“Is he?”
“He's recovering.” The lie came easier than it should have. “The medical recommendation hasn't changed.”
“That's not acceptable.”
“I’ll play.” Jace's voice cut through the conversation, and I looked up to find him standing right beside me, hand extended for the phone.
I shook my head, covered the receiver. “No.”
“Give me the phone, Grant.” His voice was calm, steady, and his eyes held mine with that stubborn determination I knew too well.
“Jace—”
“Now.”
I wanted to argue. Wanted to tell him to sit down, let me handle it, trust me to protect him. But something in his expression stopped me—not defiance, exactly. More like resolve. He was making his own call, and fighting him on it would only make things worse.
I handed him the phone.
“Paul, it's Hartley.” Jace's voice shifted into something professional, controlled. “I'm fine. Shoulder's healing on schedule. I'll be ready for prelims.”
I could hear Paul's voice through the speaker. Jace listened, jaw tight, and I watched him make calculations I didn't want him making.
“It is enough time. I'll do extra physio, work with Tess, whatever it takes. But I'll be ready.” He paused. “Yeah. Understood. See you when we're back.”
He hung up and handed me the phone.
“What the fuck was that?” My voice came out harder than I intended.
“That was me taking control of my own career.”
“You're injured. You're not ready. The doctor said?—”
“I'm not letting you lose your job because of me.” Jace's voice was firm, no room for argument.
“That's not your decision to make.”
“Yes, it is. It's my body. My career. My choice.” He stepped closer, and I saw the fear underneath the determination.
“So you're going to destroy your body instead?”
“I'm going to heal it properly and then come back when I'm ready. Which will be in time for prelims.” His voice softened slightly. “Grant, I can do this.”
“You don't know that.”
“Neither do you.” He reached up, touched my face. “But I'm asking you to trust me. The way you asked me to trust you when you benched me.”
I stared at him, every instinct screaming to say no, to protect him from himself, to make the call I knew was right even if he hated me for it. But the look in his eyes—determined, scared, pleading—stopped me. This was him choosing. Him taking ownership. Him deciding what risks he was willing to take.
And if I didn't let him, I'd be just another person treating him like an asset instead of a person.
“And if Tess says you're not ready, you don't play. No arguments.”
“Deal.”
“And you do every single thing she tells you. No cutting corners. No pushing too hard.”
“Okay.”
