Chapter 14
Chapter Fourteen
DECLAN
Monday morning hits harder than I want to admit. I’ve been replaying Friday night in my head on a loop. Charlie’s sheets, the taste of her skin, her laugh muffled against my mouth, the way she arched under me.
I told myself Sunday would be a reset. It wasn’t. I spent the whole day stewing, torn between wanting to text her and not knowing what the hell to say.
Now here I am, crutch under one arm, pushing through the door of the training room, trying to pretend it’s just another Monday. Except it isn’t. Not with her standing there, ponytail high, tablet in hand, eyes flicking up to meet mine before either of us can mask what we’re thinking.
We keep it professional at first. She checks the brace, asks about swelling, notes down my pain level. My answers are short, measured, like I can fool us both into thinking this is business as usual.
But tension hums under the surface.
She tells me to hold a stretch longer. I shoot her a look.
“Merciless,” I mutter.
Her eyes dance as she quips back, “Progress doesn’t care about mercy, Captain.”
The banter loosens something in me. She crouches to adjust my stance, her fingers brushing my calf, and I can’t help it. My hand slides down to her wrist, holding her there. Her eyes snap up to mine, wide and searching.
For a beat, neither of us moves. Then I lean in, and she doesn’t stop me.
I kiss her hard and she responds just as desperately, like everything we’ve been holding back since Friday is crashing loose. Her fingers trace down my arm; my hand fists in her ponytail and pulls her closer. The world narrows to just her scent, her tongue, the heat curling low and urgent.
Then—footsteps in the hall.
We break apart just in time, both of us breathing too hard. She spins back to her tablet; I flex my knee like the exercise has me winded.
The door clicks and Dan steps in, tablet in hand.
His gaze flicks to me briefly.
“How’s the knee holding up, Captain?”
“Good,” I answer, rougher than I mean to.
“Good to hear,” he says, then turns to Charlotte. “Just a reminder. I’ll need today’s session notes once you’re done.”
Charlie doesn’t miss a beat. “I’ll send them over right after.”
Dan nods, types something, and leaves as quickly as he came.
The door clicks shut, and Charlie lets out a breath that’s half laugh, half groan.
“That was close.”
I nod. “Too close.” But neither of us moves away.
Her shoulders shake with a nervous laugh, and she presses a hand to my chest like she’s trying to steady us both. I cover it with mine, holding it there. We don’t say it out loud, but the heat between us doesn’t go anywhere.
If anything, it burns hotter.
Christ, I feel like a teenager sneaking around.
Only I’m not. I’m a thirty-four-year-old captain making out with my best friend’s sister in the damn training room, with staff walking the halls and anyone free to walk in at any moment.
And yet, I can’t stop wanting her.
We can’t keep pretending this is nothing. Friday night made that clear. Today only proves it.
We’re going to have to talk. Soon. Before it gets messier.
The words almost slip out—come to dinner with me.
I bite them back. Wrong place, wrong time. Hell, maybe wrong altogether.
But with her hand still on my chest and her eyes locked on mine, the only thing I know for sure is that I don’t want to stop.
There’s a knock at the door. A moment later, the door cracks open again. Dalton leans in, fresh from the locker room in shorts and a team tee, tugging at the tape on his shoulder.
“Sorry, morning skate shredded this tape job. Can you give me a quick redo before I head out?”
Charlie steps back smoothly, already reaching for fresh tape. “Sure. We just finished up. Come on in.”
Dalton’s gaze flicks to me as he crosses the room. “Good to have you on the bench tonight, Cap. Doesn’t feel the same without you.”
I nod. “Wouldn’t miss it. Just need the docs to clear me for travel, then I’ll be back on the road.”
“Any chance we’ll see you back in the lineup soon?”
“Five, maybe six weeks if everything holds. That’s the target.”
He nods once, firm. “Good. We’re ready to have you back.”
He settles onto the table, and Charlie reaches for the tape.
I take that as my cue to head out, crutch under one arm, pulse still running hot from what just happened. The hall’s buzzing—guys coming off the ice, staff darting in and out. Coach McCarthy flags me down before I can escape.
“Docs say you’re right on schedule,” he says, voice low but firm. “Bench presence tonight, then we’ll reassess travel. Don’t rush it, Tremayne. The boys need you steady, not stubborn.”
I nod. “Understood.”
He claps my shoulder once, satisfied, and moves on.
By the time I reach my truck, my phone’s already lighting up—my agent, Eric, flashing on the screen. I debate ignoring it, then swipe anyway, immediately regretting it.
“Declan, glad I caught you,” he says, voice too smooth. “Look, while you’re sidelined, there’s a ton of opportunity here. Motivational appearances, podcasts, maybe a profile piece about resilience. Brands love a comeback story.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “I’m not interested.”
He sighs. “Just think about it, okay? You don’t want to fade from the conversation. Tyler’s hot right now, and the media’s already shifting focus.”
That lands sharper than I want it to. “I said no.”
He exhales. “I get that, but you’re thirty-four. This is the kind of pivot that sets you up long-term: next contract, endorsements, options. Visibility matters.”
“I think what matters is how I play, not how I sell it,” I snap.
