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“Nothing happened.”

“Lane says you shoved a teammate.” His name felt foreign on my tongue.

His head snapped up at the name. “Lane?”

He didn’t miss it.

“Yes, Coach Massey.”

He looked away again. A muscle twitched in his cheek.

“I didn’t start it. It wasn’t like that,” he muttered.

“Then help me understand.” Jace picked at the loose thread on the hem of his shirt, eyes fixed on the floor. He always tended to hide the things he thought would disappoint me.

“This jerk was talking,” he said finally.

“About?” I prodded.

“Stuff.”

“I’m gonna need more than that.” I stayed where I was, giving him the space to find the words.

“About you.” He glanced up quickly to meet my eyes before darting away.

Cold washed over me. My spine went rigid. “What about me?”

Jace’s shoulders curved forward, a silent shield between him and the questions he knew were coming.

“Just stuff,” he repeated. “That you used to live here. That you left. That you came back with a kid and no ring. That maybe you came back because nobody else wanted you.”

My mouth went dry.

“He said,” Jace continued, voice strained now, “that Coach Massey probably remembers you real well.”

The air left the kitchen as my stomach hollowed out.

“And what did you do?” I asked softly.

He laughed once. Sharp. “What do you think I did?”

“I want to hear it from you.”

“He got in my face,” Jace said, eyes flashing. “Like this.” He stepped forward suddenly, invading my space to demonstrate. “And he said maybe I should ask Coach what you were like in high school.”

My heart slammed against my sternum. “And you shoved him,” I finished.

“He shoved me first.” The rims of his eyes were red.

“Jace.”

“He did.” His voice rose. “He put his hands on me.”

“And then you put your hands on him,” I countered.

“He deserved it,” he shot back.

I crossed my arms, not as a shield, but as an anchor.