Chapter Twenty
DECLAN
The engines hum steady as we level off, the cabin lights dimmed to a low glow.
David catches my eye across the aisle, gives me a quick nod. “Good to have you back.”
“About damn time,” I mutter, though I can’t stop the faint pull at my mouth.
A few of the guys throw the usual chirps. Dalton grins, taps the back of his seat. “Look who decided to rejoin civilization.”
“You bring the lucky brace with you?” Torres calls from up front.
I shake my head. “Someone’s gotta keep you idiots in line.”
They laugh, and for the first time in weeks, it feels like breathing again.
Coach McCarthy glances back at the noise and shakes his head with a faint grin. “Try not to break anything before we land.”
“No promises,” I call back, earning another round of laughter.
The familiar rhythm of a road trip hits different this time. I’m not lacing up, but I’m here—on the plane, on the bench, in it again. It’s not the same as playing, but I’ll take what I can get.
Behind me, the medical crew is settled in a few rows back. Vic’s asleep already, mouth half open behind his ball cap. Dan’s flipping through papers. Charlie’s across the aisle, earbuds in, one hand around a travel mug.
Her blonde hair’s loose today, not tied back like usual. She’s scrolling through her tablet, a faint smile on her lips. Even from here, there’s something about her that softens the edges of everything.
We haven’t talked since yesterday, but I can feel her anyway. At least she knows why I pulled back. The truth is out there. It doesn’t change the distance, but it explains it.
The energy between us crackles like static—too much said, too much held back. It’s charged, raw, waiting—like one look could burn through every reason we shouldn’t.
I gaze out the window. Outside, the peaks of the Rockies fade beneath a thin layer of cloud. Seattle’s a couple hours away. Round 2 starts tomorrow.
Reed’s been steady—loud when the bench needs it, quick with a joke when the room gets too tight. He’s good for the guys. Exactly the kind of voice I want when I’m stuck on the sidelines.
Doesn’t mean it’s easy to watch. Pride’s there, sure, but so is that twist in my chest every time I see him filling the space that used to be mine. I tell myself it’s temporary, that I’ll be back soon. Still, it sits wrong.
The rest of the flight drifts by in low chatter, muffled laughter, and the glow of phones.
When we land, the cold Seattle air hits sharp, clean—a mix of rain and jet fuel. The guys stretch and chirp on the tarmac before filing toward the bus.
“You limping or milking it?” Dalton mutters as I step down.
“Keep talking,” I say, “and I’ll make you do wall sits for warmup tomorrow.”
He laughs, clapping my shoulder before heading up the steps.
Inside, the bus hums with playoff energy: playlists blaring, Torres trying to convince half the team to switch to his weird pre-game smoothie routine. I sit near the front beside David. He glances at my brace, then at me.
“Feels right having you back,” he says quietly.
I nod. “Feels good to be back.”
The hotel lobby smells like coffee and carpet cleaner. It’s barely six. We check in, dump our bags, and head straight to dinner. It’s loud and easy, the kind of chaos I’ve missed. Not the same as lacing up, but close enough for now.
“You ready for the first game of Round 2 tomorrow, Torres?” Dalton calls down the table.
Torres grins. “Born ready, old man.”
“Cocky little shit,” Dalton mutters.
The guys laugh, and I shake my head. “Keep chirping, kid. Just don’t trip over it.”
Laughter rolls down the table again — easy, alive.
Across the room, Charlie’s head tips back as she laughs at something Vic says, her hand brushing a strand of hair off her cheek. My chest tightens like I took a hit I didn’t brace for.
As the plates clear and the conversation splinters, the table hums with that familiar pre-series buzz — half superstition, half nerves. I lean back, knee aching just enough to remind me I’m still not where I want to be.
David elbows me lightly. “How does it feel to be back on the road?”
“Feels good,” I say, and mean it. “We need this one, and I’m glad I’m here for it.”
When the guys peel off toward the elevators, a few linger to grab waters or razz the rookies. I make my way to the back, slow but steady, exchanging nods and quick jokes on the way.
Charlie’s talking with Dan near the exit. I catch her eye for half a second — long enough to feel it — before she looks away.
I think about walking over, about saying goodnight, but my knee twinges and my nerve falters. Instead, I head for the elevator.
In my room, the quiet hits hard. I ice my knee, flip through game notes, tell myself I’m just doing my captain’s prep.
Then my phone buzzes on the nightstand.
When I see it’s Charlie, the last thing on my mind is the game tomorrow.
Hey—just realized I still have your compression sleeve. Want me to bring it to you?
My thumb hovers over the keyboard.
I text her back:
No need. I’ll grab it. What room?
The typing bubble appears. Disappears. Appears again.
Her reply comes a second later:
721
I stare at her text for longer than I should.
I know I could wait until morning.
I just don’t want to.
The truth is, I’ve been waiting for her to give me a reason.
I grab my keycard and crutch, take the elevator up to her floor. My knee aches by the time I reach her door, but that’s not what’s making my pulse climb.
I knock once.
She’s in a team quarter-zip, tablet on the desk behind her. The room’s quiet, lights low.
“I figured I’d save you the trouble,” I say, leaning on my crutch.
A small smile tugs at her mouth. “You really didn’t have to come all the way up here.”
“Didn’t want you getting written up for hoarding equipment.”
That earns the smallest laugh.
She hesitates. “I looked up the HR policy,” she says quietly. “It’s against the rules while you’re still my patient. They’d call it a conflict.”
