For a second, neither of us moved.
I had stopped hundreds of players. On ice, in rooms, in hallways, in the middle of arguments. Stop was one of the first tools in the job. Stop the drill. Stop the mistake. Stop the spiral before it became contagious.
This was not that.
His attention came to me so completely that it changed the air in the room. Not fear. Not resentment. Something cleaner and more unsettling. As if the noise in him had been cut by my voice, and both of us had heard the absence.
I kept my expression neutral because I did not trust anything else.
“Back up,” I said. “One read.”
He swallowed. “Puck carrier.”
“Good. Pressure.”
“F2 pinching.”
“Support.”
His gaze flicked down to his notebook. “Lowell wide. Milo late middle.”
“Your job.”
“Hold underneath until the pass is earned.”
“Write that.”
He did.
His handwriting was rougher than usual.
I waited until the pen stopped. “Again. From the beginning.”
He drew in a breath, then looked at the screen. “Puck carrier. Pressure. Support. My job.”
His voice was quieter now.
Steadier.
We finished the clip. Then the next. The session lasted ten more minutes, and neither of us mentioned the moment where the room had narrowed to one word and his instant response.
When it was over, Jace packed slowly. Tiny rose and shoved his head under Jace’s hand, demanding goodbye like a tax.
Jace scratched him automatically, eyes not quite meeting mine. “Anything else?”
“No.”
He nodded. “Okay.”
At the door, he paused, fingers around the strap of his bag. For a moment I thought he might say something. Make a joke. Ask a question neither of us could answer.
He didn’t.
“See you tomorrow, Coach.”
“Tomorrow.”
He left, and Tiny watched the empty doorway with tragic disappointment.
