Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
DECLAN
The pregame show buzzes through the living room, analysts already arguing about whether the Denver Ice Foxes can steal one on the road against the Dallas Wranglers. I prop my left leg on a pillow and pretend my stomach isn’t in knots.
Sophie drops onto the couch beside me with a bowl of popcorn and a bag of M she’s narrating girls’ night between whistles—how Erin made brownies, how Maya insists on a dramatic bow after every song, how Charlotte laughed so hard she almost missed her cue.
Charlotte. The way Sophie says her name—easy, like she’s already part of our orbit—does something warm and dangerous in my chest.
First period’s tight, every puck battle a coin flip. Our goalie bails us out twice, and I can feel the pulse in my jaw by the time the horn blows.
Second’s no easier—trading chances both ways, nothing clean breaking through.
The period ends 1–1. The scoreboard graphic flashes on the screen at intermission—exactly the kind of tight game that chews at your nerves.
Sophie stands to refill her drink. “Maya texted. Sleepover Friday?” she asks over her shoulder, like it’s already decided.
“Yeah,” I say. “Text Erin and make sure.”
“Done.” She plops back down, stealing a handful of my popcorn. “And next time we do karaoke, you’re coming.”
“Hard pass.”
She snorts.
The third starts, and I fix my eyes on the ice, like that’s enough to hold everything else in place.
It’s a grind. The Wranglers are heavy on every shift, punishing along the boards. Torres takes a hard hit on the forecheck, pops right back up, and the bench roars. Tyler’s line buzzes every shift, hemming their defense in, but the puck won’t bounce our way.
My grip tightens on the crutch propped against the couch. Every rush feels like I’m skating it myself—lungs burning, legs heavy—even from here.
The last five minutes are chaos—swallowed whistles, scrums along the boards, every dump-in chased like it’s sudden death.
With under a minute left, Tyler threads a pass through traffic, and Torres buries it.
The building on TV shakes like I can feel it through the floorboards.
Sophie’s popcorn goes flying as she leaps up, screaming.
I can’t help it—I’m on my feet too, braced leg and all, fist clenched tight around my crutch as if I’d scored it myself.
Final horn. We take it. First game of the series in the books, the guys mobbing each other on the ice while the Dallas crowd boos them off.
Ice Foxes take Game 1.
Pride is sharp and real, but right behind it sits a hollow ache—them fighting without me, Tyler rallying the bench, Torres playing like he’s been here a decade instead of a season.
Later, after Sophie heads upstairs, I sit in the dim light of the living room, highlights looping on the screen.
Every cheer feels like it’s happening in a room I can see but never step into.
My phone lights up, buzzing with notifications.
Messages from the group thread—guys hyped, trading gifs, tagging me like I’m still there.
I scroll through the gifs and chirps, thumb hovering. I type something captain-like:
Hell of a win. Keep it rolling.
The sting hits as soon as I send it, because saying it from the couch isn’t the same as standing in that room.
My phone buzzes. A text lights the screen:
Congrats on the win. You must be proud of the guys.
It’s Charlotte.
Just a simple text, but it sits heavier than it should. I tell myself not to read into it, not to want more, but the truth is I do.
After a second, I type back:
Proud as hell. They earned it.
The next couple of days blur into the routine—PT in the mornings, Sophie in the evenings, me trying not to crawl out of my skin in between.
Charlie keeps her sessions sharp but optimistic, tossing out lines like “You’re ahead of schedule, Captain” with a smile that almost makes me believe her. I tell her she’s too cheerful for her own good, and she just shrugs, unbothered.
It shouldn’t matter, but it does. I catch myself waiting for her cues, for the way she notices every tiny gain I don’t even see.
By Friday evening, Sophie’s buzzing around the living room, stuffing an overnight bag with pajamas and way too many snacks. Erin pulls up out front, and Sophie’s gone in a flash—barely a wave before she disappears out the door.
The house feels too still without her. I flip on the TV, settle in for Game 2. It’s a grind, and we lose it late—one of those one-goal heartbreakers that leave your jaw clenched long after the horn.
When the Wranglers mob their goalie at center ice and my guys skate off with their heads down, it only twists the knife deeper.
The silence after the broadcast cuts out is brutal. I rinse the dishes, pace the kitchen, flip the TV back on and off. Nothing takes the edge off.
My phone rings. Charlotte’s name lights the screen.
“Hey,” I answer, voice rough.
