The next rep, Jace anticipated a whistle that did not come and pulled up half a second early.
“Holloway,” I called.
He snapped his head toward me.
“Finish the route.”
“I thought you were stopping it.”
“I didn’t.”
“Yeah, I know. I heard the skate cut and thought, never mind.”
His words came too quickly, explanation stacking on explanation before anyone had asked for one.
I kept my voice even. “Again.”
He went again. Better.
Not right.
For twenty minutes, I tried to coach him normally. Small corrections. Specific tasks. Limited attention. None of it held. He was chasing plays that were not his, overchecking, talking over Milo when Milo asked a simple timing question. Not malicious. Not arrogant. Overloaded.
During a three-on-two transition drill, he broke early, circled back, then snapped at Lowell for not filling a lane Lowell had no reason to fill.
Lowell’s face went blank.
Roman came out of the crease. “Jace.”
“I know,” Jace said immediately. “I know, I know. That was on me. I saw the weak side cheating and thought if I pushed, Brooks had the drop, but Brooks was late because he was supposed to be late, because that was the read, and I fucked the spacing.”
Milo blinked. “I was just standing there, man.”
“Exactly,” Jace said, then dragged both hands over his helmet. “Fuck.”
The team got too quiet.
I blew the whistle. “Water.”
Players scattered with the forced casualness of men pretending they were not paying attention.
Roman did not move right away. He looked at Jace, then at me. There was no accusation in it yet. Concern, getting sharper by the hour.
I pointed toward the tunnel. “Holloway. With me.”
Jace’s laugh was small and ugly. “Perfect.”
“Now.”
He skated off ahead of me, yanked off his helmet in the tunnel, and carried it under one arm like he wanted to throw it. I led him to the small equipment office off the back hall. No windows. No cameras. Racks of spare gear and the smell of tape and rubber.
I closed the door.
Jace spun before I said a word.
“I know. I’m a mess today. You don’t have to do the whole responsible leadership thing. I’m aware. I’m so aware it’s making me worse, actually. I know where I’m supposed to be, and then I’m thinking about where I’m supposed to be, and then I’m thinking about whether you’re watching me think about where I’m supposed to be, and then I miss the actual fucking play.”
“Stop.”
