Chapter 36 #2
I barked a laugh despite myself. “Wow.”
“You are. You’re late to things when you swear you won’t be.
You interrupt because your thoughts get there before other people finish talking.
You take criticism like someone threw a chair at your head, then ten minutes later you’ve fixed the thing and forgotten everyone else is still mad.
You leave protein shakes in my car. You once taped my blocker to the ceiling because Benny dared you. ”
“That was art.”
“That was a ladder hazard.”
“Benny dared me.”
“You’re proving my point.”
I rubbed at my face. “Is this the friendship part?”
“Yes. Shut up.” Roman stepped closer. “You’re difficult.
You’re also loyal, generous, and the only superstar I’ve ever met who notices when the rookie equipment guy looks overwhelmed and then pretends he didn’t buy him lunch.
You call your dad after games even when you play like shit.
You send your sister things she specifically told you not to buy because you don’t know how else to say you miss her.
You care so much it comes out sideways and hits people in the shin. ”
My throat tightened.
Roman’s voice lowered. “You’re not only the problem in that room today. Don’t let fear make you volunteer for that job.”
I looked down fast, but not before he saw.
“God, I hate sincere Roman,” I muttered.
“He’s rare. Appreciate him.”
“I’m trying. It’s awful.”
He put his coffee on the hood of my car, then pulled mine out of my hand and set it beside his.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“Hugging it out before you vibrate into traffic.”
“I don’t need a hug.”
“Yeah, you do.”
He grabbed me.
It was not graceful. We were both too big and too caffeinated and dressed in too many layers.
My shoulder hit his chin. He swore. I laughed once, and then the laugh broke into something that was not crying exactly, because I had standards, but was close enough that Roman tightened his arms and pretended not to notice.
I hugged him back.
Hard.
He smelled like coffee and cold air and the terrible peppermint gum he chewed before practice.
Familiar. Safe in a different way than Declan.
Not consuming. Not secret. Just there. A friendship that had survived slumps, injuries, my worst moods, his divorce, two playoff exits, and the time I accidentally texted his ex-wife a meme about emotional constipation.
Roman thumped my back once. “I’ve got you.”
I closed my eyes. “I know.”
“I mean it.”
“I know.”
“If the room goes bad, you call me when counsel says you can.”
“Tessa said no hallway calls.”
“Then don’t call from the hallway, genius.”
I laughed into his shoulder. “Right.”
He released me and picked up both coffees, handing mine back like nothing had happened. His eyes were a little shiny, but if I mentioned it he would absolutely trip me during warmups.
We headed inside.
Practice passed in pieces.
Skates on. Tape. Noise. Whistles. Ice. My body knew what to do even when my head kept trying to sprint into the afternoon.
I missed one drill rotation because I got stuck thinking about whether the ownership rep would sit at the head of the table or beside counsel.
Benny chirped me. Roman smacked his stick against my pads as he skated by and said, “Here, not there.”
So I came back.
Not perfectly. Enough.
Declan barely looked at me unless coaching required it.
When he did, his face gave nothing away.
That helped and hurt. He corrected my positioning once in the same tone he used with everyone else.
I nodded, adjusted, and swallowed the stupid ache that came with wanting him to touch the back of my neck and tell me where to put all the fear.
After practice, the hours dragged and vanished at the same time.
Shower. Food. Re-read statement. Lose phone. Find phone in hoodie pocket. Re-read statement again. Sit in stall for three minutes because the locker room lights felt too bright and the overlapping voices scratched under my skin. Tessa appeared at the door like a summoned judgment.
“Two thirty,” she said.
I looked up. “It’s two twenty-three.”
“I know. You need seven minutes to stop looking like you’re about to confess to murder.”
“Helpful.”
“Accurate.” Her gaze flicked over my face. “Water?”
“I had coffee.”
“That wasn’t the question.”
I drank water.
At two thirty, I walked beside Tessa through the staff corridor with my statement folded in my hand. She didn’t talk. I appreciated that more than I could say.
