Chapter Six
DECLAN
I’m at the counter spreading butter on toast when Sophie starts pacing around the kitchen again, script in one hand, pencil tucked behind her ear.
“Okay,” she mumbles, then clears her throat. “You think I want to deal with this? I didn’t ask for any of it!”
I glance up as she scowls at the fridge like it personally offended her.
“That was bad,” she mutters. “It needs more... I don’t know, edge.”
“Sounded strong to me,” I say, turning to pour her juice. “Convincing, even.”
She shakes her head. “No, it’s supposed to feel like she’s breaking. Not just yelling—like she’s scared she’s gonna lose everything.”
She paces again, rewinds the line, tries it softer, then sharper.
I grab her script off the counter and skim for her next cue. “Want me to read the line before yours?” I ask.
“Yeah. Page six.”
I read the cue line flatly. I’m no actor, that’s for damn sure, but it helps. She hits her next line with a little more fire this time. I watch her face change. Her eyes sharpen.
And when she finally lands it just right, she grins without realizing it.
“There it is,” I say quietly.
She ducks her head, pretending it’s no big deal. But I can see it in her shoulders. Pride. Relief. That little kick of confidence she doesn’t always show.
She’s... good.
Actually good.
And I couldn’t be more proud.
“She said she’ll be at the musical,” Sophie says suddenly, like it’s nothing. Like it’s not a landmine.
I freeze.
“She texted last night,” she adds, casual. Too casual. “Said she already blocked it off on her calendar.”
I stare into my coffee, the edge of the mug hot against my lip.
She better fucking mean it this time.
But I don’t say that. Don’t let any of it reach my face.
I nod, careful to keep my expression neutral. “That’ll be nice.”
Sophie shrugs, but her fingers are tapping against her water bottle, nervous energy she thinks I don’t notice.
“It’s fine if she doesn’t come,” she adds quickly. “It’s not even a big deal.”
Bullshit. It’s a huge deal.
But I can’t promise her anything. Can’t protect her from this, not really. Just gotta stand there and absorb the impact if Vanessa disappoints her again.
Actually, more like when.
“You’re gonna be great,” I say instead. I reach across the table, squeeze her hand. “No matter who’s in the audience.”
Her eyes meet mine. Then she rolls them. “Stop being cheesy.”
I chuckle. “Can’t help it. Comes with the dad territory.”
A car horn chirps outside. Right on time. Erin and Maya doing their usual morning pickup.
She zips up her bag, slings it over her shoulder like she’s not carrying anything heavy. Like she hasn’t heard this promise a dozen times before—and felt it fall through more than half of them.
“Hey,” I say before she heads to the door.
She turns.
“You’re crushing it, Sophie. Really.”
That spark flashes again. Just for a second. Then she disappears down the hallway to grab her jacket, already humming the next scene under her breath.
“Love you, Dad,” she calls from the hallway.
“Love you more,” I say automatically, just loud enough for her to hear.
The front door clicks shut a few seconds later.
And I sit there with a cooling mug of coffee, staring at the spot she just left, pride and dread twisting in equal parts.
My phone buzzes on the counter—Mom.
“Morning, sweetheart. How’s the knee?”
“Still attached,” I say. “Charlotte Blake’s my physical therapist, if you can believe that.”
There’s a pause, then a soft laugh. “David’s little sister? Goodness, she used to follow you two everywhere. You said she’s a therapist now?”
“Yeah. Works with the team.”
Dad’s voice rumbles faintly in the background. “That girl was half your size and twice as loud.”
“Still is,” I mutter, smiling despite myself.
“Well,” Mom says, warmth edging into her tone, “at least you’re in good hands. You always did need someone patient.”
“Or stubborn,” I correct.
“Same thing,” she says, and I can hear her smiling. “We’ll come up once your dad’s cardiologist clears travel. He’s restless as it is.”
“You’re fine right where you are,” I tell her. “It’s good just hearing you.”
I’m rinsing out Sophie’s juice glass when I spot a crumpled piece of paper half-shoved under the fruit bowl. I pull it free and smooth it out—one of her script pages. Page six, the same scene she was running this morning.
Her pencil marks are everywhere: little arrows, underlines, one line circled three times with a note that says “GET THIS RIGHT.”
I stare at it for a second, thumb brushing over the crease.
She works so hard.
And she’s got talent.
She might never hear it from her mother, but she’ll always hear it from me.
My knee aches. Not sharp, just that dull pressure that makes you aware of every step. I ignore it.
But what I can’t ignore—what keeps circling back—is the sound of Charlotte’s voice yesterday.
Not the professional part. Not the instructions or the checklists.
The part where she said, “That’s hard. I’m sorry.”
Soft. Steady. No judgment in it. No rush to fix anything either.
She didn’t flinch. Didn’t fill the space with clichés or ask questions I didn’t want to answer. She just stayed there. Present.
Maybe she’s like that with everyone. Maybe it’s just part of her job.
But something about the way she looked at me—like she actually saw me, not just the knee, not just the captain—it stuck.
