Chapter 18
Chapter Eighteen
DECLAN
Morning light spills across the kitchen table, glinting off Sophie’s cereal bowl. She’s tapping her spoon against the rim, humming a tune from the school musical while she watches me like she’s waiting for something.
I take a sip of coffee, bracing for whatever’s coming.
“You see Charlotte today, right?” she asks, casual, like it’s no big deal. “She’s nice.”
The words land heavier than they should.
Because she is nice. She’s patient when I’m short, steady when I’m restless. She listens in a way I didn’t realize I needed. Sophie trusts her—lights up around her—and I can’t pretend I don’t notice how rare that is.
And for a second, I let myself imagine what it would be like if things were different. If Charlie was more than a physical therapist strapping ice to my knee and counting reps. If she was here with us, part of this life.
The thought knots in my chest. Because I can’t have that. Not without risking her job. Not without putting Sophie in the middle of something that could fall apart the way it did with Vanessa.
I clear my throat, force my gaze back to my coffee.
“Yeah. PT this morning.”
Sophie just nods and goes back to her cereal, but the way she said it, like Charlotte already belongs here, lingers as I rinse my mug.
I miss her. Not just the way she looks at me like I’m still me, not a broken-down captain sidelined while my team proves they can win without me.
I miss the way she listens and doesn’t flinch when I say the hard parts out loud.
I miss her ponytail in my fist, the way she arched into me, the heat of her body under my hands.
The worst part is I’ll see her in a couple of hours, close enough to touch, close enough to feel that pull, and I’ll have to pretend I don’t want more.
Erin’s car honks from the driveway. Sophie grabs her backpack, leans in for a quick hug, then adds, “Oh — and don’t forget about the bake sale after school today. Maya and I are working the cookie table!”
“I remember,” I say, trying not to smile at how serious she sounds.
“Just making sure,” she says, grinning. “Don’t be late!”
And then she’s gone—out the door, laughter trailing down the steps as she races to meet Maya.
When I reach for my phone on the counter, the team chat’s still buzzing from last night.
GIFs of Dalton’s celebration. Torres spamming goal memes. A blurry shot of half the guys passed out on the bus with pizza boxes in their laps. Normal post-win chaos.
Usually, I’d be right in the middle of it—chirping, trading jabs, replaying the best shifts until the sun came up.
This time, I scroll, smile faintly at a few, then set the phone face down.
I’m proud of them. Of course I am. They earned a spot in Round 2, battled their way through the Wranglers and proved they’re not just a one-man team.
But that pride is tangled with something sharper. They’re doing it without me. And as much as I try to remind myself that’s what a captain should want, it still twists in my chest.
I used to be the one sending the midnight texts, rallying the boys in the locker room, answering reporters until my voice went hoarse. Now I’m on the sidelines, bracing for another round of rehab while the rest of the team keeps moving forward.
My phone buzzes again. Local station wants me on for a segment about leadership through injury. My agent leaves a voicemail about “leveraging the comeback narrative.”
I delete both.
Round 2 practice schedule kicks in today, but for me it’s the same routine—ice, bands, and the bike.
Crutch in hand, I head for the arena, the buzz of my phone still rattling in my pocket. Everyone wants something from me—quotes, comments, presence. But the only thing I can think about is walking into that training room, knowing she’ll be there.
The drive to the arena feels shorter than usual, but heavier too. By the time I hobble down the hallway, the air already smells faintly of disinfectant and athletic tape and the fluorescent lights buzz against the white tile. It’s like the whole place has been scrubbed of warmth.
When I step into the room, she’s there, tablet in hand, hair pulled back. Professional. Careful. Guarded.
And it kills me.
Because I know the difference: when she laughs mid-rep, her hand steadying my knee and lingering, her gaze holding me like I’m more than a patient.
Today there’s none of that. She greets me with a polite smile, the same one she probably gives Torres or Dalton, and suddenly I’d give anything to go back to last week, when things weren’t so sharp-edged.
She stands a half-step farther than she used to.
“Pain, one to ten?” she asks, not “How’re you holding up?”
I answer with numbers and nods and pretend it’s enough.
But what’s missing is the way she used to ask how I slept, if anything else hurt, the little extras that made it feel like more than PT.
And the truth is, I don’t blame her. I pulled away. I left her hanging without an explanation.
But watching her slide into clinical mode like I’m nobody special—it cuts deeper than the injury.
The slam of a medicine ball echoes down the hall, followed by a burst of laughter from Torres, and it only makes the silence between us sharper.
Halfway through the session, her hand brushes my quad as she checks alignment, quick and impersonal. But my whole body reacts anyway, a rush of heat I smother under clenched teeth. She doesn’t notice. Or she pretends not to.
As she sets the timer for the ice and steps back, my jaw aches from how hard I’ve been clenching it—not from pain in my knee, but from the weight of the silence between us.
“Charlie.” It comes out low, rough.
Her hand stills on the tablet, and for a second her guard slips. Her eyes lift to mine, open and waiting.
