“Sure you didn't.” He studied me for a second. “But real talk—you actually into him, or is this just a?—”
“I'm into him.” The words came out before I could stop them. “Like, really into him.”
Rook's expression softened slightly. “Good. Because if you're going to risk your career for someone, it better be for someone who matters.”
“He matters.”
“I can tell.” He headed toward the showers, then stopped. “Hey, Hart?”
“Yeah?”
“If you and Coach are actually together, just... be careful, yeah? Paul's an asshole, but he's not stupid. And if he finds out before you're ready to deal with it, it's going to be a shitshow.”
“I know.”
“Good.” He grinned again. “Also, does this mean I can stop pretending to care when the guys try to set you up? Because that shit is exhausting.”
“Please stop.”
“Thank god.” He turned to leave, then looked back. “One more thing—does Coach know you call him Grant when you're?—”
“Get the fuck out, Rook.”
“I'm going, I'm going!” He was laughing now. “But seriously, Hart? I'm glad you told me. Even if you did take five years to do it. And the mental image of you and Coach bumping uglies in the woods is going to haunt me forever.”
“Fuck off, Rook.”
“Love you too, buddy.” He paused at the doorway. “And hey—if he breaks your heart, I'll break his kneecaps. Captain's honor.”
“He's our coach.”
“Don't care. Nobody fucks with my winger.” He pointed at me. “That goes both ways, by the way. You hurt him, and I'm benching you myself.”
“You can't bench me.”
“Watch me.” But he was grinning. “Now go shower. You smell like desperation and poor life choices.”
He left, and I sat there trying not to smile and failing completely. I'd just come out to my captain, got roasted about my sex life, and somehow felt more accepted than I had in years.
Hockey players, man.
I tooka taxi to my family home instead of going back to my apartment.
Stupid decision, probably. But I'd promised Grant I'd stop running, and that meant actually dealing with my family instead of sending vague texts about being “busy with hockey stuff.”
The door opened before I could knock. My mom took one look at me—shoulder brace, limp, general disaster energy—and her expression shifted from surprise to concern.
“Jace.” She stepped back to let me pass. “Get inside. Your father's watching the game. Leah's in the kitchen raiding the snack cabinet.”
I limped into the living room. Dad glanced up from the TV, did a double-take when he saw the brace, and muted the game.
“That looks recent.”
“Boston game. Separated shoulder, torn hamstring.”
“Shit.” He gestured to the couch. “Sit down. You're making me nervous standing there like you're about to fall over.”
Leah appeared in the doorway with a bag of chips. “Oh, the prodigal son finally shows his face.” She saw the brace and her expression sobered. “Okay, that's worse than I expected from your vague-ass texts.”
