Chapter Seventeen
Cooper
Declan’s first week back home was…brutal.
He hardly ate, barely slept, barely even looked at me. Half the time, he’d sit on his bed or the couch, staring at the TV without actually watching it. I’d try to coax him into showering, and he wouldn’t even blink, like he didn’t realize I was there.
Once I actually knelt in front of him, hands on his knees, begging—begging—for him to at least wash up in the sink. He didn’t say no. He didn’t say anything, actually. I still get a shiver remembering the smell of sweat and hospital and grief clinging to him.
And the worst part?
Now, two months later…some days don’t feel all that different.
He eats now. Talks, sometimes. Laughs, if I catch him on a good day. But he’s still convinced he’s going nowhere.
There’s space between us now, too. I’ve tried a few times, gently, stupidly, hoping to bring him back.
A kiss that lingered too long, my hand sneaking under his shirt, even offered once to take his mind off everything in the most obvious way I knew how.
He just froze. Not angry or disgusted, just gone.
Declan doesn’t tell me no. Ever.
He did then.
Which is how I know he’s still not himself.
How I know this wound runs deeper than the gnarly scar on his knee.
Post-injury Declan’s different, and I know I’m expecting too much from him.
But this isn’t him. He doesn’t do defeat.
He’s the strongest person I know, and seeing him like this… I don’t know what to do.
And rehab’s not much better. He doesn’t see the progress, but I’ve watched him go from refusing to leave the bed to balancing for thirty seconds without a wall. Progress happens too slowly for the person doing it to notice.
“That’s six…seven…eight,” Lynsay says, her voice steady, practiced. “Two more, you’ve got this.”
The physio gym smells like rubber mats and antiseptic, Declan’s rough breaths cutting through the noise of the resistance machine between sets.
“Good, Declan. Lock your core and keep that knee straight.”
“It is straight,” he grits out.
“Not quite.” She tightens one of the top straps on his brace, the adjustment small but enough that Declan flinches.
“Eight weeks,” he mutters, swiping at his forehead. “Eight fucking weeks, and I still can’t bend it past ninety degrees.”
“Eight weeks ago, you couldn’t stand or walk without crutches,” she reminds him as she scribbles on her clipboard. “This is progress. You just don’t feel it yet.”
He exhales hard, the sound a half-laugh, half-huff.
“Again. Three sets of ten, remember?”
Declan rolls his eyes, grunting through each rep. Shifting on the treatment table, my guitar leans against my knee as I watch him. I’ve been to so many sessions now that she no longer questions me whenever I bring it out of my case, instead waves me in and keeps working with her patients.
I’d planned on messing around on something new while I waited, but every sound in this place has a rhythm—the squeak of Lynsay’s sneakers, the snap of rubber bands, the click of the metal plates. It’s difficult to tune any of it out.
Besides, watching Declan fight feels a hell of a lot more important than anything I could write.
Every grunt, every strained breath, it’s the only song I want to listen to right now.
Because that means he’s still going, that he hasn’t given up.
All I can do is sit here and be supportive, all while feeling helpless and useless.
By the time the sets are done, his arms tremble from gripping the handles, frustration etched across his face.
“Last one,” Lynsay encourages. “Let’s see if you can hold it for five seconds at the top.”
He pushes, teeth bared, and for a long, excruciating heartbeat, his leg doesn’t shake. Collapsing back against the seat, sweat dripping from his hairline, he closes his eyes, his shirt stretching across his chest with every inhale.
“Good job today,” Lynsay says, already moving to reset the machine. “Same time Thursday?”
“Yeah,” he mutters.
She gives him a small smile before turning to me, clipboard tucked under one arm. “He’s stronger than he thinks. You’ve clearly been keeping your boyfriend in line.”
Declan’s head jerks up, eyebrows knitting together. “We’re not—”
“Oh,” she says, realization dawning on her pretty face. “Sorry, I just assumed.”
Shaking my head, I wave her off. “Don’t worry, everyone does.”
“Still. You’d be surprised how many patients skip their at-home workouts unless they’ve got someone keeping them accountable.” She smiles again, her eyes flicking briefly between us. “He’s lucky he’s got you. A good support system makes all the difference.”
“Oh, he’s the worst patient imaginable,” I cut in, whispering loud enough for him to hear. “I’ve basically turned into a drill sergeant overnight.”
Laughing, she heads toward her office, pausing when she’s by my side.
“It’s not just the physical side of his rehab, though.
