Chapter 17
Chapter Seventeen
CHARLOTTE
Last night I cycled through every emotion: confusion, frustration, even the sharp sting of embarrassment.
His text keeps replaying in my head.
Not a good idea.
It sounds like he’s saying we aren’t a good idea.
Now it’s Monday morning, and the ache hasn’t dulled one bit.
The smell of chocolate still clings to my kitchen from earlier this morning. I baked a batch of chocolate-chip cookies for Maya’s school bake sale tomorrow.
Her class is raising money for a pizza party when the musical wraps next month, and I promised I’d stop by for a few minutes if I can.
Ten minutes, drop the cookies, say hi.
Easy enough.
By the time I pull on my polo and knot my hair into a clean ponytail, my chest feels wrapped in wire. Neutral. That’s the goal. No grinning like usual, no humming like a lovestruck teenager.
Just Charlotte Blake, PT, tablet in hand, ready to do her job.
I practice the tone in my head during the drive: polite, clinical, untouchable. If he wants distance, I can give it. A quieter voice inside me whispers there has to be a reason. I tuck it away, for now, under a layer of composure.
But as the arena comes into view, my pulse spikes anyway. Because no matter how many times I rehearse being restrained, I know the second I see him, my heart’s not going to listen.
The training room feels smaller than usual.
The tablet in my hand shakes a little, so I grip it tighter, like professionalism can double as armor.
If he wants boundaries, fine. I’ll give him boundaries.
But that doesn’t mean my stomach isn’t in knots, or that my chest doesn’t clench every time I imagine his face.
Because the truth is, I was looking forward to that dinner. To hearing his laugh without the walls around it. And now, instead, I wrap an ice pack to his knee and pretend I don’t care that he pulled away.
The hallway echoes with the steady thud of his crutch.
My pulse stutters, quick and nervous. I paste on a calm smile anyway.
Declan steps in, crutch clicking, his expression unreadable. Not quite gruff, not quite warm. Just… guarded.
“Morning,” he says, voice low, clipped.
I match his tone, even though it tastes bitter on my tongue. “Morning. Ready?”
I keep my face blank. No warmth, no smile. Just the job.
He lowers himself onto the table with the same practiced control he uses for everything. I set out the bands and pull up his notes on my tablet, my motions crisp, efficient. My hands want to soften against him, but I don’t let them. Not today.
“Let’s start on the bike today,” I say, keeping my tone even.
His brows lift. “Full rotation?”
“If it feels right,” I reply. “No resistance. Just motion.”
He eyes the stationary bike like it’s a test. Maybe it is.
I adjust the seat higher, check his brace strap, then step back as he swings his good leg over. For a second, I think he might stop, but then his left knee bends, careful, controlled, and the pedal completes its first full circle.
The faint whir of the flywheel fills the room.
His jaw tightens, but there’s something else under it — relief. Maybe even pride.
“How’s it feel?” I ask quietly.
“Better,” he mutters, still pedaling slow.
I let myself smile, just a little. “Good. Give me five minutes at that pace.”
He keeps going, steady and focused, every turn a small victory.
But the quiet stretches. The air between us feels full of everything we’re not saying, and by the time I switch him to floor work, it’s back. The distance, the careful silence neither of us seems ready to break.
The rest of the session plays out like muscle memory: bands, stretches, reps, all of it automatic.
He doesn’t push back, but he doesn’t joke either. No teasing, no smirk. Just follows instructions, jaw tight, eyes somewhere past me.
Every brush of contact is sharper now, charged for all the wrong reasons. His calf under my hand. The flex of his quad as I guide him through the extension. He doesn’t look at me, and that hurts more than if he did.
I hear myself explaining reps and ranges like I’m reading straight from a manual. Safe. Detached. But inside, I want to ask him what happened.
By the time I strap the ice around his knee, the silence between us feels heavier than the weight rack in the corner.
“Fifteen minutes,” I say, setting the timer. My voice sounds steady, even though my pulse isn’t.
He nods, finally meeting my eyes. Just for a second. And the flicker there—apology, maybe? Regret?—nearly undoes me.
So I turn, busying myself with my notes, anything to keep from unraveling.
I try to focus on my tablet, on the tap of my fingers, but the quiet is unbearable. The steady tick of the timer, the faint hum of the vent—it all presses in until I can’t take it anymore.
“Declan,” I hear myself say before I can stop it. My voice is softer than I meant, careful. “Are you… okay?”
He blinks, caught off guard. A long beat passes before he answers.
“Yeah.” The word is flat, clipped, too quick. His gaze drops to his brace, not me. “I’m fine.”
But the knot in my chest tightens because fine isn’t true. I can see it in the way he moves.
I nod anyway, swallowing everything else I want to ask. Because pressing won’t help. And if he wanted to tell me the truth, he would.
The timer buzzes, jolting the moment back into motion. I unstrap the ice, movements brisk and efficient. He thanks me—rough, automatic—and I let him go, tablet hugged tight to my chest.
