“Me too.” Another pause. “We’ll talk when I’m back?”
“Yes.”
“Okay. Good night, Dec.”
“Good night, Liv.”
The call ended.
I stayed outside for another minute with the phone in my hand and the cold working through my jacket.
There were choices I could still make. There were lines not yet crossed, damage not yet done in ways that could not be softened by saying we had tried to be careful. I knew that.
Then I went back inside.
Jace stood near the bar with a woman’s hand on his chest.
She was pretty. Mid-twenties maybe, dark hair, confident smile, wearing a green dress that had not been chosen by accident. She was leaning close enough to be heard over the music, her fingers hooked lightly in the open placket of his shirt while she laughed up at him.
Jace looked loose, amused, a little unfocused from alcohol and attention. Not encouraging exactly. Not stopping it either. He said something, and she touched his arm with her other hand.
My reaction was immediate and unacceptable.
Heat. Then anger. Then the clean, brutal image of walking over there, removing her hand, and telling Jace to get outside.
I did none of those things.
I was his coach. Not his lover. Not his partner. Not a man with any public claim at all.
So I turned around and left.
The night air hit harder this time. I was halfway to the taxi line before the bar door opened behind me.
“Declan.”
I kept walking.
“Coach.”
That stopped me.
Not because of the title. Because of the strain under it.
I turned near the curb. Jace was coming toward me without his jacket, sleeves rolled wrong, hair a mess from his hands. The cold did not seem to register.
“Go back inside,” I said.
His mouth parted. “Seriously?”
“You’ve been drinking. Go back with Roman.”
“I’m not drunk.”
“You’re not sober enough for this conversation.”
He laughed once, sharp and disbelieving. “Oh, that’s convenient.”
“Jace.”
