Chapter 2
Chapter Two
DECLAN
The sun’s not even up yet, and I’m already pissed.
I should be at morning skate, not babysitting a busted knee in my kitchen.
The brace squeaks when I shift. It’s too tight behind my knee, but I don’t loosen it. That’d feel like giving in.
My knee throbs—dull and deep, like it’s warning me not to trust it. I hate that it’s right.
I drink my coffee standing, same as always. It’s black, bitter, strong enough to chew.
The mug’s hot in my hand, and that’s something I can rely on.
The house is quiet. Too quiet. No Sophie singing in the bathroom. No cereal box thudding onto the counter. No soft footsteps, no slammed drawers, no half-dressed dashes out the door.
My phone buzzes. It’s Erin—David’s wife and Maya’s mom—checking in. Maya and Sophie are best friends, practically sisters.
Her text flashes on the screen: All good here. About to take Sophie and Maya to school.
I tap out a quick reply.
Thanks. Appreciate it.
Just below it is Sophie’s response to the message I’d sent earlier: Love you more ????
She always sends the fox and cocoa—our little shorthand for the two of us. The fox for my team, the cocoa because it’s her favorite drink. It’s her way of keeping things light. Familiar. Steady.
My eyes drift to Sophie’s note still taped to the fridge—crooked paper, ladybug sticker in the corner.
Game-day pancakes?
We made them yesterday morning. Same recipe, same pan. She flipped one too early and laughed when it folded like an envelope. I gave her the messy one and told her it was extra lucky. She rolled her eyes but ate it anyway.
Neither of us knew what was coming.
Last night when Sophie called, I told her it was nothing. Just a bump, a tweak. Nothing she had to worry about.
But it’s not nothing.
I’m the captain. We’re holding the Wild Card spot by a thread. I’m the one who’s supposed to keep everyone steady, hold the room, set the tone.
And now, instead of being on the ice, I’m stuck in my kitchen, bracing against the counter like an old man while someone else schedules my rides. I can’t even handle a damn steering wheel.
Tyler Reed, our chirpy top-line winger, has been eyeing the captaincy all season. If I’m out too long, he’ll lean into it even harder.
The press is already circling like vultures. All it takes is one vague update on my status, and the headlines will light up: Is Tremayne headed for Long-Term Injured Reserve? Is the “C” up for grabs?
I know better. But optics don’t care about reality.
As if blowing out my knee last night wasn’t enough, Charlie Blake is now my physical therapist.
Can’t make this shit up.
Still can’t believe David didn’t tell me Charlie was joining the medical staff.
The hell was that about?
The last time I actually saw her was eleven years ago, at the Blakes’ backyard ribs night before she left for college.
I showed up with David out of obligation—shoulder taped from offseason work, Sophie asleep in her carrier by the cooler—and spent most of the night calculating how fast I could slip out.
Charlie was all sunshine and energy, her long blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail, helping her mom with lemonade pitchers and trying to talk me into letting her wrap my shoulder with KT tape because she’d just learned the spiral pattern.
I grunted a “no” in response and took the beer David handed me instead.
Before that, she was the rink kid with glitter on her cheeks and popsicle stains on her shirts, bouncing down the arena hallway like she had theme music.
She used to follow our high school team around with a neon clipboard, quizzing us on warmup drills like she was running her own coaching clinic.
She never stopped talking. Always asking questions. Always smiling like everything was going to turn out fine. Like she knew some secret happy ending the rest of us hadn’t been told about yet.
And now?
She’s the one planning my rehab timeline. Running my tests. Calling the shots until Patel gives the green light for me to skate again.
And she was all bright eyes and calm confidence, too. Still talks like she’s narrating a wellness podcast. Gave me that steady little nod like everything was fine. Like I wasn’t one MRI away from losing everything.
I don’t do well with pep talks. Or cheerfulness. Or anyone pretending this isn’t a goddamn mess.
She probably woke up smiling today. Bet she journaled about intentions or whatever before putting on her perfect little game face.
But she didn’t even flinch last night. Not when I gritted through the ligament test. Not when I pushed for tape-and-go. Not even when I looked her dead in the eye and demanded a timeline.
Even with that relentlessly upbeat tone, she gave it to me straight.