Only after the door shuts behind him do I let my smile drop, the ache I’ve been hiding curling sharp and low.
I pack up slower than usual, trying to stretch the minutes until I don’t feel raw anymore. My schedule’s light today with the team on the road, so there’s nothing left but the empty training room and my own thoughts.
Which is dangerous.
At lunch I check my phone. I have a few texts, including one from Kristy.
Wine tonight? At my place?
I almost say no—I’m not exactly in sparkling-company mode—but I cave. Better her than being alone with my brain.
Another text is from Erin:
Reminder for the bake sale tomorrow – 3:30 to 5 in the cafeteria if you can make it!
I smile despite myself. After the last several days, the idea of small talk and fluorescent lights feels like too much. But I promised Maya. And maybe showing up, even briefly, will be a good distraction.
The hours crawl. I keep checking my phone like something might change, like he might suddenly explain. He doesn’t. By the time evening comes, I’m too restless to stay home, so I grab my keys and head to Kristy’s.
Her apartment smells like sage and candle wax when I step inside, the stem of a glass already waiting on the counter for me. Kristy doesn’t waste time.
“Okay. What gives? You look like somebody swapped your coffee for decaf.”
I blink. “I don’t—”
“Don’t even start. Last week you had that glow,” she says as she pours. “Today, you’re chewing your lip like it owes you money. What happened?”
The knot in my chest tightens. I sink onto a stool, fingers circling the glass.
“He canceled.”
Kristy blinks. “Wait. Your mystery guy?”
I nod. “We were supposed to have dinner last night. But then he sent me a text saying it wasn’t a good idea.”
Her brows shoot up. “That’s vague. And cowardly.”
The words land heavy. I take a sip of wine, stalling.
Kristy leans her elbows on the counter, eyes sharp but soft. “Do you want me to be your friend or your filter?”
“Both,” I say with a sigh.
“Okay.” She tilts her head. “Don’t go chasing for answers he isn’t ready to give. If he cares, he’ll show you. If he doesn’t, at least you’ll know.”
I nod, but the ache doesn’t ease. Her certainty makes it sound simple. Black and white. But my chest feels anything but. I want answers.
I keep wondering what happened to the man who let his guard down with me, who woke up in my bed. Because the man I saw today felt like a stranger.
Kristy doesn’t press. She just gives my hand a quick squeeze, like she knows I’m not ready to say more, and lets the silence settle.
Kristy tops off our glasses, chatting about something from work, but I’m only half there. My mind keeps slipping back to him—his clipped answers, the way he wouldn’t look at me, the way his “fine” rang so false I can still hear it hours later.
By the time I head home, the ache hasn’t lifted. Back at my duplex, the quiet feels too loud. I flip on the TV, drop onto the couch with a blanket tugged around me, and tell myself I’m just watching hockey. Just doing what half of Denver is doing tonight.
But the truth is, I keep thinking about him. How he must be watching it now too, hating how he’s not there.
The commentators won’t let him disappear, though. “The Foxes still without their captain, Declan Tremayne, rehabbing that knee in Denver,” one says during the first intermission. “But Tyler Reed’s stepping up in a big way.”
I sink deeper into the couch, arms wrapped around the blanket. Of course they’re right. Tyler has stepped up. But every mention of Declan’s absence twists inside me, because I know exactly how much it kills him not to be there.
The second period’s a grind. The Wranglers hammer shot after shot, but Torres lays out for a block that rattles the boards. Dalton breaks free on a rush, his slapshot ringing off the post so loud it makes me flinch even from here.
The commentators are eating it up—talking grit, heart, resilience. Talking about the team rallying without their captain.
By the third, it’s tied 2–2 and I can’t stay seated.
I’m pacing my small living room, the blanket trailing behind me like a cape, muttering under my breath every time the Wranglers gain the zone.
My stomach’s in knots, but I don’t know if it’s the score or the thought of him watching too, jaw clenched, wishing he could change everything from a couch in Denver.
Then—relief. Torres picks off a pass in the neutral zone, fearless as ever, feeding it across to Dalton. He buries it, the horn nearly blowing out my speakers. 3–2, Foxes. I clap a hand over my mouth, laughing breathlessly like it somehow matters that I’m celebrating alone.
The last minute drags, every second an eternity, but the boys hold. The buzzer finally sounds and the announcer’s shouting over the roar of the crowd: “The Ice Foxes are headed to Round 2!”
I collapse back onto the couch, heart hammering, tears pricking behind my eyes. Relief. Pride. I immediately grab my phone to text Declan.
Congrats, Captain. Round 2. Proud of you guys.
Because even though I type the words, my thumb hovers useless over send. His last message flashes in my head like a warning.
Not a good idea right now.
With a shaky inhale and a sharp ache, I delete the text and set my phone face down.
Boundaries, I remind myself. All business. Neutral. Safe.
But my chest doesn’t feel safe at all. It feels hollow.
The team knows exactly where they’re headed.
I wish I could say the same for me and Declan.