A beat of silence, then her breath catches like she’s debating hanging up. “Sorry—this is probably not what you expected on a Friday night, but… my kitchen faucet just decided to explode. I shut off the valve, but it’s still spraying everywhere. I honestly have no idea what I’m doing.”
I rub a hand over my jaw, already reaching for my keys. “Text me your address.”
There’s another pause, this one smaller. “Really? Thanks. I didn’t know who else to call with David still on the road.”
“I’m coming. Can’t let my physical therapist drown in her own kitchen.”
Her laugh is shaky but real. “Thanks, Declan. Seriously.”
The call clicks off, leaving the house even quieter. I stare at the phone for a long beat before shoving it in my pocket and heading for the door.
Sliding into the driver’s seat is awkward as hell with the brace. I shove the seat back a notch so it doesn’t catch under the dash, then once I’m in, it’s fine.
Her duplex is ten minutes away, but my pulse stays tight the whole drive, like I’m heading into overtime instead of a plumbing disaster.
As soon as I knock, Charlotte opens it, barefoot, blonde hair twisted up, a towel slung over one shoulder. There’s a wet patch on her T-shirt, darker blue across her stomach. She waves me in, exasperated.
“Kitchen’s this way. I swear it attacked me.”
She isn’t kidding. The faucet’s coughing up water, pooling fast across the counter. She’s already laid out some tools and a flashlight. I grab a wrench and lower myself by the cabinet, nodding for her to bring the flashlight closer.
She darts forward with another towel as I balance on my good knee, keeping the braced one stretched awkwardly out. Even then, it barks a protest, heat crawling down the joint. I grit my teeth and ignore it.
The last thing I’m going to do is admit I can’t handle a damn faucet.
“Hold the flashlight steady,” I tell her.
“Yes, Captain,” she says wryly, her voice teasing. The beam wobbles as she shifts closer, shoulder brushing mine in the cramped space. I catch the familiar scent of her shampoo, and it makes concentrating harder.
“Here,” I grunt, twisting the wrench tight. The spray slows, sputters, then finally dies. I sit back, wiping a sleeve across my forehead. “Not bad for an amateur plumber.”
Charlotte lets out a long breath, half relief, half laugh. “You just saved me from turning my kitchen into a swimming pool. I owe you.”
Her smile is wide, relief written all over her face. For a second I just look at her—closer than we should be, the air thicker than it has any right to be. She notices, shifts her weight, but doesn’t move away.
“Guess I should get you a drink,” she says lightly, though her voice is softer now.
Something coils low in my chest. “Guess you should.”
Charlotte opens the fridge and comes back with two beers, twisting the caps off like it’s the most natural thing in the world. She hands me one.
“Payment,” she says.
I huff out something close to a laugh, and she gestures toward the couch.
I sink into the cushions, leg stretched out, the muscles in my left knee still humming from crouching under her sink.
She drops down casually beside me, folding one leg under herself.
The lamp throws a soft glow over her, catching on the loose strands of hair that have slipped free.
“Does it hurt?” she asks quietly, nodding toward my left knee.
I take a pull from the bottle, avoid her eyes. “I’m fine.”
“You always say that,” she murmurs, not accusing, just certain.
For a while, we just sit, the sound of the fridge kicking on and the tick of her wall clock filling the silence. It isn’t uncomfortable—if anything, it’s too comfortable.
“You always this handy?” she asks, tipping her bottle toward me.
“Not bad with a wrench,” I admit. “Useless with anything that requires reading directions.”
Her mouth quirks. “Good to know. I’ll keep that in mind the next time something else decides to explode.”
The air shifts on that—next time. Those words hang between us, heavier than they should.
I take another pull from my beer, trying to ignore the way her knee brushes mine when she leans back against the couch. The contact is small, incidental. It doesn’t feel that way.
She shifts closer, bottle balanced on her knee, her gaze dropping to my mouth before darting away. My pulse spikes.
I set my beer aside.
“Charlotte—”
Her name comes out rough, more confession than word.
And then she’s leaning in, close enough for her warmth and the scent of her to take over.
Her lips brush mine once, light, like she’s testing the ground.
And then I’m gone, tilting into her, claiming more, because holding back hasn’t worked for weeks.
Her hand finds my jaw. My hand fists in the hem of her shirt.
The kiss goes from tentative to fierce, stealing the air from my lungs.
Suddenly the couch isn’t enough.