Chapter Nineteen
CHARLOTTE
Itell myself the session is just another checkmark today.
Range of motion, alignment, quad sets, ice.
Done.
But by the time Declan crutches out, I’m gripping the edge of the treatment table like it’s the only thing keeping me steady, my chest tight, my pulse high.
Because it wasn’t nothing.
For a second, he looked at me like he was going to say something, like he might finally close the space between us.
And then he didn’t. Just left me with that half-formed ‘Thanks’ that landed harder than silence ever could.
His compression sleeve is on the table. I fold it once and tuck it into my bag without thinking.
I go through the motions with the rookies afterward, smiling, cueing form, scribbling notes. But the truth is I’m rattled. He’s the one who drew the line.
I’ve respected it. Kept things professional. But if he’s going to look at me like that and then pretend it doesn’t matter?
That’s not something I can keep swallowing down.
Hours later, I’m pacing the empty training room like a caged animal, still trying to shake it off.
Kristy texts: Just checking in. Call me if you want to talk.
I stare at the screen longer than I should, tempted to call. But this isn’t about distraction or venting.
It’s about facing him.
And the more I think about it, the more it feels like avoidance is the worst thing for both of us. Because if we don’t clear the air now, I won’t be able to do my job without second-guessing every rep, every touch.
I make up my mind.
We’re going to talk.
One way or another.
By the time the rookies clear out, I’ve buried myself in paperwork just to keep from spiraling. Dan pokes his head in with a note from Dr. Patel.
“By the way—Tremayne’s cleared to travel. You’ll want to go over the protocols with him before the team heads out tomorrow.”
Dan says it casually, like it’s just another box to tick. But my pulse stutters anyway. Travel clearance means road games again. Locker rooms, hotels. A step closer to normal for him.
I knew this was coming. The staff’s been planning for him to rejoin the travel roster as soon as Dr. Patel gives the green light. Still, hearing it out loud makes it real. Seattle for Round 2. Shared flights, hotel hallways, bench check-ins. No clinic walls between us this time.
I should feel neutral about it. It’s part of the job.
But travel means after-hours—lobbies, late-night ice, shared elevators.
I nod, add a note, and tell myself I’ll catch him tomorrow. Except later, when I’m cutting back through the hall, I see him, crutch propped against the wall outside the film room, talking low with Coach McCarthy.
My feet slow before I can stop them, and when the coach claps him on the shoulder and leaves, it’s just him.
I grip the tablet tighter, heart hammering, and before I can overthink it, I cross the hall.
“Declan,” I say, steady as I can. “Got a minute?”
He pauses, weight tipped on his crutch, his sharp blue eyes wary but steady on me. I keep my tone even.
“Dr. Patel signed off on travel clearance this morning,” I say.
He raises an eyebrow. “I’m going with the team to Seattle tomorrow?”
I nod. “It means you’re allowed to join the team on the road again: flights, meetings, bench presence. But it doesn’t change your rehab,” I add, keeping my voice steady even though my pulse skips.
“We’ll still have PT every morning. No contact drills. We’ll need to keep monitoring swelling and stick to the daily program.”
He nods slowly, jaw tightening, like he’s still absorbing the fact he’s actually going again. “Guess it’s really happening.”
There’s a pause, something quiet and charged between us.
His eyes soften, barely. But it’s enough to tighten the ache in my throat. I should stop there, let him go, keep it professional. But the words don’t stay down. They never do, not with him.
I hesitate, pulse quickening, then take a breath.
“Declan… there’s something else we need to talk about.”
His brow furrows, but he doesn’t argue when I step past him and lead the way to an empty room down the hall. He follows, and I nudge the door shut. The faint hum of the vents fills the quiet, the world on the other side of the wall slipping away.
For a second, I grip the tablet like a shield. Then I set it down on the counter, because that’s what this is about—putting the shield down.
My throat tightens, but I force the words out.
“You pushed me away, and I’ve respected that.”
My voice wavers, then steadies.
“I’ve kept it professional. But I can’t keep pretending it doesn’t matter to me or that nothing happened.”
Silence. Heavy. He grips his crutch like it’s the only thing holding him up.
“You think I wanted to push you away?” His voice is low, frayed at the edges. “Charlie, I didn’t.”
My breath catches. “Then why did you?”
His jaw flexes, the words slow and reluctant, like each one scrapes on the way out.
“Because you work for this team. If anyone thought there was more than rehab between us, it’d hurt you. Your job, your career. I couldn’t risk that.”
I blink, stunned.
All this time I’ve told myself it was me. That I misread, pushed too far, wanted too much.
But it was never that.
Of course I know the rules. The HR manuals, the clinic policies, the reminders about boundaries.
But I hadn’t let myself connect those dots when it came to him.
Not when we were laughing in my kitchen, not when he kissed me like I was the only thing that mattered, not when he woke up in my bed.
I’d been too wrapped up in the pull, too distracted by us to think about the consequences.
And now I understand the distance wasn’t rejection.
It was protection.
The words hang between us, heavy, raw. My throat tightens with relief.
For a long moment, neither of us moves. His gaze catches mine, steady and unguarded, and it feels like the ground shifts under my feet. My fingers twitch against the counter, almost reaching for him, but I stop myself.
His eyes flick down—to my mouth, my hands, back to my eyes—and my breath stutters. The air hums with tension, like if either of us leaned an inch closer, we’d fall the rest of the way.
I manage a shaky smile and step toward the door.
“I should get back,” I murmur.
“Charlie.”
I glance back.
His jaw works, words half-formed, then swallowed.
“See you tomorrow.”
He’s not pushing me away this time.
The thought alone makes me smile.