“He thinks you came over for him.”
“I brought him nothing. That was inconsiderate.”
Tiny lifted his head at brought, eyes bright with hope.
Jace looked down at him. “No. Sorry. I didn’t stop at the store for a snack large enough to feed a medieval warhorse.”
I laughed before I could stop myself.
Not the controlled huff I gave in press conferences. Not the quiet sound I used around players when they were being idiots and I didn’t want to encourage them. A real laugh. Rough. Unplanned. It came from somewhere in my chest that had been locked up for so long I’d forgotten it could open.
Jace looked over at me, and his expression softened in a way that made the laugh catch.
“There he is,” he said.
I turned my head against the back of the couch. “Who?”
“The guy who isn’t one bad email away from turning into a granite statue.”
“That guy sounds irresponsible.”
“He sounds like he sleeps.”
“Unproven.”
“Fine. The guy who temporarily remembered he has blood pressure.”
Tiny decided my laugh meant entertainment had been approved and shoved his shredded duck into my stomach. It wheezed once, a sad little squeak from the afterlife.
Jace stared at it. “That thing is still alive?”
“Barely.”
“It sounds haunted.”
“He loves it.”
“He needs therapy.”
Tiny sneezed directly onto Jace’s wrist.
“Jesus.” Jace wiped his hand on Tiny’s side. “That is foul. I’m using you as your own towel.”
“You’re good with him.”
“I’m good with creatures who need snacks, structure, and constant reassurance.”
I looked at him.
He caught the echo a second later and pointed at me. “No. Don’t do that. I heard it too. Ignore it.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You thought it in coach voice.”
I smiled.
We stayed there with the television off, the city quiet beyond the windows, no rink noise, no staff waiting, no phone buzzing with a problem I had to solve. Jace’s shoulder rested against my chest. His knee bounced twice, stopped, then started again in a smaller rhythm, like he was trying to be less noticeable in his own body.