Declan was already outside the conference room.
Dark suit. No tie. Beard trimmed. Hands relaxed at his sides in a way I knew was deliberate. He looked like a head coach. Like someone ownership trusted to steer a franchise.
Then his gaze found mine, and for half a second, I saw the man from the kitchen. The man who had listened while I told my father I loved him. The man who wanted to take damage before it reached me.
I gave him the smallest shake of my head.
No martyr routine.
His mouth barely moved, but I understood.
Trying.
Tessa opened the door.
The room was colder than it needed to be. Of course it was. Important rooms were always cold, like discomfort proved professionalism.
Whitaker sat near the middle, face grave but not hostile.
Beside him was Elaine Voss, the ownership representative, sharp suit, silver glasses, no expression I could read.
Marlene was there with a folder. HR counsel, a man named Patel, had a legal pad and a pen.
Our president of hockey operations, Dan Kepler, looked like he’d aged five years since lunch.
We sat.
Not together. Not far apart either. Two chairs with a deliberate empty space between them.
Marlene started. “Coach Reid and Mr. Holloway requested this meeting to make a voluntary disclosure concerning a consensual personal relationship and the conflict implications arising from their respective roles.”
Hearing it said out loud by someone else made my stomach drop.
Elaine Voss looked at Declan first. “Coach?”
Declan’s voice was steady. “Jace and I are in a consensual relationship. We recognize that my position as head coach creates a conflict that the organization must address. We should have disclosed earlier. We are disclosing now because continuing to conceal it would be unfair to the franchise, the staff, and the players.”
No flinching. No over-explaining.
Then everyone looked at me.
My heart banged so hard I could feel it in my teeth.
I unfolded the paper. My hand shook once. I put my thumb hard against the crease until it stopped.
“I agree with what Coach Reid said,” I began, then caught myself.
Too thin. Too easy. I looked down at the page, then up again.
“I’m here to disclose a consensual relationship with Declan Reid.
I understand the professional conflict. I also understand that intent doesn’t erase impact.
Even if no hockey decision was influenced, the structure creates questions.
I’m prepared to cooperate with review and reasonable measures to protect the team. ”
My mouth went dry.
I forced the last part out.
“We are not ending the relationship as part of this disclosure.”
The room went very quiet.
Patel wrote something down.
Whitaker rubbed a hand over his mouth, then lowered it. “How long?”
Declan answered. “The personal relationship began during the season. The romantic and sexual relationship developed after inappropriate emotional boundaries had already formed. We can provide a timeline to counsel.”
My face heated, but he was right. Clinical. Specific enough. Not lurid.
Elaine turned to me. “Mr. Holloway, do you feel pressured in any way to continue this relationship because of Coach Reid’s authority over your career?”
“No.”
“Have you ever felt that playing time, discipline, team standing, or professional treatment was conditioned on personal compliance?”
My stomach twisted. “No. Never.”
Patel looked up. “Were there elements of dominance or discipline in the relationship that could complicate the question of consent?”
The room tilted.
Not literally. But my body reacted before my brain caught up. Heat in my face. A spike of humiliation. The urge to snap something sharp, to make it funny, to burn the room down before anyone could look too closely.
Declan shifted beside me, not toward me, just enough that I knew he was there.
I breathed in. Counted three. Out.
“Yes,” I said, voice rough but clear. “There were consensual dynamics in our private relationship. They were discussed and agreed to. I had the ability to say no. I used it when needed. It was never part of hockey. It was never punishment for my job. It was never used to control my career.”
Marlene’s pen paused, then continued.
Elaine studied me for a long moment. “Thank you for answering directly.”
I nodded, because if I opened my mouth I might say something unhelpful.
The questions kept coming.
Did anyone else know? Tessa knew enough to direct us toward counsel.
Roman knew personally, not in an organizational capacity.
Had there been favoritism? No. Had Declan made decisions involving scratches, lines, discipline?
Yes, because he was the head coach, which was the conflict.
Would we submit written statements? Yes.
