Chapter Twenty-Two
DECLAN
The first thing I feel when I wake is the echo of last night’s win. The crowd, the bench, the glass shaking after Dalton’s goal.
I can still feel it buzzing under my skin.
Fast. Confident. Hungry.
I couldn’t be prouder. Or more restless.
I scroll through the flood of group texts: clips, chirps, inside jokes. Torres sent a picture of the lucky tape roll like it’s a trophy. Reed captioned it “Foxes hunt early.” Even Coach dropped a rare thumbs-up emoji.
Then I see Sophie’s text pop up.
Dad! I saw you on TV! You looked serious but happy :)
I smile before I can stop myself.
She’s right, though. I was both.
Proud as hell watching the team come together, but restless too. Sitting there in a warmup jacket while they fought for every puck? It’s not how I’m wired. I’m built for being out there, not observing from the sidelines.
The hotel gym smells like sweat, rubber mats, and fresh coffee drifting in from the lobby. A couple of guys are already on the bikes, joking through recovery rides. The playoff energy’s still buzzing, even in the quiet.
I claim a corner mat and start the morning circuit Charlotte laid out: controlled movements, stability drills, low resistance band work. My knee feels solid. Stiff, but strong.
“Morning, Captain.”
Her voice carries softly over the hum of treadmills. She’s got her kit bag slung over one shoulder, hair tied up, sleeves pushed to her elbows. Professional. Calm. Like those kisses yesterday never happened.
“Hey,” I say, keeping my tone even.
She sets down her gear and moves through the warmup beside me. No hesitation. Just work. It shouldn’t surprise me how steady she is, but it does.
“You still doing your banded extensions?” she asks, adjusting the band around my ankle.
“Every night.”
“Good. That’s why the swelling’s down. You’re moving cleaner.”
Her voice is light, measured. It’s the same tone she uses with any other player, but the air between us feels anything but routine. Every time her hand steadies my brace or brushes my knee, something in me sharpens.
When we finish, she marks a note on her tablet. “Looks good. Keep the load low today. Tomorrow we’ll recheck your gait.”
I nod. “Thanks. For keeping me on track.”
She glances up, warmth flickering there. “It’s literally my job.”
“Yeah,” I say quietly. “And you’re damn good at it.”
For a second, something unspoken lingers between us.
Then she clears her throat and moves on to Torres, already calling out some chirpy reminder about tape limits, like the moment never happened.
And maybe that’s what gets me—the way she can make it look normal, even when it isn’t.
The meeting room smells like burnt coffee and dry-erase markers, the unofficial scent of playoff strategy.
Half the lights are dimmed, a frame from last night’s first-period shift glowing on the screen, the puck midair. Reed’s line is pressing high, just like we planned.
Coach McCarthy stands at the front with the clicker, pointing out transitions, spacing, small things only players notice. I sit off to the side with the staff—notebook open, pen in hand—trying not to fidget like a benched rookie.
Reed looks sharp in the clips. He’s seeing the ice well, talking through sequences like he’s been wearing the C his whole life. The kid’s confident. Calm. Good at it.
And that’s the problem.
I’m proud of him—I am—but every time he speaks up, something tightens in my chest.
It’s not jealousy, exactly. It’s more like muscle memory: the instinct to lead, to speak, to be out there. I keep my mouth shut and let him handle it, because that’s what he needs. That’s what the team needs.
McCarthy glances over. “Tremayne, anything to add?”
I clear my throat, flipping a page in my notebook. “When they’re chasing, they forecheck like hell. Stay connected through the neutral—no risky pinches. If they’re pressing again tomorrow, go short up the middle and live to fight the next shift. No hero stretch plays.”
Coach nods once. “Exactly. That’s what I want them seeing. Reed, make sure the guys have that in mind at morning skate.”
“Got it,” Reed says immediately, eyes flicking toward me with a nod.
McCarthy moves on to the next clip.
As I jot a few notes, I feel the faint buzz of my phone in my pocket. I look to see a rehab reminder for this afternoon.
By the time the lights come up, half the room’s already filing out. The energy’s good—focused, hopeful. We won Game 1, and everyone can feel the shift.
David catches up to me in the hallway, headset around his neck. “You good, man?”
“Yeah,” I say, even though I’m not sure what that means anymore.
He gives me a look, the kind that used to call me out on my crap when we were younger.
“You don’t have to pretend you’re fine. I know it’s not easy watching from the side.”
I shrug. “I’ve been worse.”
He smirks. “That’s your bar for comfort now? I’ve been worse?”
“Pretty much.”
