I stepped inside and scanned the room. A handful of regulars sat scattered at tables, nursing beers and watching the game on the small TV above the bar. The bartender was restocking glasses, back turned, lean and quick in his movements. I walked up to the bar and waited.
He turned around, wiping his hands on a towel, and stopped when he saw me. He didn't smile. “Can I help you?” he asked.
“I'm looking for Jace Hartley.”
His expression didn't change, but I saw the flicker of recognition. The slight stiffness in his shoulders. “Don't know him,” he said.
“Bullshit.”
Owen set the towel down and crossed his arms. “Even if I did, why would I tell you?”
“Because I'm his coach. And he's injured, off the grid, and not answering his phone.”
“Maybe he doesn't want to talk to you.”
“Maybe. But I need to know he's okay.”
Owen studied me for a long moment, eyes narrowed, like he was deciding whether I was worth the risk. “You the one who benched him?” he asked.
“Yeah.”
“Good.”
I blinked. “What?”
“He needed someone to stop him.” Owen's voice was quiet but firm. “He's been running himself into the ground for months. If you're the guy who finally said no, then good.”
I didn't know what to say to that. Owen grabbed a glass and started polishing it, movements precise, like he was giving himself something to do with his hands. “You want a drink?” he asked.
“I want to know where he is.”
“You'll get that. But first, you're gonna stand there and let me figure out if you're worth the information.” He set the glass down and leaned against the bar, studying me. “How long?”
“How long what?”
“How long have you two been fucking?”
The directness of it caught me off guard. I felt my jaw tighten, felt the instinct to deny it, to play dumb, to protect Jace and myself and whatever the hell we'd had before I'd destroyed it. But Owen's eyes were steady, unflinching, and I realized lying would be pointless.
“I'm not—” I started, then stopped. “It's not like that.”
“Sure it is.” Owen's voice was matter-of-fact, no judgment, just observation. “I've known Jace since we were kids. I can read him better than anyone. And the way he talks about you?” He shook his head slightly. “Man lights up like someone flipped a switch. Even when he's pissed at you—which he is, by the way—he can't stop talking about you.”
“He told you about us?”
“Didn't have to. I'm not blind.” Owen grabbed another glass, started polishing. “He called me a couple nights ago. Drunk off his ass and pissed at the world. Spent an hour telling me about you—how you see the game different than anyone else, how you pushed him harder than any coach ever has, how you actually gave a shit when he was falling apart.” He glanced up at me.“Most guys don't talk about their coach like that unless there's something else going on.”
I didn't say anything. Couldn't.
“Then there's the way he looks at his phone,” Owen continued. “Waiting for texts. Smiling at stupid shit you probably said. Getting annoyed when you don't respond fast enough.” He set the glass down. “And the guilt. That's the big tell. He feels guilty about wanting you, which means he knows it's complicated. Knows it's risky. Knows it could blow up in his face. But he wants you anyway.”
“Wanted,” I said quietly. “Past tense.”
“Yeah, well. You fucked that up pretty good, didn't you?”
The bluntness should've pissed me off. Instead, it just made me tired. “I didn't have a choice.”
“You did,” Owen said. “You just chose his health over his pride. Which was the right call, for the record. But that doesn't mean it didn't hurt him.”
