“I did. Took a while to realize I could still be part of it, just differently.” I glanced at him. “Turns out I'm better at seeing the game than playing it now.”
“You're good at it. Coaching.” His voice went quieter. “You're good at seeing things other people miss.”
“Is that your way of saying I notice when you're spiraling?”
“Maybe.” He smiled. “Or maybe I'm saying you're good at your job. Take the compliment, old man.”
“Old man?”
“You're fifteen years older than me. That's basically ancient.”
“Careful, Hartley. I can still make practice hell for you.”
“You already do that.” He paused. “Besides, I like older guys. More experience.”
I nearly choked on my coffee. “Jace?—”
“What? I'm just stating facts.” His grin was absolutely wicked now. “You know, for the research.”
“We're in public.”
“I know. That's what makes it fun.” He looked entirely too pleased with himself. “So, any other highlights I should know about? Secret hat tricks? Overtime winners? That time you definitely checked someone into next week?”
“There may have been a few of those.”
“I want details.”
“Why?”
“Because I want to know you. All of you. Not just the coach who yells at me for lazy positioning.” He paused. “I want to know what you were like when you were my age. What made you fall in love with hockey. What it felt like to be that good.”
The honesty in his voice caught me off guard. “It felt like flying,” I said finally. “Like nothing else mattered except the ice and the puck and the perfect play.”
“Do you miss it?”
“Every day.” The admission surprised me. “But coaching—being able to help guys like you find that feeling—it helps.”
“Guys like me?”
“Talented. Stubborn. Pain in my ass.”
He laughed. “You love it.”
I did. God help me, I really did.
We endedup at Pike Place Market. The crowds were thick even on a weekday morning, tourists and locals jostling for space between the fish vendors and produce stands. We wandered through slowly, and I caught Jace smiling at the absurdity of itall—the guys throwing fish back and forth, the flowers stacked in impossible arrangements, the chaos that somehow worked.
“You want to get something?” I asked, nodding toward one of the produce stands.
“Like what?”
“I don't know. Apples. Oranges. Something that makes us look like normal humans doing normal things.”
He laughed, and the sound made something in my chest loosen. “You think buying fruit is going to make us look normal?”
“Worth a shot.”
We bought apples—small, tart ones that the vendor swore were the best in Washington—and kept walking. The waterfront stretched out ahead of us, grey water meeting grey sky, and we found a spot near the railing to stand and eat.
