“No.”
“You hungry? We could grab food?—”
“I'm fine.”
“Jace—”
“I don't want to talk to you.” His voice was flat, empty. “Just drive.”
So I did.
By the time we reached Toronto, the sun was setting and my hands were cramping from gripping the wheel too hard. I pulled up outside his building—sleek, modern, the kind of place wherehockey stars lived when they were young and single and made too much money.
I got out and moved to help him, but he was already climbing out on his own, wincing but determined.
“I've got it,” he said when I reached for his bag.
“You have one functional arm. Let me help.”
“I said I've got it.”
But he didn't. He struggled with the bag, pain flashing across his face, and I took it from him despite his protest.
“Stubborn,” I muttered.
“Learned from the best.”
We made it to his door, and he fumbled with his keys one-handed. I wanted to reach out and steady him. Wanted to cup his face and make him look at me. Wanted to say all the things I'd been holding back for six hours.
Instead, I set his bag down inside the door and stepped back.
“You have everything you need?”
“Yeah.”
“Physical therapy starts Monday. I'll coordinate with Tess?—”
“I’ll handle it myself.”
“Jace, you need support. You need?—”
“I need you to leave me alone.” He finally looked at me, and his eyes were hard. Cold in a way I'd never seen before. “You made your call. You benched me. You took away my chance to play in the prelims. So congratulations, Coach. You kept me safe. You did the right thing. Now get the fuck out of my apartment.”
“I'm not your enemy,” I said quietly.
“You're not my anything.” He stepped back, hand on the door. “Thanks for the ride.”
The door closed in my face.
I stood there in the hallway for a long moment, staring at the wood grain, feeling the weight of everything I'd lost settle into my bones.
I'd done the right thing. I knew that. Benching him was the only choice that kept him safe, that protected his future, that gave him a chance at a full recovery.
But it didn't feel right.
My phone buzzed.
June:
