“At the rink, I’m your coach.”
“I know.”
“I mean it.”
His mouth bent slightly, tired but sincere. “I know, Dec.”
The name was quiet. Private. One last thing he left in the room before he opened the door.
I watched from the kitchen window as he crossed the yard, hood up, shoulders tucked against the cold. He didn’t look back. Good. He cut through the side gate and disappeared toward where he’d parked down the street.
Tiny stood beside me, offended and mournful.
“He’ll be back,” I said before I could stop myself.
Tiny looked up at me.
I put both hands on the edge of the sink and stared at the empty yard.
The words had sounded too much like faith.
By eight-thirty, I had watched the same forecheck clip four times without retaining a single useful detail.
My office door was shut. The practice plan sat in front of me, clean and organized, every minute accounted for. Breakout adjustments. Neutral zone reload. Second-unit power play. Conditioning at the end if the pace dropped. On paper, my day looked like it belonged to hockey.
In my head, Olivia’s suitcase rolled over airport tile.
I took a drink of coffee that had gone cold and forced myself through the clip again.
F1 pressure too shallow. Weak-side winger late. Defenseman hesitated instead of moving the puck.
There. Work.
I wrote the corrections down in block letters.
Then my eyes drifted to my phone.
No message from Olivia since the flight confirmation. No message from Jace either, which was good. That was the plan. No morning thread. No little proof of life every ten minutes. He had routines, I had responsibilities, and neither of us could afford to turn secrecy into a leash.
Still, I wanted to know if he was okay.
That was the part no system fully solved. Want made an undisciplined man out of me if I gave it too much room.
I put the phone face down.
Grant knocked once and opened the door. “You alive?”
“Unfortunately for everyone.”
He came in carrying a clipboard and an expression that said he had been awake too long and blamed society. “Video at nine?”
“Yes.”
“You look like you slept badly.”
I looked up. “Thanks.”
“Not an insult. Just a face fact.”
