Chapter 18
DECLAN
Jace left the hotel organized.
It should not have affected me the way it did.
Players filtered through the lobby in the usual road morning disorder, headphones around necks, coffees in hand, garment bags half-zipped, someone complaining about pillows, someone else asking if anyone had seen his charger. Jace came out of the elevator at 9:06 with his bag zipped, suit pressed enough to pass, tie in place, phone in his inside pocket instead of clutched in his hand like a life raft.
He still checked his pockets twice.
He still stopped three feet from the bus doors and turned in a quick circle because he thought he’d forgotten something.
He still had to jog back to the lobby table for the travel packet Tessa had put directly in front of him.
But he did not spiral. He did not swear at himself under his breath. He did not turn one small mistake into proof that he was impossible.
He came back with the packet, met my eyes for half a second, and gave me the smallest nod.
Not for anyone else.
For me.
I had no right to feel proud.
I felt it anyway.
On the bus, I sat near the front with Benny while the players took their usual spots. I reviewed matchups and shift notes. I answered a text from ownership. I listened to Benny talk through their second line’s defensive habits while my attention kept finding Jace in the reflection of the windshield.
He was beside Roman, legs stretched into the aisle, one thumb picking at the label on his water bottle until Roman reached over without looking and took it away.
Jace let him.
That made me look down at my tablet before Roman’s eyes could meet mine in the mirror.
The game that night was not pretty.
Road wins rarely were.
We gave up an early goal on a sloppy change, killed two penalties in the first, and spent most of the second fighting through neutral-zone mud. Jace was sharp in a way that had teeth. Not flashy. Not reckless. He tracked back hard, won faceoffs, absorbed a late hit without turning it into a personal crusade, then set up Brooks with a pass through traffic that had half the bench on its feet before the puck hit the net.
When he came back down the line, flushed and breathing hard, I said, “That’s the read.”
His gaze cut to mine through the noise.
Not a smile.
Better.
A clean reception of praise, taken in and held.
In the third, he scored the winner.
Of course he did.
A broken play, loose puck, his body moving before anyone else understood where the opportunity had gone. He snapped it high glove, then hit the glass with both hands while our bench erupted behind him. The arena booed. Our guys shouted. Roman stood in the crease eighty feet away with both arms lifted like an irritated prophet who had known the outcome all along.
Jace skated past the bench after the celebration, cheeks red, eyes bright, hair wet under his helmet.
