“I said I don’t track players medically for girlfriends, which was rude enough to be true and polite enough to keep my job.”
I looked through the glass.
Vanessa stood near the backdrop in a fitted coat, phone in hand, hair perfect, face composed in a way that looked practiced butnot cruel. Jace came down the hall a moment later, still in team sweats. She smiled when she saw him.
He smiled back.
A real smile, but delayed. A beat late.
She touched his arm. He let her. He leaned in when she spoke. He was trying. I could see it, and that made the burn under my ribs worse, not better.
He was trying to stay in the life he already had.
So was I.
I walked away before he saw me watching.
By late afternoon, the building had thinned out. Meetings ended. Players scattered. Tiny had spent most of the day in my office after a vet appointment Benny had insisted required “emotional support staff,” which apparently meant my entire coaching room feeding him treats while claiming not to.
I found Jace in the video room just after five.
Alone.
The screen showed the same clip from the morning, paused at the moment before his release. He had a notepad open, two empty coffee cups nearby, and the exhausted stillness of someone who had hyper-focused past hunger, time, and common sense.
He turned when I came in.
“I was just leaving.”
“No, you weren’t.”
He glanced at the clock and flinched. “Shit.”
“When did you eat?”
His face did the thing people’s faces did when the answer was inconvenient.
“Holloway.”
“Breakfast.”
I took one breath through my nose. “Pack up.”
“I want to finish this.”
“You’re finished.”
“It’s five more minutes.”
“It won’t be.”
He pushed a hand through his hair. “I’m not screwing around. I’m trying to get it right.”
“I know.”
“Then let me finish.”
The words came out sharper than he intended. He knew it immediately. His eyes dropped, then lifted again, fighting himself in real time.
