“That's what worries me.”
We walked for a bit, the city doing its morning thing around us, and then Jace said, “So I may have done some research.”
I glanced at him. “Research on what?”
“You.” He grinned, not even trying to look innocent. “Your playing days. Stats. Highlights. There's some footage online.”
My jaw tightened slightly. “You went looking for old game footage?”
“Coach, you had 47 goals and 38 assists in your final full season. You were good. Like, really good.” He took a sip of his coffee. “Why didn't you ever mention that?”
“Because it's not relevant.”
“Bullshit it's not relevant. You played eight seasons in the league, made the All-Star team twice?—”
“Once.”
“—and you act like you were some depth player who barely got ice time.” He bumped my shoulder lightly. “You were a first-line center, Grant. You were a playmaker.”
I shrugged, uncomfortable with the direction this was going. “That was a long time ago.”
“Not that long. What are you, forty-one?”
“Yes.”
“There's a video of you scoring a hat trick against Montreal. The commentators went insane.”
I remembered that game. Remembered every detail of it—the ice, the crowd, the way the puck felt coming off my stick. “You watched that?”
“I watched all of them. Well, all the ones I could find.” He was grinning now, enjoying this. “You had great hands. And your vision—the way you'd find guys in the slot?—”
“Jace.”
“I'm just saying, you were hot shit, Coach.” He paused. “Also, you looked good in your old team's jersey. The tighter fit really worked for you.”
I felt heat creep up my neck. “Are you seriously?—”
“What? I'm appreciating hockey history.” His grin widened. “It's educational.”
“You're insufferable.”
“You like it.” He wasn't wrong. “So what was it like? Being that good?”
I considered the question. “Honestly? It felt normal. You don't think about being good when you're in it. You just think about the next shift, the next game. Trying not to fuck up.”
“Did you love it?”
“Yeah.” The answer came easier than I expected. “Yeah, I did. Every second of it, even the hard parts. Maybe especially the hard parts.”
“What was the best part?”
“The moments when everything clicks. When you make a pass you shouldn't be able to make, and your winger buries it, and you just... know. Know you did something right.” I paused. “The worst part is when that stops happening. When your body can't do what your brain knows it should.”
He was quiet for a moment. “Is that what it felt like? At the end?”
“Yeah. Like being fluent in a language and then suddenly forgetting words.” I shook my head. “Frustrating doesn't even begin to cover it.”
“But you found coaching.”
