He did not look at me.
That was how I knew he wanted to.
We won 3-2.
Postgame was controlled chaos. Training staff moving bodies through recovery. Players peeling off gear. Media waiting outside. The room smelled like sweat, wet equipment, tape, and adrenaline. I gave the team the short version because nobody needed a speech after grinding out a road win.
“Good response after the first. Better details as the game went on. Enjoy the win, don’t be stupid with the free night. Bus tomorrow is ten. If you’re late, I’ll make the entire group suffer and let them know who caused it.”
Milo groaned. “That feels targeted.”
“It is.”
The room laughed.
Jace sat at his stall with his shoulder pads still on, towel around his neck, gaze lowered to his skates. He was smiling, but not performing. Loose around the edges, physically exhausted enough that the restlessness had backed off for once.
Then media swallowed him.
I did my own availability first. Five minutes of questions about resilience, Jace’s goal, the penalty kill, road momentum. I kept my answers measured. Professional. Unremarkable. Tessa stood near the back with a look that said she would personally end me if I gave anyone a quote that required damage control.
When Jace stepped up to the microphones after me, I stayed longer than I needed to.
He was good with them tonight. Not polished into emptiness, but present. He gave credit to Brooks. Mentioned Roman’s saves. Made one reporter laugh without making Tessa’s shoulders climb toward her ears.
“Coach said the group adjusted well,” someone said. “What changed after the first?”
Jace took a drink from his bottle. “We stopped trying to make the perfect play and started making the next right one.”
My hand tightened around the edge of my notes.
The next right one.
He did not look at me when he said it.
I left before I did something stupid, like smile.
The bar was two blocks from the hotel, low-lit and loud, the kind of place that looked anonymous enough for a road team to be normal for a few hours if nobody posted anything idiotic. Tessahad found a semi-private back room with high tables, leather booths, and a bartender who understood discretion after Benny tipped him like a man paying for silence in advance.
I went because head coaches were expected to appear long enough to prove they were human, then disappear before the players forgot I was still the person who could make practice unpleasant.
That was my plan.
One drink. Maybe two sips of it. Then leave.
The win changed the room. Shoulders were down. Ties loosened. Laughter came easier. Brooks and Milo argued over darts with the intensity of men negotiating a peace treaty. Roman sat in the corner booth nursing whiskey and looking like fun had happened to him against his will.
Jace was different.
I had seen him relaxed in pieces. After a good shift. Teasing Roman. Talking to his sister on the phone with affection he pretended was annoyance. But tonight the tension seemed to slide off him in visible layers. He laughed with his whole body. He leaned into conversations instead of bracing for them. He told a story with his hands, forgot the middle, got sidetracked by Milo’s shirt, came back to the story three minutes later, and somehow everyone followed.
He drank too fast.
I noticed by the second beer.
Roman noticed too. He took the third bottle out of Jace’s hand, said something too low for me to hear, and replaced it with water. Jace complained, then drank half the water anyway.
I should have stayed in the booth with Benny.
