Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
DECLAN
Sophie’s singing upstairs as she gets ready for school, her voice carrying clear and strong down the hall. She doesn’t even try to keep it down. It fills the house, confident in a way I never was at twelve.
A few days ago, she was curled up in bed, pale and miserable, and I hadn’t had a clue how to help. Then Charlie showed up with her calm steadiness and somehow made the whole thing easier. Normal.
I don’t know what I’d have done without her. Charlie made it all feel… manageable. Which should be a good thing.
But it rattles me more than I want to admit.
Last night, when she was standing in my doorway, I almost asked if she wanted to grab dinner sometime. The words were right there, hovering at the back of my throat—stupid and reckless.
What the hell was I thinking?
She’s David’s sister. She’s my physical therapist. And yet, some part of me doesn’t care.
Vanessa finally called—late, of course, after Sophie was already through the worst of it.
But Sophie lit up, chattering away on speakerphone while her mom rattled off a few answers about cramps and calendars and all the rest. It wasn’t nothing.
Sophie needed that. Still, I couldn’t help noticing how different her face looked two mornings ago when Charlotte sat beside her bed, steady and calm, turning a crisis into something manageable.
Since then, Sophie’s been lighter. Steadier. I should feel relief. And I do—but it’s tangled with something else I can’t shake. The way Charlotte looked at me in the doorway when she left. The weight of the moment that hung there between us. We haven’t talked about it. Not a word.
And maybe that’s for the best.
Tonight is the last game of the regular season.
Win, and the Ice Foxes grab the Wild Card.
Lose, and we’re done. My stomach knots just thinking about it.
Playoffs are what we grind all year for, what I’ve bled for my entire career.
And for the first time in more than a decade, I won’t be out there when the puck drops.
The rink hums with the kind of electricity you can’t fake. Last game of the season, stakes sharp enough to cut.
I move through the locker room in street clothes, brace strapped tight under my joggers, crutches clicking against the tile. It feels wrong not to be pulling on pads, but I still make the rounds—clapping shoulders, meeting eyes, steadying nerves. That’s my job now.
One of the rookies fumbles with his tape, too jittery to get it right. I take the roll, tear off a strip, and hand it back without a word. He exhales, nods, and the rest of the room seems to settle a notch—like if the captain isn’t panicked, maybe they don’t need to be either.
Tyler’s loud, rallying the guys, cracking jokes that break tension before it can strangle anyone. The younger players lean into it, feeding off his energy. It’s good for them, for the team. Necessary.
Afterwards, Coach clears his throat, his eyes flickering to me.
“Declan, any words?”
I plant my crutches, let the noise die down as every head turns to me.
“This is it,” I say, voice low but carrying. “Win tonight, and we punch our ticket to the Playoffs. Every shift, every puck—you’ve earned the right to be here. Don’t let it slip. Sixty minutes. That’s all it takes. Now finish it.”
No yelling. No theatrics. Just steady conviction.
And when I scan the room, I see it—their jaws set tighter, shoulders squared, eyes sharp. They still look to me. And that steadies something in my chest, even with my gear packed away.
Dalton’s leaning back against the wall, calm as ever. He’s been here more than a decade, the kind of veteran who steadies the room without having to say much. The younger guys watch him almost as much as they watch me.
David’s eyes catch mine and he gives me a quick nod. I return it, steady. We’ve been at this long enough that it says everything it needs to.
Coach gives his talk, short and sharp, and the guys rise in unison. Sticks in hand. Helmets under arms. They file out to the tunnel, and I trail behind, crutches thudding, a half step removed from the rhythm I’ve lived for years.
I take my usual seat in the press box, crutches propped against the wall, the crowd’s energy rumbling up through the glass. From here, I can see the bench, the tunnel, every shift unfolding like a film I should be in but can’t.
My chest tightens. Adrenaline still floods me like I’m about to take the first shift. But I’m not. Not tonight.
From up here, the whole arena looks alive—every seat filled, towels whipping, chants rolling in waves. I grip my crutch tighter, knee braced and throbbing, and try to breathe through the static under my skin.
My eyes track every shift, every line change, like I’m still out there on the ice.
The game’s a grind—fast, physical, the kind where every shift feels like a season in itself.
Torres crashes the net in the second and somehow pokes one through traffic.
Kid damn near falls over celebrating, and I can’t stop the grin tugging at my mouth.
That’s what I want from him. Hungry. Relentless.
Penalty kill late in the third—Tyler’s the one shouting, clapping gloves, holding the line. The bench feeds off it, shoulders bumping, energy sparking. He’s stepping up, just like we need him to. I can’t resent him for it. But there’s a sharp pang in my chest all the same. That should be me.
Final horn. Ice Foxes win. Wild Card spot clinched. The building erupts—fans on their feet, players mobbing each other, sticks banging against the boards. I stay where I am, clapping my crutch against the floor, pride swelling hard and sharp in my chest—even from up here.
