Milo had somehow convinced Lowell to film him juggling three rolls of tape in the players’ lounge. He dropped one immediately, kicked it under the couch, and blamed the lighting. Roman sat at the table eating eggs from a container and looking like he had been disappointed by civilization as a whole.
Tessa walked past me with two phones, a tablet, and a paper cup of coffee balanced against her chest.
“If anyone asks,” she said, “I have quit and moved to a cabin with no internet.”
“Noted.”
“Holloway is here,” she added, too casually.
I looked at her.
She gave me a flat look back. “He asked me what time media was without me prompting him. I assumed you’d want to know before the earth split open.”
“Thank you.”
“That is still not an invitation for feelings.”
I kept walking.
In the staff room, Benny was talking through skate issues with an assistant while our video coach had three clips queued up and a face that said he had been awake since the Carter administration. I focused. I listened. I gave answers. I made corrections to the practice plan and adjusted the second drill to tighten the timing between low support and weak-side release.
Work helped.
Work always helped.
Until Jace stepped into the video room with Roman at his shoulder, hair damp from the shower he’d clearly taken at home, notebook in hand, pen already moving between his fingers.
He did not look at me first.
That annoyed me more than it should have.
The meeting started fine. I kept the pace clipped, the instructions specific. No extra attention. No unnecessarycallouts. If I spoke to Holloway, it was because the clip required it.
He answered well twice, too fast the third time.
I paused the screen. “Wait.”
His mouth closed.
Immediate.
Again.
A hot, unwelcome awareness moved under my ribs, and I buried it under the next question. “Vega. What happens before that pass is available?”
Roman, who had missed nothing, gave me the correct answer without looking away from Jace.
On the ice, Holloway was not unfocused. That would have been easier.
He was too focused.
He anticipated every developing lane like he could force the drill to catch up with him if he moved hard enough. He beat Lowell to space before Lowell had possession. He drove through the middle when the read called for patience. He turned one controlled regroup into a track meet because his body believed speed could solve timing.
It could not.
I let the first one go with a correction.
“Holloway, underneath until the touch is earned.”
