Chapter Four
DECLAN
The sizzle of eggs hitting the skillet is steady, soothing, and familiar—one of the few parts of my morning routine that hasn’t changed, even with everything else unraveling.
Sophie’s at the kitchen table, hunched over her tablet, earbuds in, one foot tucked under her like always.
She’s humming under her breath, just loud enough to carry. The melody wobbles for a second, then smooths out, like she’s correcting herself on instinct.
I pause mid-stir, listening. It’s one of the songs from the school musical she’s been practicing, and her voice follows it like it’s easy. Effortless.
Neither Vanessa nor I can carry a tune, so I’ve got no idea where Sophie got her voice. But damn if it doesn’t stop me in my tracks every time. She doesn’t even realize she’s doing it. Just… sings. Like it’s built in.
I flip the eggs, watching the edges bubble. She likes them soft but not too runny. Ketchup on the side, not on top. I know every preference. Every quirk. Every allergy, bedtime story, and shifting mood.
Being her dad and playing hockey has always made sense to me.
The rest of my personal life? Less so.
My phone buzzes against the counter. I glance at the screen and immediately regret it.
Vanessa: Hey! Any chance I can take Sophie next weekend instead? I just got invited to this networking retreat thing in Napa. Big opportunity. Let me know!
I stare at the message, jaw tight.
She always makes it sound like a favor, like she’s asking to switch carpool shifts instead of flaking on her daughter again.
Sophie hasn’t mentioned the weekend yet, but I know she’s counting down.
She always does.
Even after all the letdowns, she still gets her hopes up.
Still checks the weather. Still picks out outfits. Still believes it’ll be different this time.
And every time Vanessa cancels, it hits her just as hard.
I start typing a response. Delete it. Start again. Delete that too.
There’s no good way to say:
You don’t get to keep breaking promises and expect me to smooth it over.
Sophie still sees her mother as a glittering, complicated constellation, and I won’t be the one to dim that light.
Not yet.
So I swallow the anger, push down the truth, and text back something neutral.
That’s fine. Just let Sophie know soon, okay?
I rub a hand over my face. My mom would tell me to let it go—that kids pick up on tension faster than we think. My dad would just grunt and tell me to get back on the ice.
They still call Denver home in their heads, but they moved down to Arizona a few years ago when my dad retired. He said they needed more sun and less snow. We talk every week or two. They mean well, both of them. Always have. But some days, they feel like a world away.
“Dad?” Sophie pulls one earbud out, glancing toward the stove.
“Can I take an extra protein bar? Maya and I have rehearsal after school. Her mom is dropping us off. We’re blocking Act Two today, and Mr. Kenner gets dramatic when we talk over each other.”
“Top shelf of the pantry,” I say, nodding. “Behind the oatmeal.”
She grins. “You’re the best.”
She slips past me on her way to the pantry, but her eyes flick to my knee.
“Do you want me to bring your coffee to the table so you don’t have to?”
“I’ve got it,” I say, shaking my head.
After a moment, she asks softly, “Does it hurt?”
“It’s fine,” I lie.
Truth is, the brace is pinching and every step feels like a landmine. I shift most of my weight to my good leg and force myself upright, one careful hobble at a time.
I crack a small smile and slide her plate in front of her.
She doesn’t push, just reaches for the ketchup.
I catch her watching me as I ease into the chair across from her.
“Still fine,” I mutter.
“Didn’t say anything,” she says, eyes back on her tablet. But her mouth tugs in that half-frown she gets when she’s worried.
She digs in immediately, ketchup applied with surgical precision.
I watch her for a second too long.
I used to think the reason I hadn’t dated in the three years since our divorce was because I didn’t have time. Between travel, parenting, and keeping my name out of the tabloids, it just wasn’t a priority.
But that’s not the full truth.
The truth is, I couldn’t risk trusting the wrong person again. Couldn’t risk bringing someone into Sophie’s life who’d disappear the second it got hard. Couldn’t stomach watching her flinch through disappointment a second time.
Vanessa and I got married because we were young, reckless, and scared—because two lines on a pregnancy test changed everything. I thought I could hold it all together if I just worked hard enough.
I was wrong.
So no, I haven’t dated. Haven’t introduced Sophie to anyone. Haven’t let anyone close.
Because loving her comes first. And that means protecting her, even from things she doesn’t know.
By the time Erin pulls up outside, Sophie’s triple-checking her rehearsal bag and reminding me to eat lunch like I’m the one heading to middle school. I wait on the porch while she climbs into the back seat next to Maya, her braid swinging behind her.
There’s still snow clinging to the edges of the yard, but most of it’s melting fast. Bright sky. Bare sidewalks. The kind of day that pretends it’s spring until the next cold front rolls in.
Erin gives me a quick wave from the driver’s seat, then they’re gone.
My phone buzzes. David this time.
A new text pops up: How’s the knee this morning?
I snap a quick photo of the brace strap digging into my skin and send it back.
A second later, his reply comes through: Ugly. But I’ve seen worse. Don’t let Charlie go easy on you.
I huff out a breath, half a laugh, and tap back: Pretty sure she’s enjoying the opposite.
Another bubble as David types: Good. Someone’s gotta keep your stubborn ass in line.
I shake my head, pocket the phone, and grab my bag. A few minutes later, one of the Team Services guys rolls up in the SUV. I take the passenger seat without argument. My knee’s throbbing, my brace is riding up, and I’m already dreading whatever fresh hell Charlie has planned for me today.
The therapy room smells like antiseptic and eucalyptus—clean and fake-relaxing, like the waiting area of an upscale dentist’s office. Everything’s white or stainless steel, with one wall of floor-to-ceiling mirrors that I pointedly ignore.