My chest squeezes. My throat locks. I try to say I miss her laugh. That I miss my hand finding hers without thinking. The way she softened when it was just us and the rest of the world fell away.
But the words stick. Because wanting her and protecting her aren’t the same thing, and I can’t risk her job just because I can’t keep my distance.
But all that comes out is, “Thanks. For… this.” My voice sounds strained, unfinished, and it grates like sandpaper in my throat.
Her lips part like she’s waiting for more. When I don’t say anything else, she nods, quiet, and adjusts the brace, her fingers brushing my skin. The touch is quick, clinical, but my body reacts anyway, heat sparking under my skin.
Vic ducks in, asks if the table’s free in ten. She answers without looking at me. The door clicks shut, and what’s left is quieter than I can stand.
The flicker in her eyes is gone, the tablet already a shield between us. And I hate myself for putting that wall there.
The silence follows me after she steps away, louder than the hum of the vent or the tick of the clock.
I wanted distance. Now I have it.
And it feels like hell.
By the time afternoon rolls around, I’m pulling into the school parking lot. The sun’s still high, bouncing off a bright banner strung across the main entrance:
Support Our Spring Musical! Bake Sale Today 3:30–5! Help Fund the Cast’s Pizza Party!
As soon as I step inside, I’m hit with the scents of chocolate, frosting, and powdered sugar. Parents drift between tables with paper plates, and kids wave cardboard signs that say Cupcakes $2 and Brownies for the Cast!
A few teachers count money near the door, their laughter echoing against the tile.
Sophie’s easy to spot in the middle of the cafeteria, her dark ponytail swishing as she stands behind a long table with Maya. Their table’s loaded with cookies and brownies, little handwritten price signs taped to each tray. Maya’s calling out prices while Sophie collects money.
“Dad! You came!”
“Wouldn’t miss it,” I say, bracing on my crutch as she barrels over. She tugs me toward her table, still talking a mile a minute about how much they’ve sold when a familiar voice threads through the noise.
I glance up, and there she is.
Charlotte stands at the end of the same table, beside Erin, helping out with a line of kids. She’s in her work polo still, hair tucked behind one ear, sleeves pushed up.
For a second, she doesn’t see me. She’s focused on passing a cupcake to a little boy, smiling faintly at something Erin says. Then her gaze lifts, and the second our eyes meet, the noise of the room drops away.
“Dad?” Sophie tugs my sleeve, breaking the moment. “Can we get one of those chocolate cookies? The big ones.”
“Sure,” I say, forcing my voice steady. “Grab a few.”
When I look up again, Charlie’s turned back to her table, keeping busy, but her shoulders are a little too straight.
Sophie waves a cookie bag toward me, grinning. “You want one?”
“Yeah,” I say quietly, eyes still on Charlie. “Definitely.”
The line finally thins, and Erin straightens, brushing crumbs off her hands.
“Declan! You made it,” she calls over. “Sophie’s been hustling. We might actually sell out.”
“That’s my kid,” I say, smiling faintly.
Charlie’s smile is small and careful, like she’s testing it.
“Hey,” she says, soft but steady.
“Hey.” My pulse jumps harder than it should. “Didn’t know you were volunteering.”
“I wasn’t, really. I just meant to drop off cookies, but…” she gestures to the half-empty trays. “The line got long.”
Erin laughs. “You’re a lifesaver. I’d have been buried without you.”
“Glad I could help,” Charlie says, then glances at the girls.
“Hey, you two, how’s rehearsals for your musical going?”
“Good,” Sophie says immediately. “Mr. Kenner says our harmonies are better.”
“Only because we finally stopped laughing in the middle,” Maya says, giving her a look.
Sophie snorts. “He made us redo Act Two three times yesterday.”
“I can’t wait to see it,” Charlie smiles, but her eyes flick toward the exit like she’s already halfway gone.
A loose strand of hair slips from her ponytail, brushing her cheek, and I have to stop myself from reaching out to tuck it behind her ear.
I should say something. Anything. Ask if she’s okay, if she’s got a second to talk, if her day was as long as mine. But the words jam up behind my ribs.
“You’re leaving?” I ask instead, quieter than I mean to.
“Yeah. I should let the pros handle the rest.”
Sophie waves at her from behind the table. “Bye, Charlotte!”
Charlie waves goodbye to everyone and disappears into the crowd, sunlight flashing off the glass doors as they swing shut behind her.
I’m still looking at the door when Sophie nudges me with an elbow.
“Why are you being weird?” Sophie asks suddenly, glancing up at me.
My stomach tightens, because she’s right.
“I’m not,” I say, too quickly.
“You kind of are,” she starts, but then Maya yelps as a brownie slips off a plate and hits the floor. Sophie bursts out laughing and rushes to grab a napkin.
I exhale, the sound barely audible over the hum of the room.
The cafeteria noise swells back up, but all I can hear is the hollow space she left behind.
I tell myself it’s better this way.
I don’t believe it.