“Paul. June.” I kept my voice neutral, kept walking toward the door. “We're back.”
“So I see.” Paul pushed off the wall. “Inside. Now.”
I unlocked the office door and we all filed in. Paul claimed one of the chairs across from my desk. June stood near the window, tablet ready. Jace lingered near the door.
“Sit down, Hartley,” Paul said.
Jace sat carefully, leg extended slightly. I moved behind my desk, staying on my feet.
Paul didn't waste time. “When I called you last week, you told me you were 'checking on Hartley.' You want to explain to me what that actually meant?”
“Exactly what I said. Hartley needed help recovering. I made sure he got it.”
“By disappearing for a week without clearing it with anyone first?” Paul's voice was cold. “You're the head coach, Grant. You don't get to vanish during a critical stretch of the season without running it through proper channels.”
“I left the assistants in charge. They knew what to do.”
“That's not the point.” Paul leaned forward. “The point is you made a unilateral decision about our franchise player and then took off. No approval from medical. No heads-up to PR so we could manage the narrative. I found out where you were because I called you, not because you told me.”
He was right. I knew he was right.
“You're correct,” I said evenly. “I should have contacted you before we left. That was a mistake.”
Paul blinked, clearly not expecting the admission. “Damn right it was.”
June stepped in, voice calm. “We've had outlets asking questions about the nature of your relationship with Hartley. One blog is speculating about favoritism. We need to make sure there's a clean narrative here.”
“Which is?” I asked.
“That you arranged a recovery retreat for an injured player to focus on healing away from media pressure.” She looked between us. “That works as long as there's nothing that contradicts it. So I need to know—is there anything I need to get ahead of?”
“No,” I said firmly.
June studied me for a long moment, then made a note on her tablet. “Keep it that way.”
Paul stood, paced to the window. “Alright. Now let's talk about what actually matters.” He turned to Jace. “You told me on the phone you'd be ready for prelims. Can you deliver or not?”
Jace straightened despite the pain it caused. “I'll be ready.”
“That's not what I asked.” Paul's voice was flat. “Can you play? Or are you going to get out there and be useless?”
“I can play.”
“At what percentage?”
Jace didn't hesitate. “Enough to make a difference.”
Paul studied him for a long moment. “Fine. Then you work with Tess. Daily rehab sessions. I don't care what the doctors say about timelines - I care that you show up ready when prelims start. You miss sessions, you're wasting my time. You half-ass the work, you're done. Clear?”
“Clear.”
Paul turned to me. “And you. You're comfortable putting him on the ice?”
“If Tess clears him for game action, yes.” The words tasted like ash. “But he follows her protocol. If she says he's not ready, he doesn't play.”
“I don't care about protocol. I care about wins.” Paul's jaw was tight. “Tess gets him functional. You get him on the ice. Hartley scores goals. That's how this works.”
“Understood,” I said.
