Chapter 15
Chapter Fifteen
CHARLOTTE
Kristy’s already waving me over from a high-top when I walk into our usual spot. She’s got a glass of red wine and that look on her face—the one that says she’s been waiting to pounce.
The second I sit down, she squints at me. “Okay, what’s going on with you?”
I blink. “What do you mean?”
She tilts her head, studying me like she’s running a full evaluation. “You’re glowing. And before you say it’s just work—no. I know your work face. This is different. This is I-have-a-secret face. So spill. Who is he?”
My laugh comes out too quick, too nervous. “I didn’t say there’s a ‘he.’”
Her brows shoot up. “Oh, there’s definitely a he.” She leans in, voice dropping. “So? Details.”
I twist my glass between my hands. “It’s… new. Complicated. That’s all I’m saying.”
Kristy grins. “Charlie, you deserve complicated. You deserve happy. Just… don’t overthink it until you strangle the joy out of it, okay?”
Something tugs tight in my chest. I want to tell her. I want to say his name out loud. But it terrifies me.
It’s too soon. Too risky. So I swallow it back.
“Noted,” I murmur, forcing a smile.
But inside, I’m buzzing. Because she’s right. I am glowing.
Declan Tremayne asked me out.
It’s been two days and I still can’t stop grinning like a schoolgirl.
Kristy keeps watching me like she’s waiting for me to slip. I dodge every question, sip my drink, and laugh it off, but inside? I’m bursting.
When Kristy hugs me goodbye, she whispers that she hasn’t seen me this happy in years. I pretend to roll my eyes, but the truth is, I can’t stop smiling all the way home.
As I get ready for bed, her words echo the entire time: Don’t overthink it. You deserve happiness. I fall asleep with a smile still tugging at my lips.
The next morning, the buzz of last night’s drinks with Kristy hasn’t worn off. If anything, it’s worse.
Because this isn’t just anyone I’m seeing.
This is Declan Tremayne. My brother’s best friend. My patient. The man who was in my bed less than a week ago.
And now here I am, stepping into the training room like I can just flip a switch and be his physical therapist again.
He looks up when I walk in, and the faintest grin tugs at his mouth. The kind of grin that says he remembers every second of that night too. It rattles me, makes my pulse stumble.
I grip my tablet tighter, aiming for clinical. “Morning. Ready?”
He smirks. “Always. Unless this is one of your merciless days.”
I laugh as I steady his knee, guiding his foot into alignment. His hand brushes mine as he shifts—casual, nothing. But my brain betrays me anyway, remembering the way those same hands pinned me to my sheets, strong and certain, like he’d never let go.
Every bit of contact feels amplified: my hand steadying his knee, his shoulder brushing mine as he shifts. Too much, too charged. I keep having to yank myself back into professional mode.
Then the door opens. Vic sticks his head in, already reaching for a roll of tape from the supply shelf. “Sorry. Just grabbing this. Don’t mind me.”
I step back like distance will erase the heat between us. Declan doesn’t say a word, just schools his expression blank until the door shuts again. My pulse won’t settle.
Pretending this is just PT is getting harder by the minute.
Declan’s phone starts buzzing, and he exhales impatiently when he sees who’s calling, sending it to voicemail.
He shakes his head. “My agent’s been on me nonstop. Wants me doing podcasts, appearances, ‘comeback story’ crap while I’m sidelined. Like I’ve got the energy for that.”
The bitterness in his tone makes me glance up from my tablet. “Do you?”
He huffs out a humorless laugh. “Hell no. I don’t care about telling the world I’m still relevant. I care about getting back on the ice.” His jaw flexes. “He acts like visibility matters more than actually playing.”
It hits me then—he’s not chasing image, not really. What drives him is showing up. For his team, for Sophie. Maybe even for me.
I hesitate, then say softly, “Your agent’s thinking about headlines. But the people who matter? They’ll remember how you show up, not how many interviews you do.”
Declan’s gaze lingers on me, unreadable, and for a second it feels like he’s weighing more than just my words.
I clear my throat, checking my notes. “Okay, last set. Let’s get it done.”
He obeys, but the corner of his mouth curves like he knows exactly what he’s doing to me.
By the time he finishes and I send him off with an ice pack, my hands are still unsteady. And when he glances back at the door before leaving—the quickest look, just for me—I know I’m in trouble.
The rest of the afternoon barrels forward with no time to breathe. Pre-game rush hits hard: guys filing in one after another, last-minute tune-ups before warmups.
Torres swings onto the table, tugging at his skate. “One more ankle wrap, Charlie. Don’t want to mess with the streak.”
“Let’s keep it supported, then,” I say, brisk but warm, layering the tape while he chatters about shot angles and playoff nerves.
Dalton’s next, pointing at the back of his neck. “Locked up again. Can you get it?”
I dig into the knot until he exhales, tension breaking under my thumbs. “Better?” I ask.
“Much,” he admits, already rolling his shoulders easier.
Tyler appears last, wrist half-wrapped but loose. “Can you reinforce this? Need it solid tonight.”
I secure the tape snug and firm, meeting his sharp focus with calm steadiness. “There. You’re good.”
By the time I clear the table and tuck the rolls of tape back into place, the room’s empty. Only the hum of the crowd filters through the walls—a reminder that Game 4 of Round 1 is about to start.
And when I step into the tunnel, my eyes find Declan immediately. Suit sharp, shoulders broad beneath the fabric, crutch tucked neatly under one arm. His dark hair is perfectly in place, that strong jaw clean and set, blue eyes sharp.
Even sidelined, the guys still gravitate toward him. A word here, a steady hand on a shoulder there, and you can see it—the way they straighten, the way they nod.
The medical room feels like its own little bubble once the game starts, the hum of the crowd filtering faint through the walls.
The feed plays across the overhead screens, and I catch myself holding my breath every time the Wranglers press in our zone.
Staff shuffle in and out—an ice bag here, a tape roll there—but mostly it’s just me, eyes locked on the play.
It’s a grind of a game, all heavy hits and tight corners. By the second intermission it’s tied, 2–2, and I’m wound so tight my jaw aches from clenching. This is the part no one trains you for—not the mechanics, not the taping, not the stretches. The waiting. The helpless watching.
Third period crawls. The Wranglers hammer the net, and I’m half out of my chair, pulse racing. Then Torres breaks out, fearless as ever, and feeds it across to Dalton, who slams it home. The horn rattles the walls. 3–2, Ice Foxes.
The last minute feels like an hour, the Wranglers swarming, but our guys hold the line. When the buzzer finally sounds, the med room lets out a breath as one—staff clapping shoulders, quick cheers before heading out to handle post-game checks.
I’m left standing there, heart still racing.
The series is 3–1 now. One more win, and they move on to Round 2.
I start packing up—wiping down the table, sliding rolls of tape back into their bins—when my phone buzzes against the counter. Declan’s name glows across the screen.
Can’t wait for Sunday.
Heat rushes to my cheeks before I can stop it. My fingers hover over the keys, useless, because all I can do is grin at the damn screen.
I finally tap out the only thing that doesn’t feel like too much:
Me either.
Sunday. Dinner. Declan Tremayne.
I just let myself enjoy it—the buzz in my chest, the ache of wanting, the terrifying, thrilling thought that this thing between us isn’t slowing down.
I don’t know where this is going, only that I want to keep getting closer. Because every time his walls slip, I like the man underneath even more.
Until maybe he doesn’t feel like he has to hold them up around me at all.