She exhales, voice low but steady. “Once you’re medically cleared, you're discharged out of my care and back under Dr. Patel’s oversight. After that, I’m still the team PT, but technically you’re not my patient anymore. That’s the line HR cares about.”
As I listen, it’s not the policy swirling in my head.
It’s one single thought.
She still wants this.
“So,” I say carefully, “once I’m medically cleared…”
“Then it’s different,” she finishes. “We can disclose it, be upfront about it. But until then, we can’t let anyone know. And if you ever need PT again after that—long-term stuff—it can’t be me. It’d have to be someone else. Probably Dan or Dr. Patel.”
Hope edges in. Small, dangerous, impossible to ignore.
I exhale, holding back a smile. “So, we get off on a technicality.”
She laughs. “Guess so. Good thing I’m fluent in fine print.”
I meet her eyes. “Okay. We wait. We keep it quiet, for now.”
The words hang between us, steady but soft. The air feels different—lighter somehow, but heavier too.
The kind of feeling that settles low in your chest when you know what you want and finally stop pretending otherwise.
For a long moment, neither of us moves. The hum of the hotel vent fills the silence, and all I can think about is how close she is. The faint scent of her shampoo. The way her hand brushes the side of her thigh when she exhales.
“Okay,” I say again, quieter this time. “We wait.”
She nods once. “We keep it quiet. No risks. Not until you’re cleared.”
“Agreed,” I say. “We do it right.”
The words settle between us—steady, decided.
Then I step closer anyway, slow and careful, like I’m giving her every chance to stop me.
“Tell me to leave,” I murmur. “Or tell me it’s okay.”
Her breath catches. Her eyes stay on mine—open, unguarded.
“It’s okay,” she whispers.
I hold her gaze for one last second, like I’m making sure she means it. She nods— certain.
That’s all it takes. The restraint I’ve been holding for weeks snaps tight and then gives way, quiet but undeniable.
I pull her closer. The crutch crashes to the floor, forgotten. My good leg takes the weight, and I press her against the wall, her body warm and solid against mine.
She gasps, but her hands slide up my chest, nails scraping through the fabric of my shirt, and I moan, low and needy.
Then my lips crash into hers and my hand slides down her back, moving her tighter.
I pull her shirt up and over her head, tossing it aside without a second thought. Her bra follows, and I pause, just for a moment, to take her in.
She’s beautiful. Her skin is pale and flushed, her breasts full and soft, her nipples already hard from the cool air, or maybe from the way I’m looking at her. I cup one in my hand, thumb brushing over the peak, and she arches into the touch, a soft moan escaping her lips.
“Declan,” she murmurs, hands tugging at my shirt. I pull it off, letting it drop to the floor, and her fingers roam over my chest, nails scraping skin.
I hitch her leg around my waist, and she wraps herself around me. I’m hard, achingly so, and she rocks against me. I moan, mouth moving to her neck.
I guide her back to the bed, careful of my knee, and she pulls me down with her. I kiss my way down her body, slow and deliberate, savoring every inch. Her breath hitches when my mouth closes over her breast, tongue swirling, teeth grazing.
I hook my fingers into the waistband of her leggings and pull them down, taking her underwear with them. The sight of her like this makes my cock throb. I moan as I press a kiss to the inside of her thigh.
Then my mouth is on her, tongue pressing, sucking, and she cries out, fingers tangling in my hair. Her thighs tremble around my head, her hips lifting, chasing my mouth. I grip her hips, holding her still as I work her, my tongue flicking over her clit before diving deeper with my tongue.
As I kiss my way back up her body, her hands are already reaching for my joggers, pulling them down, freeing my cock. Her fingers wrap around me, tight and sure, and I sigh, head falling back.
She guides me to her. I thrust into her in one smooth motion, filling her completely, and we both gasp at the sensation. She’s perfect, and I have to stop for a second just to feel her, to memorize her.
Then I move.
Slow at first, then faster, harder, our bodies slamming together and the bed creaking beneath us.
“Declan,” she breathes, hands gripping my shoulders. “I’m close.”
“Look at me,” I breathe, holding her steady.
Her back arches, a broken whisper of my name on her lips, and I lose the last of my control with her.
I collapse on top of her, careful of my weight, forehead pressing to hers. Our breaths mingle, slow and steady, and I smile, soft and real.
She smiles back, just as soft, and tangles her fingers with mine.
Afterward, the silence isn’t awkward. It’s the kind that hums. The kind that feels like an exhale after holding your breath too long.
She’s curled against me, her head on my shoulder, the glow of the bedside lamp throwing soft light across her face.
I trace a slow line down her back. “You okay?”
Her smile is tired, tender. “Yeah.”
We both know it’s temporary. Dangerous.
There’ll be rules again in the morning—boundaries, distance, the careful version of us.
But right now, it’s just us.
By the time I leave her room, it’s close to midnight.
I take the elevator down to my floor, thumb tapping against the crutch just to keep from thinking too much.
When the doors slide open, another elevator dings beside me.
David steps out, laptop bag over his shoulder, fatigue written all over him. Film review—that tracks.
His eyes flick from me to the elevator I just came out of and my chest tightens. For half a second, I freeze.
“Everything good?” he asks, voice casual but curious.
“Yeah.” I lift the small mesh bag in my hand, the compression sleeve folded inside. “Just grabbed something from medical.”
David squints, then nods, rubbing the back of his neck. “Get some rest, man. Big day tomorrow.”
“Yeah,” I say, forcing an easy tone.
He gives a tired nod and heads down the hall.
When I shut the door behind me, I finally exhale, my pulse still racing.
That was too damn close.