I tell myself it doesn’t mean anything.
She’s David’s sister. She’s the damn team PT.
That’s the beginning and end of it.
Still, I catch myself thinking about the way her brow furrowed when I mentioned Sophie. How calm she stayed, even when I didn’t have the words.
I shake my head.
Focus on the rehab. On what I can control.
I spent the morning with Charlotte—physical therapy drills, same as usual, but I wasn’t exactly at my best.
Quiet. Distracted. Thinking too much about the game tonight.
And how I won’t be suiting up. Won’t be lacing up skates, tapping gloves, setting the pace.
I’ll just be watching.
She didn’t call me on it. Didn’t push.
Just adjusted the circuit, slowed the pace, gave me space I hadn’t asked for.
I don’t know if she sensed where my head was—or if she just knew I couldn’t handle another layer of pressure today.
Either way, I’m grateful.
And now, hours later, I still can’t shake the tension in my chest.
I hate this view.
Up in the press box, crutch leaned against the wall, I watch the guys grind it out below. Every shift, every puck battle, every dirty rebound chance—it’s loud and fast and relentless. They’re fighting for that Wild Card spot like their lives depend on it. Like mine would’ve, if I were out there.
McCarthy said I could watch from the bench if I wanted—“good for morale”—but the last thing I need is to be down there and feel useless.
So now I’m in a suit, knee braced and throbbing, watching my team claw their way through the second period. We’re up by one. Crowd’s loud. Hits are harder tonight. Everyone’s playing like there’s no tomorrow.
I’ve got a clipboard in my lap, but it’s basically a prop—something to make me feel like I belong up here instead of being stuck in limbo.
Torres is buzzing. Kid throws himself into every shift like he’s got rocket fuel in his veins.
Midway through the second, he eats a slapshot on the kill—drops to one knee, takes it square off the shin, and still manages to clear the puck.
Crowd roars. The bench is up banging sticks.
Raw, reckless, but promising. I feel a twitch of pride I can’t quite shake.
Reed’s vocal on the bench—maybe a little too much, but the guys are listening.
Still.
This is supposed to be my job.
Leading.
Driving the pace.
Making the room steady.
I shift in my seat, adjusting the brace. My whole body itches to move.
Instead, I grit my teeth as the ref misses another blatant trip.
“Jesus,” I mutter.
I catch myself gripping the edge of the seat so tight my knuckles ache.
Somewhere behind me, a PR intern glances over. I force myself to sit back with a blank expression and cross my arms like I’m cool with this.
I’m not.
I fucking hate it.
But when we kill the penalty, and the boys on the ice slam sticks against the boards, I feel a flicker of pride again.
The horn ends the second, tied 1–1. As the guys file off to the room, my phone buzzes in my pocket with a text from David:
Press box suits you. Want me to send popcorn up?
I huff out a laugh, shake my head as I respond:
Smartass. Focus on the game.
I shove the phone back into my jacket as the lights dim for intermission promos, my knee throbbing like it’s keeping score.
Tyler scores in the third. The crowd erupts.
And when the final buzzer sounds—3–2, win—I’m on my feet, crutch and all, heart thudding like I was out there myself.
From up here, I spot McCarthy stepping onto the ice to do his usual postgame roundup. Tyler says something to him, then glances up toward the press box.
He spots me in the booth and lifts his chin.
Not a challenge. Not cocky.
Just a nod.
Respect.
I nod back.
A PR rep behind me says, “Can’t wait till you’re back out there, Cap.”
I force a smile. A small one. But it takes effort.
The boys head off toward the tunnel, slapping gloves, chirping about someone missing a wide-open net. The usual stuff.
And for a moment, I let myself believe it—that I’ll be back out there soon. That they still need me.
Later in the tunnel, it’s buzzing—equipment carts squeaking, reporters angling for quotes, security redirecting foot traffic.
I stay along the wall. No rush. No spotlight. No interviews.
A few heads turn. One reporter lifts his mic like he’s about to call out, but I shake my head with a tight smile, and he nods back—message received.
Torres passes, helmet off now, hair plastered to his forehead with sweat. He slows just enough to clap my shoulder, grin wide. “Did you see that block, Cap? Took it right on the leg.”
I clap his shoulder once, firm. “Good shift.”
The kid’s fearless, and I can’t help but be proud of that.
Then I see her.
Charlotte.
She’s just outside the bench tunnel, tablet in one hand, radio clipped to her hip. She’s mid-conversation. Focused. Unbothered by the noise and sweat and adrenaline around her.
She looks up, like she feels someone watching.
Our eyes lock for a beat—calm, steady.
She gives me a small smile. Thankfully, there’s not a trace of pity in it.
I nod back.
For reasons I can’t explain, something in my chest settles.
Not all of it. But enough to make the rest of the night feel a little less off-kilter.
I don’t say anything. Neither does she.
But the moment lingers, even after I pass.
By the time I make it to the exit, I’m already thinking about tomorrow.
Rehab.
Recovery.
And seeing her again.