Not benched. Not corrected.
Removed.
Something in me recognized the distinction before I wanted to.
“You were out of control within the drill,” I said.
“I wasn’t out of control.”
“You were making decisions without regard for the instruction.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
“No,” I said. “It isn’t.”
He looked thrown by the agreement.
I let the silence sit for a moment. Not to punish him. To let him feel the shape of it without my voice filling every corner.
Then I said, “When I give you a boundary on the ice, I expect you to hold it. If you disagree, you bring it after the rep. Not during. Not with your skates. Not by turning the drill into a vote.”
His hands flexed on his thighs. “And if I think I’m right?”
“You still hold it.”
“That easy?”
“No.”
His stare sharpened.
I did not look away. “I don’t think it’s easy for you. I think sometimes your head is three decisions ahead and your body follows before the rest of the ice gets there. I think when someone slows you down, you hear doubt even when that isn’t what’s being said.”
His expression closed by inches.
I should have stopped. I didn’t.
“But I also think you know when you’re testing me.”
The office went quiet again.
This time, it was not clean. It had edges.
Jace stood too fast. “Testing you?”
“Yes.”
“You think I’m doing this for attention?”
“I think you’re looking for the line.”
He laughed once, humorless. “That’s convenient.”
“It’s accurate.”
“You know, not everything I do is some psychological puzzle for you to solve.”
“I know.”
