“Drive safe.”
“That did not help your case.”
“Go.”
He left muttering about disciplined men being bad for society.
At the rink, I put on the version of myself the building knew.
Practice was hard, fast, controlled. Jace skated like someone running a current through his bones. He had not slept enough. I could tell by the fraction-too-quick decisions, the way his focus grabbed one detail and nearly missed the next. But he corrected himself before I had to call it out. Twice he overpursued. Twice he adjusted. Then he threaded a pass through traffic so clean Benny yelled, “That was disgusting,” from the bench.
Roman looked from Jace to me.
I looked down at my practice sheet.
In the gym afterward, the team settled into its usual rhythm of work and noise. Weights hit racks. Someone complained about the music. Someone else complained louder about the complaining. Men who would throw themselves in front of frozen rubber without hesitation acted personally victimized by mobility bands.
Jace kept distance exactly the way we’d agreed.
Not cold. Not theatrical. He joked with Benny, argued with Roman, listened when the trainer corrected his shoulder position, and looked at me only when he had a reason a player would look at his coach.
Every correct choice cost something.
At one, Tessa intercepted him near the media hallway with a tablet tucked under her arm and the expression of a woman who had prevented disasters before breakfast.
“Attorney,” she said.
“I know.”
“You were walking toward catering.”
“I was attorney-adjacent.”
“You were snack-adjacent. Move.”
He moved.
My own meeting at one thirty gave me no comfort, which meant it was probably useful. Patrick Sloane, my attorney, had tired eyes and the kind of measured voice that made bad news sound organized.
Disclosure was the cleanest route.
Clean did not mean safe.
I needed to prepare for review. Suspension was possible. Recusal structures might not satisfy the organization. Ownership could decide the conflict was too significant to manage. Every decision I had made involving Jace could be questioned. Lines, minutes, discipline, praise, scratches he had never received, opportunities he had earned. Even if there had been no preferential treatment, perception mattered.
Patrick also asked if the relationship was continuing.
“Yes,” I said.
He paused, pen hovering above paper. “You understand that answer limits options.”
“I do.”
He wrote it down.
At three, Tessa’s blinds were closed.
Jace was already inside when I arrived, sitting forward in the chair with his elbows on his knees. A water bottle sat unopened between his feet. His face was pale, but his attention was locked in. Not calm. Jace’s calm never looked like other people’s. This was effort. This was him gripping the wheel with both hands.