He chuckles, then lowers his voice. “Charlotte says you’re ahead of schedule.”
That gets my attention. “She tell you that?”
“Dan did,” he corrects, but the grin’s still there. “Guess you’ve got a good PT.”
I roll my eyes, trying not to show too much. “She’s thorough.”
“She’s relentless,” he says with a short laugh. “Always has been. Good thing you’re used to stubborn people.”
“Yeah,” I mutter, because if he knew just how much I liked it, he’d lose his mind.
David nods, casual. “Keep doing what you’re doing. The guys listen when you talk. Don’t underestimate how much that still matters.”
But as I watch him walk away toward the locker room, I can’t help the thought that sneaks in anyway.
It matters.
Just not the same way being on the ice does.
By the time I make it back to the training suite, my chest tightens because I know she’s right up ahead.
Charlotte’s already there, kneeling beside the table, organizing her kit. Everything about her is efficient: the way she rolls the bandage, the way she lines up her tools, even the calm set of her shoulders.
“Ready?” she asks, without looking up.
“Always,” I say.
She glances over, one brow lifting like she doesn’t quite believe me. Then she gestures for me to sit. “We’ll start with mobility, then balance. You’ve been favoring your right side again.”
I sit on the edge of the table, brace half undone. “Caught that, huh?”
“I catch everything,” she says lightly, adjusting the resistance band on my ankle. “Occupational hazard.”
The corner of my mouth lifts before I can stop it. “Sounds exhausting.”
Her eyes flick up, amused. “Good thing I like my job.”
The session moves slow, deliberate. Half squats, controlled step-ups, light resistance on the balance board. The room’s quiet except for the low hum of the AC and her occasional cue:
“Engage your core.”
“Hold that.”
“Good.”
She steps closer to tighten the straps, her fingers steady on my leg.
“Still comfortable?” she asks.
I nod, though comfort isn’t what I’d call it. My pulse’s been uneven since she walked in.
She straightens and taps a note on her tablet. “You’ll be cleared for light stickhandling soon,” she says quietly. “You’re ahead of schedule.”
“Because of you.”
That makes her pause, pen hovering midair. She looks up, eyes soft but unreadable.
“Because of the work you’re putting in,” she corrects.
“Still takes both.”
Something flickers in her expression before she clears her throat and turns back to her notes.
“Don’t push too hard tonight. The travel can spike swelling.”
I almost smile. “You ever turn it off?”
“No,” she says, a trace of humor in her voice. “You’d fall apart if I did.”
“Probably.”
The silence that follows isn’t awkward. It’s full, heavy with everything we’re not saying.
She starts to pack up, wiping down the table, logging data on her tablet. I should get up, move, do something, but I can’t make myself leave yet.
“Charlotte,” I say, before I can stop it.
She looks over, waiting.
“Thanks,” I murmur. “For being here. For making this… not miserable.”
“High praise.” She says it like a joke, but her eyes soften. “I’ll take it.”
She reaches for her tablet, back in work mode, like she didn’t just smile at me like that.
By the time I’m back in my room, the sun’s sliding down behind the buildings.
Seattle looks softer at night, mist curling through the streetlights, the slick streets reflecting the blur of headlights and neon.
A bunch of the guys are out grabbing dinner. They asked if I wanted in, but I told them I’d catch them tomorrow. Truth is, I needed a slower night: ice, compression, quiet.
My brace is propped on the chair beside the bed, ice pack melting through a towel on my knee.
The game film runs muted on the TV, showing highlights I’ve already seen twice. The win feels good, but the kind that doesn’t last long. In the playoffs, it never does.
My phone buzzes beside me. A message from Sophie. It’s a picture of her and Maya holding up their musical costumes, both of them grinning.
We practiced again today. You’re totally gonna cry when we sing.
I huff out a small laugh. That kid. She knows I don’t cry.
Another text lights the screen.
Ice for fifteen, light stretch before bed. See you in the morning.
Charlotte. No emojis. No fluff. Just her, the only person who can make those words sound like something more.
What I want to say isn’t professional at all.
I want to tell her she’s the best part of my day. That I can still taste her on my lips. That every time I see her name on my screen, the noise in my head quiets down.
Instead, I type back:
Done. Thanks, Charlie.
My thumb hovers over her name longer than it should before I set the phone down.
The room’s quiet except for the low hum of the heater and the dull ache behind my kneecap. It’s better than it was. Everything is.
Still, I can’t shake the pull in my chest. The one that has nothing to do with hockey.
I turn off the light and stretch my leg out carefully, watching the city’s reflection in the window.
Tomorrow’s Game 2.
And another morning that starts with her.