“Bullshit.” I stepped closer. “I'm the coach,” I said, voice low. “If he's off the grid with an injury, I need to know.”
Rook exhaled through his nose, hard. “He texted me last night.”
“And?”
“Said he needs time alone. Wished us good luck with practice.” He paused, then added, quieter, “I think he went to the cabin.”
“Where?”
Rook shook his head. “Don't know. He never told me.”
I felt the frustration crawl up my spine, but I kept my voice even. “Who would know?”
“His best friend. Owen.” Rook met my eyes. “Works at a bar downtown. That's all I got.”
I nodded once. “Thanks.” I turned to leave, but Rook's voice stopped me.
“Coach.”
I looked back.
“You gonna bring him back?”
There was something in his tone—not accusation, not hope. Just exhaustion. Like he was tired of watching this team fracture and didn't know how to stop it.
“I'm going to make sure he's okay,” I said.
Rook held my gaze for a beat, then nodded. “Good.”
I didn't leave the rink right away. I should've walked straight out, found Owen's bar, and gone after Jace before he did something stupid. But I had to address the room first.
I stood in the doorway of the locker room and waited until every head turned my way. “I know you're angry,” I said. No preamble. No sugar-coating. “You think I benched Hartley too soon. You think he could've played through it. You're wondering if I made the wrong call.”
Silence. I let it sit for a second, then continued. “I didn't. I'm not watching a man destroy his body for your entertainment,” I said, voice harder now. “If you're angry, be angry at me. But it was necessary.”
Mercer spoke up, voice rough. “We need him, Coach.”
“I know.” I met his eyes. “And you'll have him back when he's healthy. Not before.”
No one argued. I let the silence settle, then turned and walked out.
I satdown at my desk, pulled up the schedule on my laptop, and stared at it without seeing a damn thing. The playoff push was real. We had two weeks until prelims, and our best winger was benched. The media was going to eat this alive. The front office was going to start asking questions I didn't want to answer. And Jace was gone.
The knock on my door came five minutes later. “Come in.”
Paul stepped inside. He closed the door behind him and sat down without being invited. “Grant, we need to talk.”
I leaned back in my chair and waited.
“You benched Hartley.” Not a question. An accusation.
“I did.”
“Without consulting me first.” His voice was tight, controlled anger underneath. “Without a single fucking phone call to your GM.”
“I made a coaching decision.”
“That's not how this works.” Paul leaned forward, hands flat on my desk. “You don't bench our franchise player—ourstar—without running it by me. That's not protocol. That's not how we operate.”