Rehab, sunshine edition, here we come.
Can’t wait.
I finish the coffee, rinse the mug, and brace myself—literally—for the rest of the day.
Team Services is sending a ride, and rehab starts this morning—with Charlie.
I head out once the car pulls up. Sun’s out, sky’s clear, but it’s still cold enough to bite.
The ride to the facility is short but somehow still miserable. Every bump on the road makes my knee bark, and the seat’s too low to stretch it comfortably.
The Ice Foxes’ medical wing sits beneath the arena—quiet, high-tech, and a hell of a lot more familiar than I’d like. I’ve done post-game recovery here. Maintenance work. Had a few tweaks and bruises over the years. Missed a game once.
But never anything like this.
By the time I’m limping down the hall toward the rehab room after the scan, I’m already ten degrees crankier.
Patel had caught me outside the imaging suite—tablet in hand, voice like a verdict. He confirmed it was a high-grade MCL tear, walked me through the MRI results, laid out the protocol: no skating, no contact, full physical therapy plan.
Charlie’s leading rehab, and Patel will be checking in on me weekly to hit the return-to-play benchmarks.
When I heard him say ten weeks minimum, it hit like a punch to the gut.
Sophie’ll finish sixth grade before I’m cleared to skate again.
But I nodded. Didn’t argue. What would be the point?
Charlie’s waiting outside the rehab room, tablet in hand, hair up in some perfectly effortless knot, wearing one of those zip-up Ice Foxes quarter-zips like she’s been here for hours.
She beams so brightly when she sees me that it could deflect a missile.
Like I’m not dragging half a leg behind me.
“Morning,” she says, voice annoyingly upbeat. “How’s the knee?”
“Still busted.”
Her smile doesn’t even twitch. “We’re here to fix that.”
She steps aside to hold the door, and I catch a whiff of her shampoo—something citrus, light. The room’s too bright, and her energy’s too much.
I drop onto the padded table without waiting for direction, stretching my leg out stiffly in front of me. The brace clicks.
Charlie pulls up my file and taps through a few screens. “We’re starting with baselines. Patel signed off on your imaging, but I need to check range and stability so we can lay out your progression.”
“I don’t need a baseline. I just need a plan.”
“This is the plan,” she says, cheerful as ever. “Baseline testing comes first.”
“Waste of time.”
She doesn’t flinch, just leans over to adjust the brace. Her fingers are quick and clinical, knuckles brushing my skin just above the strap. I tense, jaw locked.
She hums while she works.
Actually hums.
“You always this cheerful at eight in the morning?”
She grins. “This is me holding back.”
I roll my eyes. She doesn’t flinch at that, either.
She starts walking me through basic movement screens—shin taps, seated flexion, supported straight-leg lifts—but I resist half of them. Not to be difficult. Just because it all feels like bullshit. Like going through the motions is going to magically fix a torn ligament.
I’m already counting the minutes until this is over.
“You need to relax,” she says. “If you’re bracing, the tests won’t be accurate.”
I scoff under my breath. “Little hard to relax when the season’s on the line.”
She meets my eyes. “All the more reason to do this right. We have ten weeks to get you back to full weight-bearing strength and through the entire return-to-play protocol. That starts with us finishing today’s baseline.”
“And if I don’t?”
“Then I’ll note that you refused assessment, and Dr. Patel and I can discuss noncompliance.”
I narrow my eyes at her. “So that’s how it’s gonna be?”
“That’s how it is,” she says, calm as ever.
And somehow that annoys me more than if she’d tried to coddle me.
She moves my leg through a careful range of motion, pausing when I hiss through my teeth.
“That one hurt?” she asks, still watching the angle.
“No,” I lie.
She writes something down.
I hate the feeling of being handled. Watched. Evaluated.
I hate that she’s not rattled by it.
I hate that she’s still annoyingly sunshiney even now.
When she finishes setting the brace, I don’t even look at her. Just mutter, “We done?” like every second in this room is a punishment I didn’t earn.
“For today,” she says. “You did really well.”
I hold back a snort when she lies.
She continues, “We’ll start gentle mobility work tomorrow.”
I don’t say anything back. Just grab the crutch and limp out without another word.
One day down.
Nine weeks and six days to go.