alone. But someone who knew the organization, the policy, the structure. A first step, not the whole road.
I sent Jace a message from the work thread we had agreed to keep clean.
Meeting confirmed. Four.
His reply came three minutes later.
Okay.
Then, a second message.
I am not spiraling. This is an informational gathering mission.
I looked at the screen despite myself.
A third message arrived.
That was for me, not you.
I typed, Eat something before four.
His response was immediate.
Bossy.
I put the phone facedown and forced myself back into work.
Conference room C had no windows and a table too large for three people.
Tessa brought Jace in first, then me ten minutes later, like we were pieces of equipment being moved without attracting attention.
The lawyer was named Marlene Grant. Late forties, navy suit, short silver hair, no wasted movement.
She did not look shocked. She did not look entertained. I appreciated both.
She set a folder on the table and folded her hands.
“I’m going to keep this straightforward,” she said. “I am not your personal attorney. I’m advising on employment exposure and organizational response based on the facts you’ve provided. If either of you needs personal representation, and you likely do, you should obtain it separately.”
Jace nodded, eyes fixed on her face with the intense focus he got when he was trying to pin every word to the wall before it escaped.
Marlene continued. “The relationship itself is not illegal. You are both adults. Consensual relationships are not automatically prohibited simply because two people work within the same organization.”
Jace’s shoulders eased by half an inch.
I did not let mine.
“The problem is the reporting structure,” she said. “Coach Reid directly supervises you, Mr. Holloway. That creates a conflict of interest and a potential power imbalance, regardless of how mutual the relationship is in practice.”
“I understand,” I said.
“If ownership discovers the relationship before disclosure, the consequences are likely to be more severe. Not necessarily because the relationship exists, but because concealment suggests poor judgment, risk to the franchise, and possible compromise of workplace decisions.”
Jace swallowed. His fingers tapped once on his thigh, then stopped.
“Voluntary disclosure is viewed more favorably,” Marlene said. “It does not guarantee a painless outcome. It does preserve more options.”
“What options?” Jace asked.
“Measures to remove or mitigate the conflict. Recusal from certain decisions, though that is difficult with a head coach. Additional oversight from hockey operations. Written acknowledgment of the relationship and consent. Changes to who handles discipline or evaluation concerning you. In some cases, reassignment.”
His eyes flicked to me.
Marlene noticed but didn’t pause. “I’m not predicting which one ownership will choose. I’m telling you what category of solutions they will consider.”
“And if we don’t disclose?” I asked, though I already knew the answer.
“Then you increase the risk that discovery comes through a third party, media, another employee, a player complaint, or circumstantial evidence. At that point, the organization reacts defensively. You lose control of timing and tone.”
Jace leaned back in his chair. “So the question is whether we’re serious enough to protect it openly.”
Marlene looked at him. “Yes. That is the practical question.”
The room went quiet.
No thunder. No disaster. Just a sentence on the table neither of us could move around.
Marlene closed the folder. “Decide that before you disclose. Do not walk into ownership uncertain. If you are continuing the relationship, say that. If you are not, that creates a different path. Either way, act before the organization is forced to act for you.”
The meeting lasted twenty-two minutes.
It felt longer.
After, Tessa walked us out separately again. She didn’t ask what we were going to do. She only looked at me in the staff corridor and said, “Do not wait for perfect.”
Then she left me there with that.
An hour later, Jace and I met at a coffee shop fifteen minutes from the arena, the kind of place that had chipped wooden tables, quiet corners, and nobody who looked like they cared about hockey.
I arrived first and took a table near the back.
Jace came in wearing a cap low over his forehead and my hoodie under his jacket, because apparently theft was now a coping strategy.
He ordered tea, then looked offended by his own cup when he sat down.
“You hate tea,” I said.
“I panicked. The barista had kind eyes and I forgot every coffee word.”
I pushed my coffee toward him.
He took it without arguing and slid the tea to me. “Enjoy your lawn water.”
I wrapped my hands around the cup because they needed something to do. “How’s your head?”
“Loud. But not useless.” He took a drink of my coffee and made a face. “Jesus, that’s bitter.”
“You stole it.”
“I steal your hoodies too. Doesn’t mean I want them to taste like punishment.”
The corner of my mouth moved, but the conversation waiting for us took the humor out of the air quickly.
Jace set the cup down. “I’m serious enough.”
I looked at him.
He stared at the table, then made himself look up. “That’s not the question for me anymore. It was, maybe. Weeks ago. When I still thought wanting you was the problem and not everything around it. But it isn’t whether I want this. I do.”
My chest ached with the effort of staying still.
“I do too,” I said.
“Okay.” His fingers found the cardboard sleeve and picked at the edge. “Then the question is how we keep it.”
There it was.
Not do we. Not should we. Not can we pretend this never happened.
How.