“I'm willing to do what's right. Even if it costs me.”
June stared at me for a long moment, then turned to Jace. “You have anything to add?”
He was looking at me with something that might have been betrayal or anger or fear—I couldn't tell through the pain medsand exhaustion. “I can play. I can push through it. I've done it before.”
“And look where that got you,” I said quietly.
His jaw clenched. “I won't let the team down.”
“You're not letting anyone down by taking care of yourself.”
“Bullshit.” His voice cracked. “You're benching me right before the biggest games of the season. You're taking away my chance to prove I'm not—” He stopped, breathing hard.
“Not what?”
“Nothing.” He looked away. “Just do what you want. You're the coach.”
The dismissal in his voice hurt more than it should have.
June sighed and typed something else into her phone. “Fine. I'll put out a statement. Ongoing evaluation, no timeline, precautionary measures. But if this blows up, Grant, it's on you.”
“I can live with that.”
She left without another word, and Tess followed after giving Jace one more guilty look.
The room was quiet except for the beeping monitor.
“You should rest,” I said finally.
“I'm fine.”
“You're not fine. You have a separated shoulder and a battered leg and a concussion.”
“I said I'm fine.” His voice was hard, closed off. “You made your decision. I heard you. Now leave me alone.”
“Jace—”
“Get out, Coach.”
Not Grant. Coach.
I stood there for a moment, wanting to say something that would fix this. Wanting to explain that I was trying to protect him, that I was terrified of losing him, that I cared too much to watch him destroy himself for hockey.
But his face was turned away, jaw tight, and I knew he didn't want to hear it.
So I left.
Two days later,I picked him up from the hospital to drive him home to Toronto.
He'd been discharged with a list of medications, physical therapy protocols, and strict orders not to do anything that could aggravate either injury. The media had been camped outside the hospital, so we went out a back entrance and loaded him into my car while June ran interference.
The drive from Boston to Toronto was six hours.
Jace sat in the passenger seat with his arm in a sling, staring out the window. He hadn't said more than ten words to me since the hospital. Hadn't looked at me directly. Hadn't acknowledged that anything had changed between us.
I gripped the steering wheel and kept my eyes on the road and tried not to think about how much it hurt.
“You need to stop for anything?” I asked around hour three.
