“I know.”
“I mean it.”
“I know you do.” I held his gaze and didn't push. He wasn't ready, and pushing wouldn't get me anywhere he'd let me stay. “We don't have to do this right now.”
He glanced back toward the door, at the muffled sound of the guys still moving around in the other room.
“They're going to eat all the lo mein,” he said.
“Callahan already has.”
He huffed and pushed off the door. “Come on, then.”
We went back out, and within thirty seconds Rook had handed Jace a container of food without being asked. Jace took it like he was on autopilot. I stayed near the edge of the room and watched him settle back into the noise.
Callahan launched into some story about a disastrous power play drill where Mercer had accidentally sent the puck into the stands and nearly hit a photographer. O'Rourke added his own commentary, dry and cutting, and Jace laughed.
After about forty-five minutes, guys started drifting toward the door. Schedules to keep, families to get back to, the usual Sunday evening exodus. Rook was the last to leave.
“You good?” Rook asked.
“Getting there.”
“Good. Because we need you back.”
Jace's throat worked. “Yeah. I know.”
Rook clapped him on the good shoulder and headed for the door. He stopped beside me on the way out, voice dropping low. “You bringing him to the facility tomorrow?”
“Yeah. We need to talk to Paul and medical. Get everything on record.”
“He ready for that?”
“He will be.” I met Rook's eyes. “Thanks for this. For showing up.”
“Wasn't for you, Coach.” But there was no heat in it. “See you tomorrow.”
When the door closed behind him, Jace slumped back against the couch and exhaled like he'd been holding his breath for an hour. “That was...”
“Good?” I offered.
“Yeah. Actually.” He looked at me, something lighter in his expression than I'd seen in weeks. “Thank you. For texting Rook. For making that happen.”
“You're welcome.” I walked over to the kitchen, started consolidating leftover containers. “Now eat more of that food, take your meds, and get some rest. We're going to the facility in the morning.”
“Got it.” He stood, testing his weight on the bad leg. “I'm going to shower and crash. You staying?”
I looked at him—exhausted but less haunted than he'd been at the cabin, standing in his own space instead of hiding from it. “Yeah. I'm staying.”
“Good.” He disappeared into the bathroom, and I finished cleaning up, putting his apartment back in order while my brain ran through tomorrow's conversation.
This was going to be a fight. But it was a fight worth having.
Paul and Junewere waiting outside my door when we finally made it to my office. Paul leaning against the wall in his expensive suit, arms crossed, face carved from stone. June standing beside him with her tablet clutched like a weapon, perfectly composed except for the tightness around her eyes.
Fuck.
“Coach Sutherland,” Paul said. Not a greeting. A statement.
