He had not come to my office because we had made a rule. Nothing at work. He had followed it. He had waited until he was away from the arena, away from the plane, away from the public spaces where I was Coach Reid and he was Holloway, franchise center, twenty-three-year-old star with too many eyes on him.
He had sent the color when it was allowed.
I exhaled slowly.
Me: Eat?
The reply came after a minute.
Jace: Yes.
I did not trust the simplicity of that answer.
Me: Actual food.
Another pause.
Jace: Airport sandwich. Protein shake. Half a bag of pretzels I found in my backpack, not proud of it.
My mouth almost moved.
Me: Add something with protein now if you have it.
Jace: Bossy.
I stared at that one word and felt the old shape of him in it. Not defiance, not really. A hand raised from under the surface.
Me: Color?
The answer came faster.
Jace: Green.
Me: Then follow the instruction.
Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.
Jace: Yes, Coach.
I set the phone down because holding it through the reaction felt dangerous.
Tiny huffed, impatient with my lack of attention. I scratched his head again while the kitchen light reflected off the black screen.
Five minutes passed.
Six.
My phone buzzed.
Jace: Turkey slices. Cheese. Apple. Water.
Me: Good.
The word sat there between us, plain and loaded.
I imagined him in his apartment, probably still in sweats, hair damp from a shower or wrecked from his hands, standing in front of an open refrigerator because the instruction had cut through whatever else was happening in his head. I imagined him reading good and going quiet for half a breath.
My body responded with an intensity that had nothing to do with immediate sex and everything to do with obedience offered from miles away.