Would we avoid private team facilities pending review?
Yes. Would we comply with interim boundaries? Yes.
Declan did not offer to resign.
I loved him for that so hard it hurt.
After forty minutes, Elaine closed her folder.
“This is serious,” she said.
My lungs forgot their job.
“It is serious because of the reporting structure, because of the concealment, and because trust inside a professional organization is difficult to rebuild once questioned.” She looked from Declan to me.
“It is also better that you came forward voluntarily rather than forcing this club to respond to a rumor, a media inquiry, or a complaint.”
Whitaker exhaled slowly.
Elaine continued, “We are not making a termination decision today. We are not pursuing a trade as a response to this disclosure.”
For a second, I didn’t understand the sentence.
Then it hit.
Not making a termination decision today.
Not pursuing a trade.
My vision blurred at the edges, and I locked my eyes on the table because if I looked at Declan I would lose whatever fragile hold I had on my face.
“There will be an internal review,” Elaine said.
“Effective immediately, any disciplinary matter involving Mr. Holloway will be reviewed by the general manager and hockey operations. Performance evaluations concerning him will be documented with secondary oversight. Coach Reid, you will recuse yourself from contract-related recommendations regarding Mr. Holloway. You will both avoid one-on-one private interactions in team facilities without a third party present. HR will prepare acknowledgments regarding the consensual relationship and conflict management plan.”
Patel added, “These measures may evolve.”
“Understood,” Declan said.
I found my voice. “Understood.”
Elaine’s expression softened by maybe one degree.
“This will not be easy. There may be consequences in the room, in the organization, and eventually outside it. But the club is willing to attempt management of the conflict because you disclosed, because both of you have been direct today, and because we believe there is a path that protects the team.”
A path.
Not a clean bill. Not approval. Not celebration.
A path.
My whole body went weak with relief so sudden it felt dangerous.
Marlene outlined next steps. Written statements by tomorrow. Counsel coordination. No public disclosure unless necessary. No locker room announcement yet. Tessa would be read into the communications side officially, which probably meant she would become even more terrifying.
Then it was over.
We stood. Shook hands. I managed not to say anything stupid. Declan’s voice stayed even. Mine almost did.
Tessa waited down the hall, arms folded, eyes moving over both of us fast.
“Well?” she asked.
“No trade,” I said.
Her shoulders dropped before she could stop them.
Declan said, “Review. Conflict plan. Oversight.”
Tessa nodded. “Good. Not painless. Good.”
Whitaker came out behind us and cleared his throat. Tessa stepped away, instantly professional.
The GM looked at me first. “Holloway.”
“Yeah?”
“You play tomorrow.”
I blinked. “I do?”
“You do. And you play like a man who understands that the privilege of being trusted does not mean the absence of consequences.”
I swallowed. “Yes, sir.”
Then he looked at Declan. “Coach. My office in twenty.”
“Yes.”
Whitaker walked off.
Tessa pointed at me. “Do not call anyone from the hallway.”
“I know.”
“I mean it.”
“I know.”
She looked at Declan. “You too.”
Declan nodded once.
Then she left us there, three feet apart in a corridor where we could not touch.
For a moment, neither of us moved.
I wanted to put my face against his chest. I wanted to laugh. I wanted to sit down on the floor. I wanted to call my dad and Roman and Harper and also never speak again.
Declan looked at me with all of it held back in his face.
“We have a path,” he said quietly.
I nodded, my throat tight. “Yeah.”
It wasn’t freedom. Not yet.
It wasn’t forgiveness.
But the secret had left our hands, and the world had not ended when it touched the table.
I folded my statement once, then again, because my hands needed something to do.
“I’m going to go not call anyone from the hallway,” I said.
The corner of his mouth moved. “Good plan.”
I took two steps toward the players’ side, then stopped and looked back.
He was still there.
Still steady.
Still staying.
For the first time all day, the noise in my head dropped low enough for one thought to land cleanly.
We had told the truth before it could be taken from us.
And somehow, impossibly, we still had something left to protect.