Chapter Nineteen
Declan
Time moves weirdly after you lose the one thing your whole life revolved around. Days blur, weeks pass and, suddenly, you wake up and it’s been five months since rehab started and longer since I touched the ice.
I miss it. So damn much.
Music floats through the air from the bar, muffled laughter and the sound of glassware accompanying it.
The office is small, barely enough room for the desk and two mismatched chairs, and the filing cabinet that still leans crooked at an angle even though I’ve wedged a folded coaster under one side.
Staring at the laptop screen, the spreadsheet columns stretch endlessly, all numbers and no heartbeat. Inventory, staffing, orders. My new version of game stats.
I rub at my knee out of habit, the compression sleeve digging slightly under my jeans.
It still aches by the end of a shift, especially when the weather dips, like I’m a man in my eighties, not someone in his twenties.
But it’s held up lately, even the walk up The Verge yesterday didn’t feel so hard, my pace slow and careful, Cooper matching my steps without saying a word.
I’ve gotten better at ignoring it, better at pretending it still doesn’t bother me that I spend my days counting bottles instead of chasing pucks.
My family hovers less now, too, still checking in, still watching me with assessing eyes, but finally it’s not all about my knee.
The door creaks open in front of me, and I look up, the faint scent of Simone’s perfume drifting in before her.
“You’ve got that look again,” she says, arms folded, leaning against the doorjamb.
“What look?”
“The one that says you’d rather be anywhere else than behind that desk.”
Wincing, I release a breath, leaning back in my seat. “Am I that obvious?”
“You’re terrible at hiding it.” Grinning, she steps farther inside and closes the door.
Her hair’s pulled up in a loose bun, long black strands curling around her face, her eyes framed by her thin glasses.
“I know coming here full time wasn’t exactly what you wanted, but you’re doing good work, Declan.
Don’t think I haven’t noticed. You’re organized, you’ve managed to keep things running while I’ve been out taking care of my mom, and the staff listens to you. That’s not nothing.”
“I guess,” I say, but it comes out more tired than teasing.
She studies me for a moment, lips pursed, before placing a folder on the desk in front of me. Eyeing her, I flip it open, the bar’s logo on the top of the page with the words assistant manager below it.
“I want to make it official. I’m offering you the role…if you want it.”
I blink, my gaze skimming the rough job description. “Seriously?”
“Seriously,” she echoes, sitting in one of the chairs on the other side of me. “It’s mostly administrative, the scheduling, ordering stock, pretty much what you’ve been doing, but it’s steady hours and a salary increase. And when you’re ready, we can get you back behind the bar, too.”
I look down at the contract again. Assistant manager. It’s good, practical, the kind of role most people would be grateful for. But it feels like I’m standing on the wrong side of a glass wall, watching a life that doesn’t quite belong to me.
“I know all this isn’t what you expected to happen,” she says gently, her brown eyes softening as she leans forward. “And I know this is a far cry from playing hockey, but think about it, okay? There’s no rush. I don’t need an answer today.”
Reaching over, she squeezes my wrist before heading back to the bar, leaving me to sit there, staring blindly where she left. Shaking my head, I snap the laptop shut and push to my feet, the brace tugging against my lower thigh as I move.
The main floor’s quieter now, most of the lunchtime crowd gone, except for a few regulars still straggling behind, nursing drinks and trading stories they’ve probably told a hundred times over.
Amber lights dance off the bottles lining the shelves as I lift the soda gun, the hiss and fizz almost comforting as I fill up a glass with Coke.
“Didn’t expect to see you back there for a while,” a voice drawls, and I glance up to find Jerry leaning on the counter, his usual beer in hand.
“Couldn’t stay away,” I mutter, grimacing as the first sip of soda’s cold enough to nip my already dazed head.
“That stubborn streak of yours could power this whole damn town.”
“Yeah, well, stubborn’s all I’ve got left.”
He hums, tapping his fingers against his glass. “Heard Simone offered you the assistant manager gig. That’s good news.”
I snort, not surprised Jerry already knows. “Good, sure. Just not…me.”
He’s quiet for a moment, eyes flicking down to my knee before he says, “I was meant to go to Europe once. Architecture internship in Florence, this once-in-a-lifetime kinda thing.”
My eyebrows lift in surprise. “What happened?”
“Matt,” he says, tone fond, not bitter. “We had everything mapped out, cities to visit, food to try, but then Sally found out she was pregnant our last semester.”
“So, you stayed,” I say quietly, shifting my weight and leaning on the counter.
“We stayed. No internship, no Florence, no designing cathedrals. Took a job drafting plans for barns and extensions instead. The day Matt was born… Holding him, seeing that chubby little face staring back at me… Suddenly, Florence didn’t matter.
So, I built something else, something better, a business he and my other son now run.
” He tilts his glass at me. “Guess what I’m saying is, sometimes the dream shifts.
Doesn’t have to mean it dies, it just…changes shape. ”
I huff out a dry laugh. “I don’t think there’s much overlap between blueprints and slap shots.”
“Maybe not. But I’ve seen plenty of people chase what they thought they wanted, only to miss what they needed. You might not be playing anymore, son, but that doesn’t mean you’re done building something that matters.”
I smile faintly, because I get what he’s saying, I do. But it’s not the same.
Finishing his beer, he tosses a couple bills on the bar and slides off the stool, tapping the wood once. “For what it’s worth, you’re doing better than you think.”
His words looping in my head, hot summer air filtering in as he leaves. Do I want this job? It’s steady, safe. But accepting either makes me feel like I’m betraying the part of me that still lives and breathes hockey.
Because it isn’t just taking a job. It’s admitting the dream is really gone.
And even if I can’t imagine stepping onto a rink without falling apart, the stubborn athlete in me still wants to play.
Still aches for it. Becoming assistant manager feels less like opportunity and more like a final nail in the coffin.