Chapter Twenty-One
CHARLOTTE
The first thing I notice when I wake is the smile I can’t seem to shake.
Morning light slips across the hotel sheets, and for a second I just lie there, replaying pieces of last night—the quiet, the way his hand lingered at my waist, the look in his eyes when we finally stopped pretending.
It still feels impossible. And perfect.
Then the world catches up.
Game day. Travel roster. My badge on the nightstand beside my phone.
And the reality that what happened between us now lives in a fragile, private bubble.
I’m not reckless enough to think it’s simple. I know the policy. I know the consequences. But after weeks of confusion and restraint, I finally feel sure of something: us.
We’re careful. We’re waiting. We’re choosing this, together.
By the time I’m in the shower, steam fogging the mirror, I catch myself humming without meaning to.
When I clip my badge onto my polo and tie my hair back, my reflection looks the same—but there’s a warmth in my chest that wasn’t there before.
I can live with the secret.
At least for now.
The visiting medical suite smells like tape and coffee—half the travel kit unpacked across the counter, elastic bands coiled beside the training table. I adjust the bike seat for Declan’s height, making sure it will clear his brace.
Declan steps in, hoodie unzipped over his workout tee, dark hair still damp from a shower. The faint scruff along his jaw catches the light, and when his blue eyes meet mine, my pulse stumbles.
“Hey,” he says quietly.
“Hey,” I echo, trying not to smile, and fail.
We fall into rhythm: five minutes of easy pedaling, no resistance. Then quad sets, banded knee extensions, balance work on the pad. I keep my tone even, my hands steady, every movement precise.
“You’re relying on the brace less,” I note.
“Feels stronger,” he says, breath even.
When I have him stretch, he holds my gaze a second too long. I glance toward the closed door. No one yet. My hand brushes his knee as I smooth the brace strap, and his fingers find mine—quick, instinctive.
The touch sends a shimmer of heat up my arm, goosebumps rising in its wake.
“Charlie,” he murmurs.
It’s reckless, but I let him lift my face up to his. His mouth is warm, steady, tasting faintly of mint and something darker. The kiss is soft but hits like a jolt.
I can’t stop the small, breathless smile that follows. My heart’s pounding, and I whisper, “I didn’t see that listed as part of protocol.”
He almost smiles. “Maybe it should be.”
“Meetings, weights, media. The usual circus,” he says, but there’s a spark behind his eyes now, a quiet pulse of energy that wasn’t there before.
“You’ve missed it,” I say.
“Yeah,” he admits softly. “Missed the noise. The routine. The guys. Feels good to be back in it.”
I nod, warmth spreading through my chest. For all his gruff edges, there’s pride in his voice, and something softer too.
Before I can stop myself, I glance at the closed door, then rise onto my toes and kiss him—quick, sure, tasting like trouble and relief in the same breath.
His breath catches, just barely, and that almost-smile of his returns, the one that feels like it’s just for me.
A half hour later, after Declan heads out to meetings and I’m back restocking bands, I hear a familiar sound behind me.
“Hey, superstar.”
I turn to see David leaning against the doorframe, headset around his neck, a half-empty coffee in hand.
“You’ve been hard to track down,” he says. “Dan said you’ve been everywhere today.”
I shrug. “Vic’s on skate duty, Dan’s handling pre-game checks, and someone has to keep Torres from wrapping his wrist like a mummy.”
David huffs a laugh. “Poor kid’s superstition is off the charts. Half the team’s been copying him.”
“Tell them to stop before I run out of tape.”
He grins. “I’ll add it to the agenda.”
I roll my eyes, but grin. “How’s Erin and Maya?”
“They’re good. Maya’s still talking about that duet with Sophie. Erin says you’re the favorite aunt again.”
“I’ll take my victories where I can,” I say, but my chest warms anyway.
He nods toward my tablet. “How’s the workload?”
“Busy. Controlled chaos. Just how I like it.”
He smirks faintly. “And Declan? How’s that going?”
For a second I’m sure David can see straight through me.
But then I answer, keeping my expression easy.