I hang up before I say something worse, jaw tight, stomach twisting.
When I finally sit in my truck, I grip the wheel hard enough that my knuckles ache.
I already know what he’s talking about. I try to ignore it, but I’ve read the headlines. I’ve heard the sports commentators. I’ve seen the chatter online.
Ice Foxes proving they can win without Tremayne…
Tyler Reed stepping into the role…
What’s the future of the captaincy if Tremayne can’t return by the Final?
Even with my agent in my ear and headlines in my face, it’s Charlie who won’t leave my head.
The way her mouth tasted this morning, the quick, breathless laugh she let out when we almost got caught, the heat that’s still under my skin.
I can’t stop thinking about her. She makes everything else feel lighter, and I can’t help but want more of that.
More of her.
Even hours later, sitting across from Sophie at dinner, the thought won’t leave me.
Sophie’s twirling pasta on her fork, half-focused on her plate, humming little pieces of her musical under her breath.
Then she looks up, sudden and bright.
“Mom said she’s gonna bring me the lip gloss for the show this week. She promised.”
Her voice has that edge of hope that guts me every time.
I nod, careful. “That’ll be good. You’ll look great up there.”
She grins and goes back to her pasta like it’s settled. But my chest stays tight. Because I’ve heard those words—she promised—too many times.
If Vanessa comes through, Sophie will light up. If she doesn’t… there’s not a damn thing I can do to protect her from the drop.
I take a sip of water, forcing my face steady. “You’re ready either way, Sophie. Lip gloss or no lip gloss, you’ll steal the show.”
She rolls her eyes like I’m being cheesy again, but her smile lingers.
And I sit there, pride and dread knotted tight, already bracing for what happens if the promise falls through.
With Charlie, I don’t picture this tightrope. I picture Sophie laughing—relaxed, easy, unguarded. I imagine not waiting for the other shoe to drop. Charlie listens, shows up, remembers. Simple. Steady. Different.
I catch myself thinking how much I want Sophie to have more of that in her life. How much I want more of it too.
The thought blindsides me, and I feel that pull again.
I want to spend more time with Charlie.
After we’re done eating, Sophie’s already packing her overnight bag. Erin’s swinging by to scoop her up—girls’ night with Maya, school carpool in the morning. Sophie hums her lines as she zips the bag, light as air.
Once she’s out the door, the house goes quiet—too quiet. By the time I pull on my suit jacket and grab my crutch for the game, the silence is heavy enough that I almost miss the chaos of the rink.
Tonight’s Game 3 of Round 1. The arena hums the way only the Playoffs can.
Even tucked up in the press box, I feel it.
The towels, the chants, the kind of crackling noise that gets in your bones.
It should be me out there feeding off it.
Instead, I’m stuck on the sidelines in a suit, knee braced and stiff.
The game is a grind. Physical, nasty, the kind that takes years off your life just watching.
I track every shift, every read, like my body still thinks I’ll be called over the boards.
Tyler’s loud, rallying on the bench. Torres crashes the net with that fearless rookie hunger.
The boys dig in, and the building shakes when we pot one late in the second.
I clap my crutch against the floor, the sound too small, too sharp. I’m not with them, not really.
The commentators’ chatter filters in from the next row of media: “Reed stepping into Tremayne’s shoes nicely.”
My jaw clenches.
Third period, tied 2–2. Wranglers hammer us in the zone, but we break out clean, and Tyler finishes it—hard wrister, bar-down, crowd exploding. The guys bang sticks on the boards, McCarthy clapping behind them, and I can almost feel it. Almost.
Final buzzer. 3–2.
Another win without me.
I head down, blending into the tunnel chaos—reporters barking questions, cameras flashing, guys laughing as they peel off gear. I stay to the side, invisible, until I catch sight of her.
Charlie. Tablet in one hand, headset tugged loose, hair slipping from her ponytail. Focused, efficient… until her eyes flick up and catch mine.
That same current from this morning crackles between us.
She hesitates, then steps closer, low enough that no one else can hear. “How’s Sophie?”
The question guts me in the best way. That she remembers, that she asks. “She’s good,” I manage. “Can’t stop humming her song.”
Charlie’s smile is small, quick, but it hits harder than the win did.
“Huge congrats,” she says. “Big win.”
I should just nod, say thanks, let her walk. But my chest’s still buzzing from the fact that I haven’t stopped thinking about her all damn day.
My pulse hammers in my ears. My grip on the crutch goes damp. Hands clammy, throat tight, every nerve strung taut—like I’m back on the dot, waiting for a faceoff.
And before I can shut myself up, it slips out—rough, unpolished.
“Have dinner with me?”
Her eyes widen, then soften. For a second, I swear the whole tunnel noise fades. She tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear, a faint flush climbing her cheeks.
“Yeah,” she says quietly, after a beat that has me holding my breath. “Sunday works for me.”
“It’s a date.”
Jesus, did I really just say that?
Someone down the hall calls her name. She gives me one last look—steady, almost secret—before the professional mask slides back into place and she disappears into the crowd.
I lean back against the wall, pulse still hammering. We just won a playoff game. But that’s not what’s making my chest feel like it’s about to explode.
Sunday can’t come fast enough.