Jace’s head lifted.
She held his gaze. “That does not automatically mean a trade. Do not spiral there yet.”
“I wasn’t,” he said, too fast.
“Jace.”
He inhaled, held it, let it out. “I was maybe halfway there.”
“It could mean internal restructuring. It could mean disclosure with safeguards. It could mean Declan recuses himself from certain decisions involving you, though in a head coach role thatgets complicated quickly. It could mean the organization decides there is no workable solution. I’m not saying that to scare you. I’m saying it because pretending otherwise is how people end up cornered.”
I felt the stone in my stomach settle heavier.
Jace looked at me then. Not panicked, exactly. Scared, yes. But present.
“We said consequences attached,” he said quietly.
“We did.”
Tessa glanced between us, and for a moment she wasn’t the media manager handling risk. She was a woman who had watched too many grown men assume feelings made them exempt from fallout.
“I’m not judging you,” she said. “That isn’t my role, and frankly, it wouldn’t be useful. I care about protecting the team. I care about protecting people from avoidable damage. That includes both of you. It also includes Olivia, Vanessa, Roman, and every player who may be affected by a workplace decision they don’t understand.”
Jace flinched at Vanessa’s name, but he didn’t look away.
Tessa picked up her tablet again. “First step, speak with counsel. Not the team’s lawyer first. Independent. Each of you. Do not put anything emotional in writing from this point forward that you aren’t prepared to see on a screen in a conference room. Do not discuss this with Roman yet as strategy. He can be your friend, Jace, but don’t make him part of the operational mess.”
Jace nodded. “Okay.”
“Second, clean up your routines. No private spaces at the arena unless there is a documented work purpose. No closed doors. No lingering. No arriving or leaving together. If you are seen together outside work, have a reason that does not sound invented by a panicked intern.”
Despite everything, Jace muttered, “I would be a terrible panicked intern.”
Tessa gave him a look.
He sat back. “Sorry.”
“Third,” she said, “start thinking about disclosure before discovery. I am not telling you to walk into ownership tomorrow. I am telling you that if someone else forces the timeline, you lose control of the narrative and possibly the options.”
My mouth felt dry. “How long do we have?”
Tessa’s answer was honest, which meant it was not comforting.
“I don’t know.”
Jace’s hand closed around the water bottle hard enough to crackle the plastic.
Tessa leaned back in her chair. “But you need a plan before someone else discovers the relationship and forces the decision for you.”
No one spoke after that.
Outside her office, the arena kept functioning. Phones rang. Someone laughed down the hall. A door opened and shut. The building moved around us like it always did, indifferent to the three of us sitting in a room with the future spread out in pieces none of us could yet assemble.
Jace stared at the floor, his knee finally still.
I looked at him, then at Tessa, then at my own hands.
For months, hiding had felt like the problem.