“Good. He’s doing the work, even if he pretends not to like it.”
David huffs a quiet laugh. “Sounds about right.” He pauses. “He trusts you more than he lets on, you know.”
That one lands deeper than it should, so I just nod, keeping my tone light. “Then we’re making progress.”
He tilts his head, studying me. “You look good. Settled. I’m proud of you, Char.”
The words hit soft, unexpected. “Thanks,” I say quietly.
He chuckles. “I know Dad is too. He called after we clinched a spot in Round 2 back in Denver—was so pumped he could barely sit still. Said he’s still taking credit for your work ethic.”
“Oh, he does,” I say, grinning. “He’ll probably claim he taught Declan how to captain, too.”
“He’s not entirely wrong.”
David’s smile flickers, softens. “Yeah. Mom would’ve been so proud too.”
The air stills for a second—quiet, but warm.
He clears his throat and nods. “Alright. I’ve got meetings. You good here?”
“Always.”
“Of course you are,” he says, chuckling as he heads down the hall.
When he’s gone, I exhale, easing the tension in my shoulders.
Stick to the plan. Be normal. Be careful.
By the time afternoon hits, the arena hums with that low, electric tension that comes before a playoff game.
Dalton winces through the massage gun on his shoulder, asking if I’m trying to kill him. Reed groans through mobility drills, claiming he’s falling apart at thirty. Torres insists I use the same roll of tape from the last win, saying it’s bad luck to switch now.
I move through the motions on autopilot—wrap, stretch, check range—hoping no one notices I’m smiling more than usual.
By the time the team hits the ice for warmups, the arena’s alive. Lights sweeping across the boards, fans pounding the glass, music thudding low through the concrete. The visiting bench buzzes with a focused kind of energy, sharp but steady.
I stand near the tunnel with Vic and Dan, the familiar mix of tape, sweat, and adrenaline in the air. My job is simple: stay ready. Anything from a skate lace to a muscle cramp can become an emergency in seconds.
Declan’s already on the bench in his warmup jacket, crutch propped beside him. He leans toward Reed, says something low that makes the younger captain nod, focused. The sight lifts my heart — him back in his natural place, commanding without trying, calm in the chaos.
McCarthy claps his shoulder as the players file past, and for a second, Declan’s grin flashes—quick, genuine. The kind I rarely see, and it sends warmth curling through me.
I jot quick notes on the lineup board and move through the pre-game routine: tightening wrist tape, checking tape jobs, or tossing over a spare towel. The music’s pounding now, the kind of bass that vibrates through your shoes. The puck drops in fifteen.
Declan catches my eye from the bench. It’s subtle, just a small nod, like a silent we’re good. I nod back, heart thudding harder than it should.
When the game starts, I fall into the rhythm I know best. Adrenaline hums through the bench: line changes, stick taps, coaches barking quick calls. I keep my focus on movement — track skates, posture, anything off.
The Ice Foxes come out sharp. Reed scores first. It’s a clean rebound he buries from the crease, and the bench erupts.
Declan’s voice cuts through the noise, steady and low.
“Good shift. Keep it going.”
He’s not skating, but he’s leading every inch of it.
By the second period, it’s tied 2–2. I hand out water, ice a wrist, replace a snapped lace between shifts. Every second’s a blur. Then, with three minutes left, Dalton snags a loose puck and fires, bar down.
The bench explodes. Helmets slam together, sticks rattle against the boards, the roar swallowing everything. I catch Declan’s grin—wide, unguarded—and it hits me how much he’s been waiting for this.
When the final buzzer sounds, the Ice Foxes win 3–2.
The team piles out to swarm the goalie, gloves raised, energy spilling across the ice. I stand back, chest full, smiling before I realize it.
Declan stays at the bench, letting them have the moment, eyes scanning the chaos with that quiet captain calm.
When he looks my way, the grin’s still there, softer now, private.
I should look away before someone notices, but I don’t. Not yet.
For one heartbeat in the noise, it’s just us.
His gaze holds mine, and it feels like a promise we’re not allowed to say out loud.