“People are asking questions about why our head coach drove off the grid the same day our injured star disappeared. Talk shows are calling the benching 'personal' and suggesting you might be too emotionally invested in Hartley'sperformance.” She paused. “Bottom line: we need to get ahead of this narrative before it writes itself.”
Fuck.“What's the current narrative?”
“That you're either obsessed with protecting him or you made a rash decision based on personal feelings instead of medical advice. Pick your poison—both are bad.”
I closed my eyes, felt the weight of it settle in my chest. “What do you need from me?”
“I need you back in Toronto. I need a united front with the medical staff. I need you and Hartley in the same room looking like this was a professional decision made in his best interest.” Her voice softened slightly. “And I need you to tell me there's nothing going on that could blow up in our faces.”
“June—”
“Don't.” She cut me off. “Don't tell me something I'll have to put in a report. Just tell me you're handling it.”
“I'm handling it.”
“Good. Because Paul called me this morning. He's not happy. He wants Hartley back, and if that's not possible, he wants to know why you're making decisions that cost the team wins.” She paused. “He's already talking about other options.”
The threat was clear. Other coaches. Other systems. Other people who'd push injured players back onto the ice because winning mattered more than long-term health.
“Hartley's not playing until he's cleared. That's not negotiable.”
“Then you better have a plan. Because this isn't going away, and we're running out of time.” She hung up without waiting for a response.
I set the phone down on the coffee table and stared at it like it was a bomb that had already gone off. Jace had gone very still beside me, and when I looked at him, his expression was carefully blank.
“They want me back,” he said. Not a question.
“Paul does. June wants damage control.”
“And what do you want?”
I stopped, shook my head. “It doesn't matter what I want.”
“It matters to me.”
“I want you to have the career you deserve.” I reached up, cupped his face. “But I don't know how to give you that and keep my job.”
“So we're fucked.”
“Probably.”
Jace was quiet for a moment, then leaned into my touch. “What happens now?”
“Now I call Paul back and tell him the medical timeline hasn't changed. Then we figure out how to navigate this without destroying everything.”
“And us?
I didn't have a good answer. Didn't have any answer that wouldn't hurt. “I don't know.”
He nodded slowly, like he'd expected that, and pulled back. “You should make the call.”
I picked up my phone and saw another message from Paul. Short, direct, demanding. I dialed his number, and he picked up on the first ring. “Grant.”
“Paul.”
“Where the hell have you been?”
“Checking on Hartley. Making sure he's okay.”
