“Good.”
The word slipped out before I thought better of it.
Jace went still for one fraction of a second, as if it had hit somewhere unexpected. Then he nodded, too fast, and turned toward the door.
“Holloway.”
He stopped.
“This was private for a reason. I’m not interested in embarrassing you.”
His grip on the doorknob tightened. “Yeah.”
“I mean it.”
He looked back. Whatever smart answer he reached for didn’t make it out. “Thanks.”
Then he was gone.
I stood there after the door shut, irritated with myself.
Not because I’d handled it wrong. I hadn’t. The correction was clean. No humiliation. Clear expectation. Immediate solution.
But his reaction had been disproportionate.
So was my awareness of it.
Practice confirmed what the office had started.
Jace was ready for the first drill. Not just with the right sheet, but early in line, helmet on, stick taped, eyes moving between the board and the ice. He didn’t joke through the explanation. He didn’t spin his stick or drift into Milo’s conversation. When I gave the first whistle, he moved like someone trying to outrun the pressure inside his own skin.
Too hard, at first.
His first pass snapped off Lowell’s blade.
“Less proof, more read,” I called.
He looked over.
I tapped two fingers against the practice sheet in my hand. “First option.”
He nodded once, reset, and ran it clean.
Roman noticed. Of course he did.
During water, I caught him standing beside Jace at the bench, mask pushed up, expression dry.
“What exactly are you trying to prove today?” Roman asked.
Jace drank from his bottle, too fast, water dripping down his chin. “Nothing.”
“Convincing.”
“Maybe I enjoy excellence.”
“You once forgot your skates for an optional skate.”
“I remembered eventually.”
