“I know it hurt him.”
Owen leaned forward slightly, voice dropping. “It looks like you made a decision and expected him to just accept it. But Jace doesn't work like that. Hockey isn't just what he does, it's who he is. You took that away from him, even temporarily, and now he doesn't know what the fuck he's supposed to be.”
“I was trying to protect him.”
“I know. And he knows that too, even if he won't admit it right now.” Owen sighed, grabbed a pen, and pulled a napkin closer. “But here's the thing, Coach. Jace doesn't need someone to protect him from hockey. He needs someone to protect him from himself. And maybe you're that guy. Maybe you're the first person who's ever actually put him first instead of treating him like an asset.” He started writing on the napkin. “But if you're gonna go up there and try to fix this, you need to understand something.”
“What?”
“He's not just angry about the benching. He's angry because he let himself care about you, and now he thinks you're gonna leave him like everyone else does when he stops being useful.” Owen slid the napkin across the bar. An address. Directions. “So if you're going up there to tell him you were right and he was wrong, save yourself the drive. But if you're going up there because you give a shit about him—not as a player, but as a person—then go. Because he needs that more than he needs hockey right now.”
I picked up the napkin, stared at the address like it was a lifeline. “Does he know you're giving me this?”
“No. And he's gonna be pissed when he finds out. But I'd rather have him pissed and safe than alone and spiraling.” Owen met my eyes. “Two hours north. Middle of nowhere. Barely any cell service once you get past the main road, so don't expect to call ahead. And Coach?”
“Yeah?”
“Don't be a dick about it. He's hurting. And he's scared. And the last thing he needs is you showing up like you're still his coach instead of someone who actually gives a fuck.”
I folded the napkin, shoved it in my pocket, and nodded once. “Thanks.”
“Don't thank me yet. If you break his heart worse than it already is, I know where you work.” Owen's voice was light, but the threat was clear. “And I've got a lot of friends who'd be real interested in making your life difficult.”
“Noted.”
I turned to leave, but Owen's voice stopped me one more time. “Hey, Coach?”
I looked back.
“For what it's worth?” Owen's expression softened slightly. “He talks about you like you matter. Like you're not just anotherperson using him for what he can do on the ice. So maybe you're good for each other. Maybe you're both just too fucked up to see it right now.”
CHAPTER 19
CABIN FEVER
JACE
One week in and the cabin had stopped being a refuge. Now it was just a cage with better lighting and no cameras.
I sat up slowly, testing the shoulder. Still hurt. Not as bad as it had been a week ago, but the ache was constant, a low throb that reminded me with every movement that I was broken. Useless.
Benched.
I swung my legs over the edge of the bed and stood, favoring the left leg without thinking about it. The hamstring pulled tight, a warning I'd been ignoring for months that had finally caught up with me.
Good fucking job, Hartley. You played yourself right off the ice.
I limped to the kitchen, made coffee I didn't want, and stared out the window at the snow-covered trees like they held some kind of answer. They didn't. They just stood there, cold and indifferent, which felt about right.
The routine was the same every day. Coffee. Limp around the cabin. Stare at the snow. Scroll my phone and torture myself with updates I shouldn't be reading. It was a cesspool of speculation about my injury, about whether the team could make it without me, about whether I'd ever come back the same. The comments section on every article was worse. Some fans defending me, some calling me soft, some saying I was faking it for attention.
I closed the app and hated myself a little more.
Then I'd do it all over again. Coffee. Snow. Phone. Self-loathing. Repeat.
The walls were closing in.The silence was suffocating. And the worst part? I knew why. It wasn't the cabin. It wasn't the injury. It was the fact that I was alone, and I'd been alone before, but this time it felt different. This time it felt like I'd been cut off from the one thing—the one person—who'd made me feel like I wasn't just a fucking asset with skates.
I turned on the TV like I was picking a scab.