Charlie’s already setting up resistance bands when I hobble in. She’s in black joggers and a team quarter-zip, blonde hair twisted up in a clip. She bites her lip as she reads something on her tablet, one foot tapping absently against the mat, pen twirling like she’s trying not to burst into song.
It’s distractingly cheerful. Too cheerful. And entirely on brand.
Almost cute. Until I remember who she is and why I’m here.
“Morning, Captain,” she says brightly, glancing up. “I was beginning to think you were stalling.”
“Had to wait for Sophie’s ride,” I murmur. “Team Services grabbed me after.”
Her expression softens. “How’s she doing?”
“She’s good.” I pause. “Rehearsal after school. She’s usually stage crew, but she’s in the musical this time.”
Charlie smiles. “I haven’t seen Sophie since she was a baby, but David mentioned the show. Maya’s in it too, right?”
“Yeah,” I say. “She and Sophie have been joined at the hip since kindergarten.”
Her smile deepens. “Erin keeps me in the loop. I haven’t had much time with my niece Maya since moving back, but I’m hoping to change that.”
She tilts her head, thoughtful. “Funny how that worked out, huh? Your best friend’s daughter ends up being your daughter’s best friend.”
I grunt. Not sure what to do with that.
She gestures toward the table. “Let’s start with quad sets and straight-leg raises. I want to get a better sense of where your extension tolerance is today.”
I lower myself onto the table, careful with the brace. Everything feels tighter today—swollen, slow. I grit my teeth and start the first set.
Charlie counts reps under her breath. Doesn’t hover. Doesn’t pity.
It’s unnerving how calm she is. I’m not used to being observed like this: injured, slow, vulnerable. She moves like she belongs here. Like nothing about this feels weird or awkward.
She adjusts the angle of my foot with one hand, her fingers firm but clinical.
“Your quad’s firing well. But you’re guarding on the extension.”
“I’m not guarding.”
“You’re absolutely guarding,” she says, not even looking at me. “Your hip’s taking over. You’re compensating.”
I exhale sharply through my nose. “Didn’t realize I was signing up for a lecture series.”
“Nope. Just rehab.” She offers a smile that’s way too patient. “Gotta be ready if the team makes the Playoffs, right?”
“Obviously.”
“Then stop pretending pain means weakness and actually let yourself heal.”
Her voice is calm, but there’s steel under it. It pisses me off. Mostly because she’s right.
I clench my jaw and finish the set.
“You’re supposed to relax,” she says, fingers pressing lightly beside my kneecap.
“I am relaxed,” I grunt.
“Really? Because it seems like you’re clenching as if I just asked you to give a motivational speech to the rookie line.”
That gets me. A low, reluctant breath escapes that almost sounds like a laugh.
Her eyes flick up, victorious. “Knew you had a sense of humor somewhere under all that brooding.”
By the time we wrap, my quad is trembling, my brace feels like a vise, and I’m already dreading tomorrow. But I can’t deny it. It’s a better session than yesterday. Smoother. More productive.
More… tolerable.
She crouches to adjust the strap at my knee, fingers brushing the inside of my brace.
It’s nothing. Barely a touch.
Still, my pulse kicks like she hit a nerve.
I keep my face blank.
Just a reflex. That’s all it is.
“There,” she says, standing. “You're all set.”
I nod once, grabbing my water bottle.
"Same time tomorrow,” she calls lightly as I limp toward the door.
I don’t answer. Just lift one hand in acknowledgment and keep walking.
Because if I look back now, I might actually say something decent.
And I’m not ready for that yet.
The hallway outside the therapy room smells like stale coffee and floor cleaner—familiar, grounding, and mostly quiet. I head toward the exit through the hall that links the PT room to the players' wing.
I make it three steps before I hear my name.
“Hey, Cap.”
Tyler Reed.
He’s coming out of the locker room, tape around his wrist, hair still damp from post-skate. His pace slows when he sees me, and for a split second, I wonder if he’s going to pivot and avoid the whole awkward thing.
But he doesn’t.
“Didn’t know you were coming in today,” he says easily.
“Morning therapy session,” I reply. My voice comes out flat. I’m not trying to be cold. I just don’t have the energy to fake anything.
His gaze flicks to my brace. “How’s it holding up?”
I nod. “It’s fine.”
He adjusts the strap on his gym bag. “Some of the guys were asking about you, wondering when you’ll be around more. You coming to morning skate tomorrow? Even just to watch?”
Just to watch.
It’s not an insult. Not really. But it lands wrong anyway, like a line drawn in invisible ink.
“Maybe,” I say.
Tyler nods once, but I catch the way his eyes rest on my knee again.
He doesn’t need a letter to act like he’s running the room.
Stepping up while I’m out, sure.
But I can feel it. He’s already getting comfortable in the role.
Maybe a little too comfortable.
Enjoy it while it lasts, kid.
He was one of the names on my short list last season when Coach asked for alternate captain input. Ambitious. Steady. Marketable. A good guy on paper.
Still is.
But watching him now—casual, comfortable, settled in—lands like a punch to the ribs.
He claps my shoulder. “Let me know. Would be good to have you around.”
Then he’s gone, footsteps echoing down the tunnel.
I don’t move right away.
I remind myself of what Coach McCarthy told me yesterday.
“You’re still the captain, Declan. Let Tyler handle the bench for now, but this is your room. Focus on recovery. It’ll be waiting when you’re back.”
I lean on the crutch and exhale.
But as I head out, another thought takes over:
Did Vanessa tell Sophie she’s not coming this weekend?
Or is Sophie still waiting, hoping this time will be different?