Chapter 35 #2
Then his forehead dropped to my shoulder.
I wrapped my arms around him and held on. He didn’t fall apart loudly. He just shook once, hard, like his body had waited until the call ended to admit what it had taken from him. Tiny leaned his full weight against both of us, a hundred and something pounds of poorly timed support.
Jace’s voice came muffled against my shirt. “Your dog is crushing my foot.”
“He’s emotionally invested.”
“He needs boundaries.”
“He learned from you.”
That got a weak laugh out of him.
The next morning began with rules neither of us liked.
Separate alarms. Separate showers. Separate cars. No lingering by the side entry. No kiss at the door that could stretch into hands under clothes and make both of us late. No text that looked harmless to anyone else but would put me right back in his apartment in my head.
Jace hated every second of it.
So did I.
He stood near the door with his equipment bag over one shoulder, dressed in his own hoodie, though I was almost certain one of mine had disappeared into that bag during the night. His sneakers were untied. He noticed me looking and muttered, “I know,” before crouching to fix them.
Progress, not a miracle.
When he stood, he counted off on his fingers. “Practice. Gym. Media availability for exactly three minutes because Tessa threatened actual bodily harm. Attorney at one.”
“My attorney at one thirty.”
“Tessa at three.”
“Yes.”
“No closed doors.”
“No private spaces.”
“No texts that sound like we’ve seen each other naked in the last twelve hours.”
“We have.”
“Terrible legal defense, Coach.”
“Don’t use it.”
He stared at me for a beat too long. His attention dropped to my mouth, and the whole room tightened around the thing we were not doing.
I waited.
He made a pained noise. “This responsible version of us is deeply annoying.”
“Drive safe.”
“That did not help your case.”
“Go.”
He left muttering about disciplined men being bad for society.
At the rink, I put on the version of myself the building knew.
Practice was hard, fast, controlled. Jace skated like someone running a current through his bones.
He had not slept enough. I could tell by the fraction-too-quick decisions, the way his focus grabbed one detail and nearly missed the next.
But he corrected himself before I had to call it out.
Twice he overpursued. Twice he adjusted.
Then he threaded a pass through traffic so clean Benny yelled, “That was disgusting,” from the bench.
Roman looked from Jace to me.
I looked down at my practice sheet.
In the gym afterward, the team settled into its usual rhythm of work and noise.
Weights hit racks. Someone complained about the music.
Someone else complained louder about the complaining.
Men who would throw themselves in front of frozen rubber without hesitation acted personally victimized by mobility bands.
Jace kept distance exactly the way we’d agreed.
Not cold. Not theatrical. He joked with Benny, argued with Roman, listened when the trainer corrected his shoulder position, and looked at me only when he had a reason a player would look at his coach.
Every correct choice cost something.
At one, Tessa intercepted him near the media hallway with a tablet tucked under her arm and the expression of a woman who had prevented disasters before breakfast.
“Attorney,” she said.
“I know.”
“You were walking toward catering.”
“I was attorney-adjacent.”
“You were snack-adjacent. Move.”
He moved.
My own meeting at one thirty gave me no comfort, which meant it was probably useful. Patrick Sloane, my attorney, had tired eyes and the kind of measured voice that made bad news sound organized.
Disclosure was the cleanest route.
Clean did not mean safe.
I needed to prepare for review. Suspension was possible.
Recusal structures might not satisfy the organization.
Ownership could decide the conflict was too significant to manage.
Every decision I had made involving Jace could be questioned.
Lines, minutes, discipline, praise, scratches he had never received, opportunities he had earned.
Even if there had been no preferential treatment, perception mattered.
Patrick also asked if the relationship was continuing.
“Yes,” I said.
He paused, pen hovering above paper. “You understand that answer limits options.”
“I do.”
He wrote it down.
At three, Tessa’s blinds were closed.
Jace was already inside when I arrived, sitting forward in the chair with his elbows on his knees.
A water bottle sat unopened between his feet.
His face was pale, but his attention was locked in.
Not calm. Jace’s calm never looked like other people’s.
This was effort. This was him gripping the wheel with both hands.
Tessa stood behind her desk. “Both attorneys recommend disclosure?”
“Yes,” I said.
Jace nodded. “Mine said ‘voluntary transparency’ so many times I started to feel like I was trapped in a corporate retreat.”
Tessa ignored that, though her mouth nearly betrayed her. “Good. Then this is the final step before the organization controls the process.”
She turned her tablet around.
A short list. Names. Times. No dramatic title. No cushion.
“Tomorrow morning,” she said. “Nine o’clock.
Ownership representative, general manager, president of hockey operations, HR counsel.
Marlene will be there. Both of you will attend.
You will state that you are in a consensual relationship, that you understand the reporting conflict, that you are disclosing voluntarily before external discovery, and that you will cooperate with whatever review process follows. ”
Jace’s hands clasped together.
I kept mine on my knees.
Tessa looked at him. “You will not ramble.”
His mouth opened.
She pointed one finger. “I’m saying that because I know you, not because I underestimate you.”
He shut his mouth, then nodded. “Okay.”
“Write it down. One page. Not six. Not a speech you revise until three in the morning. One page, so if your thoughts start sprinting, you have a track to put them on.”
His face changed at that. Less defensive. More grounded. “I can do that.”
“I know.”
Then she looked at me. “You will not walk in there and try to take every ounce of blame onto yourself.”
I said nothing.
“Declan.”
“I hear you.”
“No martyr routine. Legal will hate it, management will distrust it, and Jace will probably explode.”
Jace said, “Accurate.”
Tessa continued, “Answer what they ask. Do not volunteer details they don’t need. Do not minimize the harm. Do not offer yourself up as a solution before they’ve identified the problem.”
Jace rubbed his palms on his sweats. “If they ask if we’re ending it?”
The room lost its office noise. No hum of lights, no distant hallway sounds, nothing but that question sitting between the three of us.
Tessa’s face softened, not much, but enough to matter. “Then you answer honestly.”
Jace looked at me.
I met him without looking away.
“No,” he said.
“No,” I said.
Tessa nodded once. Not approving. Not judging. Taking the answer and placing it where it belonged in the plan. “Then be prepared for the consequences attached to it.”
“We are,” I said.
Jace inhaled slowly, counted under his breath, then let it out. A coping mechanism he had built himself, not one I had handed him. “We’re trying to be.”
Better answer.
Tessa picked up her tablet. “After the meeting, you do not speak to players until instructed. You do not call Roman from the hallway. You do not call your father from the hallway. You do not call Olivia or Vanessa from the hallway unless counsel advises it.”
Jace frowned. “You have a serious hallway prejudice.”
“I have a realistic understanding of athletes, panic, and unlocked phones.”
“Fine. Fair.”
She looked between us. For once, the media manager mask slipped enough to show the woman underneath, tired and sharp and not untouched by what she was helping us carry.
“This is where the secret stops belonging to only you,” she said. “It will feel like losing control because part of it is. But hiding has a cost too. If you want any chance of building something real, this is the door you walk through.”
No one spoke.
Jace reached for his water bottle, twisted off the cap, and took a drink. His hand shook once. He pressed it against his thigh until it stopped.
“Tomorrow at nine,” he said.
“Yes.”
He nodded. “Okay.”
We left separately because we had to.
At the end of the staff corridor, he turned toward the players’ side and I turned toward my office. Before the corner took him, Jace glanced back.
One look.
Brief enough to survive a camera. Long enough to steady me.
Tomorrow, we would hand the truth to people with the power to decide what it cost.
Tonight, we still had to carry it ourselves.