At 12:41, I shut the laptop.
At 5:38, I woke before my alarm, irritated by the fact that my first coherent thought was Holloway better not be late.
The arena was nearly empty when I arrived. Security lights. Cleaning crew. The low hum of a building before it filled with noise. I had coffee in one hand, practice plan under my arm, and Tiny’s hair on my black pants despite having used a lint roller twice.
Old habit took me past the players’ lounge before my office.
I expected darkness. Empty chairs. Maybe Roman already there if he’d decided to make a point.
Instead, Jace Holloway sat alone at the far table.
It was 8:04.
He wore a black hoodie, hair damp like he’d showered too fast, notebook open in front of him. A pen spun between his fingers, stopped, spun again. His phone sat face down on the other side of the table, deliberately out of reach. There was a paper cup of coffee beside him and another untouched cup across from him, as if he’d bought one too many or forgotten he’d already had one.
He looked up when I stepped inside.
For once, he didn’t lead with a smart remark.
“Morning,” he said.
I glanced at the clock on the wall, then back at him. “You’re early.”
His shoulders shifted. Not quite a shrug. “Alarms.”
Plural.
I looked at the notebook. On the top of the page, in blocky handwriting, he’d written:
8:30 Meeting
Notebook
Phone away
Don’t argue before coffee
Below that, a crooked line had been drawn under don’t argue.
I had to look away before my expression gave me away.
“Coffee helping?” I asked.
“Not noticeably.”
That sounded honest.
I nodded toward the second cup. “That yours too?”
He looked at it, then frowned. “I think I panicked at the counter.”
I took the seat across from him, setting my own coffee down. “Panic buying coffee is better than panic buying a motorcycle.”
His mouth twitched. “That happen to you?”
“My brother Owen. Twice.”
“Same motorcycle?”