We’re in. My guys fought for this, earned it. And I couldn’t be prouder.
But the ache is right there, too—the empty space of knowing I wasn’t on the ice when it happened.
The locker room celebration still echoes in my head when I walk into the training room the next morning. We’re in. Wild Card spot clinched. Pride’s still there, sharp and solid. But so is the hollow ache—like I left a piece of myself on the bench last night.
Charlie greets me with her usual calm, tablet in hand, no trace of the chaos I feel inside. “Morning,” she says, like it’s any other day.
It isn’t—not for me. I need to move. To work. To claw my way back.
She pushes me harder this session—longer holds, tougher balance drills, adding resistance before I can even ask.
“Guess what? Bonus round. Don’t glare at me yet—you’ll thank me later,” she says with a quick grin.
Maybe she sees the restless energy in me. Maybe she’s just not afraid to push.
Halfway through, I stumble on a single-leg balance and she’s there instantly, one hand at my hip to steady me while I catch myself. Her touch is firm, clinical, nothing more, but my body doesn’t seem to know the difference. The world narrows to the warmth of her palm, the steadiness in her voice.
There’s a faint trace of her shampoo when she leans in—clean and sharp enough to cut through the sweat and the burn in my legs. It lingers even after she steps back.
Her gaze meets mine, steady and unbothered, but something in my chest jolts anyway. I look away first.
“Reset. You’ve got it.”
I bite back the frustration and go again, jaw clenched. My muscles burn, sweat prickles, but I don’t stop.
Because last night reminded me what I’m missing. And the thought of sitting out the Playoffs makes me feel like I can’t breathe.
My quads are shaking by the end of the balance drill; I can still feel the ghost of Charlie’s hand at my hip from where she steadied me. The frustration’s right there, burning under my skin—not at her, but at this whole damn situation. At being stuck watching while everyone else gets to play.
“Be honest,” I say, my voice rougher than I mean it to be. “If I put in extra work at home… any chance we can shave a week off?”
I hate how desperate it sounds, but I can’t stop myself from asking.
She straightens, meeting my eyes without flinching. Calm. Professional.
“It doesn’t work like that. Your knee needs time. If you push too hard, you risk undoing everything we’ve worked for.”
My jaw tightens. I know she’s right, but the desperation claws at me anyway. After watching the team clinch without me, it’s like I can’t stop looking for a way to wrestle back control.
She must see it, because her tone softens. “I get it. Sitting out is brutal. But you’re still their captain, Declan. And you only get one shot to come back the right way.”
“Form looks sharper today,” she says brightly, giving me a quick grin. “See? Proof you don’t hate me all the time.”
Her smile settles something in my chest, and for the first time all day, I forget about the throbbing in my knee.
My phone buzzes on the table. I flip it over.
It’s from Sophie.
Tell Charlie hiiii. Make her fix you fast so you can play in the Playoffs!! ????
I huff out a laugh, hold the screen up so Charlie can see. “You’ve officially been recruited.”
She grins at the screen. “Guess I better bring my A-game if Sophie’s counting on me.”
The fact that Sophie’s already this comfortable with Charlie hits me square in the chest. Good, because it means Sophie feels safe. Dangerous, because it means I can’t afford to misstep. Not with Charlie. Not when the fallout wouldn’t just land on me.
Charlie is already cueing up the next drill, steady and focused. I roll my shoulders, try to clear my head.
“Ready?” she asks.
“Yeah.”
“Good. Because I’m not done with you yet,” she says with that easy grin.
That night, Sophie’s upstairs finishing homework, humming bits of her musical soundtrack between scribbles of her pencil. The TV downstairs is replaying highlights from last night’s win—Torres’s scrappy goal, Tyler yelling himself hoarse, the guys piling on each other at the horn.
I should feel nothing but pride. And I do. But sitting here with an ice pack strapped to my knee, the brace heavy and unforgiving, it’s pride braided tight with frustration. Like the game happened in a room I could see into but never step inside.
I flip through channels, restless. Nothing sticks. My knee throbs in rhythm with the hollow pull in my chest.
What does stick is the way Charlie steadied me this morning—the calm in her touch, her eyes clear and unflinching. The grin she tossed me when she pushed harder, like she knew I could take it. The way Sophie texted her mid-session without a second thought, as if she’s already part of our circle.
Vanessa’s call flickers through my head again—thin, rushed—like Sophie was just another box to check between a dozen others. Sophie still smiled, still soaked it up. But I saw the difference.
With Charlie, she didn’t just hear answers. She felt steady. Safe. That’s not nothing. And it’s not something I can ignore, no matter how much I tell myself to keep the lines clear.
It should scare me more than it does.
The line I keep telling myself is solid gets thinner every day.
And the more I try not to think about it, the more I do.