The rest of the afternoon blurred into meetings, video, injury updates, and the constant pressure of behaving like my life still fit inside its old lines.
Olivia texted from Chicago.
Flight moved. Back tomorrow night instead of Thursday. Can we talk this weekend? Feels like we need an actual night home.
I read it once.
Then again.
The right answer was yes.
The honest answer had to become more than that.
I typed, Yes. We need to talk.
I didn’t add anything to soften it.
For several seconds, I watched the delivered mark sit beneath the message and felt the old shape of my marriage press against the new shape of my life.
Neither gave way cleanly.
By the time I made it back near the locker room, most of the players were gone. A few showers still ran. Someone laughed in the training room. Tape balls dotted the floor despite the bins being three feet away, because professional athletes were raccoons with contracts and worse hygiene.
Jace came out in dark jeans and a Blizzard hoodie, hair damp again, backpack slung over one shoulder. Roman walked beside him, saying something that made Jace shake his head.
“You are not putting a tracking tile on my wallet,” Jace said.
“I absolutely am,” Roman replied.
“That’s invasive.”
“You left it in a smoothie place twice.”
“People keep saying that like I abandoned an infant.”
“A wallet is an infant with your driver’s license and credit cards.”
Jace saw me.
Only for a second.
His expression didn’t change in a way anyone else would catch. But I saw the work it took for him not to stop. Not to step closer. Not to let the morning follow us into the hallway and put its hands all over us.
Roman saw me too.
His eyes held mine a fraction longer than usual.
Not suspicion.
Concern with a blade tucked behind it.
“Coach,” he said.
“Vega.”
Jace adjusted the strap on his shoulder. “See you tomorrow.”
“Holloway,” I said.
