“Yes, ma'am.”
“Good. Sit. Talk to me about how you're keeping my son from destroying himself before prelims.”
I caught Grant's eye across the table and saw relief mixed with exhaustion. We'd survived. My parents knew. The truth was out in the space that mattered most.
The media could speculate all they wanted. The world could have its opinions. But here, in my parents' kitchen, surrounded by family who loved me despite everything, the truth was simple:
Grant was mine. I was his. And we were done hiding from the people who mattered.
CHAPTER 29
PENALTY SHOT
JACE
Idressed like I was building a body that could survive one last night.
Tape first. Wrapped tight around the ankle, the knee, reinforcing joints that had held together through three weeks of brutal rehab. The shoulder brace went on next, fitted snug under the padding. Then the anti-inflammatory I'd swallowed dry because my hands were shaking too much to grab water. Every movement was calculated. Every piece of gear a layer of armor between me and the pain I knew was coming.
The locker room buzzed with pre-game energy—guys going through their routines, music playing low, the familiar rhythm of preparation.
Win and we were in. Lose and the season was over.
And somewhere in the background of all that hockey pressure was the other thing—the photos, the scandal, the fact that half the arena would be watching me and Grant instead of the puck.
I pulled my jersey over my head carefully, testing the shoulder's range of motion. It held. Sore, tight, but functional.The leg was worse—a deep ache that started in the hamstring and radiated down when I put weight on it. I'd learned to hide it. Learned to move in ways that compensated without looking like compensation.
Tess had cleared me to play but the second anything spiked, I was supposed to signal.
I had no intention of signaling.
“Hart.”
I looked up to find Rook standing in front of my stall, already in full gear, face serious. “You good?”
“Yeah. I'm good.”
“Don't bullshit me. Can you actually do this?”
I met his eyes. “I can do this.”
He nodded and clapped me on the shoulder before moving off. I went back to my tape job, fingers working automatically while my brain ran through every scenario. Every shift. Every potential mistake.
The door to the locker room opened and June walked in, looking like she'd aged five years in the past week. She made a beeline for me, voice low.
“Final optics rules,” she said. No preamble. “No lingering near Coach Sutherland. No private moments that cameras can catch. Keep it clean until the final horn. Understood?”
“Understood.”
“I mean it, Jace. The media is salivating for another photo. One slip and this whole thing explodes again.”
“I said I understand.”
She studied my face, then sighed. “Good luck tonight. Win this thing.”
She left, and I stood up, testing my weight on the bad leg. It held. Barely. But it held.
The arena atmosphere filtered through the walls. People weren't just here for hockey. They were here for the story.
