The last forty-eight hours had been a blur of rehab sessions and careful practice drills. Yesterday's practice had been the best yet. I'd run power play drills with the first unit, taken shots that actually had some power behind them, kept pace with Rook through neutral zone work without my leg giving out. Tess had even smiled when she checked my mobility after.
Progress. Real, measurable progress.
But the news cycle hadn't stopped. If anything, it had gotten worse. Photos, speculation, hot takes from people who'd never met me. My name was trending on three different platforms, and I knew without looking that the comments would be a war zone — half defending me, half tearing me apart, all of them thinking they knew the truth.
I turned my phone face-down on the nightstand and stared at the ceiling.
I thought about Grant's mom. The way she'd opened the door and just pulled him in like it was the most natural thing in the world. The way the house had felt like somewhere people actually got to be themselves. I'd sat in that living room and watched Grant's shoulders drop two inches, and I hadn't been able to stop thinking about it since.
I wanted that. Wanted to know if I could have it too.
I picked my phone up and called him before I could talk myself out of it.
He picked up on the second ring. “Jace.”
“I know we just got back,” I said. “I know the timing is a disaster and June would lose her mind and we're both running on nothing.” I pushed off the bed and stood up. “But I need you to come somewhere with me today.”
“Where?”
“My parents' house.” I tested my shoulder with a careful roll. It protested but held. “I've been thinking about it since Calgary. Since your mom.” I paused, trying to find the right words and coming up short. “I want them to know. Not a press release, not some managed statement. I want to walk through their door with you and have them know.”
“Jace—”
“I'm not asking you to fix anything. I just don't want to do it alone.” My voice came out rougher than I meant it to. “So either you come with me, or I go by myself and spend the whole time wishing you were there.”
A long pause. “We have practice in two hours.”
“I know. After practice.” The limp was barely noticeable now as I moved toward the bathroom — another sign of progress I should've been more grateful for. “Meet me at Rosewood Coffee, the one on Third Street. It's quiet, off the usual routes. We can go from there.”
He was quiet for a moment, and I could almost hear him working through it. “We take separate cars to the facility,” he said finally. “Leave separately after practice. I'll meet you at Rosewood at one.”
“And then we go together?”
“Together.” His voice had dropped. “But we're smart about it. We park a block away. We don't hand them photos of us arriving.”
“Okay.”
“Jace.” A pause. “Are you sure?”
“No.” I turned the bathroom light on. “But I'm doing it anyway. Rosewood at one.”
I hung up before the anxiety could make me change my mind.
Rosewood Coffee was exactlyas I remembered—small, tucked between a bookstore and a dry cleaner, the kind of place where locals went to escape tourists and media attention. I arrived ten minutes early, wearing a baseball cap pulled low and sunglasses despite the overcast sky, and ordered a black coffee I didn't want.
Grant walked in not long after looking equally anonymous in a dark jacket and no Wolves gear. He spotted me in the back corner and made his way over, moving with that controlled grace that made my stomach clench every time.
“Hey,” he said, sliding into the chair across from me.
“Hey.” I pushed a coffee toward him. “Got you something. Black, two sugars.”
He looked surprised. “You remembered.”
“I pay attention.” I took a sip of my own coffee, needing something to do with my hands. “Thanks for coming.”
“Of course.” He studied my face. “How are you?”
“Tired. Sore. Terrified.” I set the cup down. “But I need to do this. Before someone else tells them, before the narrative gets away from us completely.”