Most patients with this kind of reconstruction aren’t holding that long at this stage, and that’s amazing.
He’s really showing his dedication, but I’m worried he’s forgetting about the mental aspect too.
Working through that and overcoming the loss of his career is going to be challenging for him.
” Squeezing my shoulder, she lowers her voice.
“He’s ahead of schedule, so keep doing what you’re doing. Just don’t let him overdo it.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I say, giving her a mock salute as she disappears and shuts the door behind her.
Declan exhales a heavy breath, grabbing a towel out of his bag and scrubbing it down his face as I pack away my unused guitar and slide off the table.
“Ready to go?”
He finishes packing in silence, and we head out to my car. Declan limps slower than usual, favoring his good leg, each step careful as he reaches the passenger side.
“You still sulking?” I ask, turning on the engine and backing out of the space.
“You try being proud of moving your leg half an inch,” he snaps, and my smile falls, making him sigh as guilt flashes across his face. “Sorry, I just…”
“Hate being bad at something?” I hedge, knowing this is not something he needs to be competitive about.
His dark eyes flick to mine, and he huffs out a breath before turning to stare out the window. His thumb plays with the strap of his brace in small, restless circles. “Yeah, that.”
“You did good today,” I say after a beat of silence, heading onto the freeway.
“Sure,” he mutters, face still turned away.
And there it is. That hollow space where the Declan I know should be.
Each short answer feels like another inch of him slipping somewhere I can’t reach.
I know he struggles and gets into a horrible headspace after PT.
But I hate it, this quiet defeat. I want to shake him, make him see what I see: the progress, the grit, the stubbornness that used to be his entire personality.
“It’s better than last week,” I try again.
He snorts, but there’s no bite to it, just exhaustion.
The radio plays low as we turn off the main road and wind up toward The Verge.
We roll into the gravel parking lot and pull to a stop, the short hike to the top looming ahead of us, waiting for the day we can walk it again to see the town spread out below.
The car idles for a beat before he speaks again.
“I told my parents last night that I’m not going back to college.”
It’s a good fucking thing we’re parked. But my foot jerks anyway, heel slamming into the mat hard enough to jolt me, my heart ricocheting into my ribs. Because those words, I’m not going back, don’t sound like frustration or temporary despair.
They sound like surrender.
“What?”
“They’re pissed as hell that I’m dropping out,” he says, head low, picking at the side of his nail.
“But I can’t go back. The team’s already moved on without me.
They’ve got a new guy in my spot, for fuck’s sake.
I can’t… I can’t sit there and clap from the stands, Coop. I can’t pretend that I’m fine with it.”
The air’s being punched out of my lungs because Declan has never—never—talked like this. Not about hockey. Not about anything.
“You sure?” My voice comes out thin. “I mean, you don’t have to decide now, right? It’s only been two months—”
“Cooper.”
“What about that guy who blew his knee out in college?” I push, desperate now. “He still made it to the NFL. Everyone thought he was done, but he still made it.”
His head lifts, a weak smirk twitching at the side of his mouth. “You heard that, eh?”
“You could be the next McGhee—”
“McGahee,” he corrects.
“Yeah, him.” I grip the wheel tighter, shifting around to face him. “This is just a setback, Dec. That’s all. You can come back from this. People do all the time. You’re—”
He cuts me off with a breath that sounds like it hurts, his reflection pale against the glass. “It’s not a setback when there’s nothing to go back to. It’s over.”
My stomach drops straight through the floor.
No. No, he can’t do this. It’s not just his dream he’s walking away from.
It’s ours. The life we’ve been ridiculous enough to start planning out—how to sync our schedules, how I’d visit him in whatever city he ends up in between my tours, figuring out how we’d make our hectic careers fit into the same damn future.
I want to argue, tell him he’s wrong, that there’s still more waiting for him. But the words don’t come. Because I see it in his face. He’s done.
“Dec—”
“Don’t you get it?” His voice cracks with something raw and ugly. “It’s over. No draft. No college. It. Is. Over.”
The car goes silent except for the low hum of the engine and the blood rushing in my ears. Staring straight ahead, I swallow, unable to look at him, because if I do, I might fall apart, too.
“Thanks for coming with me today,” he mutters after a long moment, barely audible.
“Always,” I whisper. “I’m not going anywhere.”
His eyes flick toward me again for a second, the faintest shadow of a smile crossing his face before he reaches over and slides his hand in mine, where it stays as we sit there, parked in silence, wishing this was enough to make it better.