Chapter Twenty-Three
CHARLOTTE
Down here by the visitors’ tunnel, I plant myself at the treatment table and finish the post-game inventory sheet, pretending the knot in my stomach is from standing too long.
Not the end of the world. Still, it sits heavy in my chest.
Declan’s voice carries from the hall—low, steady, the kind he uses when he’s switching from disappointment to leadership. He’s talking Tyler through the bad bounce that cost them the third period, every word measured.
Professional. Composed. Completely unshaken.
And that’s exactly what gets me.
It’s the first game since the talk that started with “We can keep this private, right?” and ended with a kiss that still lives somewhere under my skin. Every time I see him now, my body remembers before my brain catches up.
He appears in my peripheral vision a moment later, still in his team jacket, sleeves pushed to his elbows, his limp controlled enough most people wouldn’t notice it.
Captain first, patient second.
“Everything okay in here?” he murmurs, and goosebumps spread down my arms before I can respond.
“Just ice and heartbreak,” I answer. The corner of his mouth twitches—barely—but I catch it.
He glances toward the tunnel, where players are filing out in clusters. “We’ll bounce back.”
“I know,” I answer softly. His eyes flick to mine for half a second, just long enough for my pulse to misbehave.
I clear my throat and nod toward the empty cart. “Take it easy on the flight home. Elevate if you can.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he says, mock-serious, and starts to turn away.
That should be the end of it.
But before he reaches the doors, he stops—then turns and walks back.
As he does, something flutters low in my stomach.
He studies me for a second, the corners of his mouth softening just enough to undo every bit of my composure.
Then, he murmurs quietly, “Dinner tomorrow?”
It takes a beat for the words to register, and my mouth curves before my brain catches up. “You sure you won’t cancel on me this time?”
He groans, tipping his head back. “Too soon.”
I grin. “Couldn’t resist.”
He shakes his head, finally looking a little less like the captain and a little more like the man who kissed me in the dark a few nights ago. “Come over. Easier that way. Sophie will be staying at Maya’s.”
My eyebrows lift. “You can cook?”
“Define cook.” His tone is bone-dry, and it makes me laugh out loud, the sound echoing off the tile.
“Guess I’ll find out,” I say.
He steps back toward the tunnel, that faint smile lingering.
“You will.”
When he’s gone, I let out a long, slow breath. The hum of the building fades around me, replaced by the quiet thud of my own heartbeat.
Great. Now I’m smiling after a loss. That’s going to look suspicious.
The next day comes fast. Travel, meetings, treatment notes—then suddenly it’s dusk again, and I’m standing on Declan Tremayne’s front porch with a bottle of wine and nerves pretending to be confidence.
The street’s quiet, that soft suburban hush that feels borrowed after a week of arena noise. Porch light on, curtains half-drawn.
I exhale and tell myself this isn’t a big deal. That it’s just dinner.
Yeah. With my brother’s best friend. My patient. The captain I’m definitely not supposed to be dating.
I shift the bottle from one hand to the other and press the doorbell before I can think better of it.
He opens the door before I can knock twice. Jeans, navy T-shirt, and that rough shadow of stubble that makes him look unfairly good. The smell of garlic and butter drifts out behind him.
“You cook and answer doors?” I tease. “You’re full of surprises.”
He gives that small, reluctant grin. “Don’t get ahead of yourself. It’s edible, barely.”
“Then I’m contributing dessert.” I hold up the bottle. “Liquid sugar.”
He lets me in with a low laugh. The house is warm, all dim lighting and quiet music—some acoustic playlist that helps take the edge off my nervousness. On the counter, a cutting board with sliced steak sits beside a bowl of mashed potatoes.
“Wow,” I say, setting my bag down. “Actual food groups.”
“Don’t start grading me,” he warns, grabbing plates from the cabinet.
“Too late,” I say, eyeing the spread. “Effort’s an A… and presentation’s annoyingly good. Who are you?”
He shakes his head, but there’s a spark in his eyes now, the one I only see when he’s letting the weight slip. We fall into an easy rhythm—eating, brushing hands, the kind of quiet that feels comfortable.
The conversation drifts—team travel, his rehab check-in for tomorrow, the series tied 1–1. He looks lighter here, shoulders not braced for anyone else’s expectations.
“This is nice,” I say.
He glances up. “Yeah. Feels…normal.”
I catch a small flicker of relief behind the word, as if normal isn’t something he gets often. I raise my glass, and he meets it halfway, the soft clink filling the quiet between us.
“To normal,” I say.
“To something good,” he says.
The warmth that’s been sitting in my chest since Seattle settles deeper. Being here with him isn’t new, but it feels steadier now, like we’ve finally caught our breath.
The plates have cooled, but neither of us moves to clear them. The house feels wrapped in that soft kind of silence that doesn’t ask to be filled—just shared.
Declan leans back in his chair, one arm resting along the table edge. “You know,” he says, voice low, “it’s strange watching them from the bench again.”
I tilt my head. “Yeah?”
He shrugs, rolling the glass between his palms. “Used to drive me insane. Now it just feels… like time passing until I’m ready. That’s progress, right?”
“Definitely,” I say softly. “The kind most people don’t manage under this kind of pressure.”
His mouth curves, not quite a smile. “You sound like a therapist.”
I grin. “Occupational hazard.”
He huffs out a quiet laugh, and for a moment the space between us feels weightless—like we’re suspended in this small, stolen slice of calm.
Sophie’s rehearsal calendar is held up by magnets, crooked on the fridge door. The days are marked in bright purple for rehearsals, gold for playoff games, a few empty squares waiting. The sight makes something gentle pull in my chest.
“She’s excited about her musical,” I say.
His gaze flicks over his shoulder and softens. “Yeah. She’s been humming that song for weeks. Probably sick of hearing me tap along on the counter.”
I laugh. “I doubt she’s sick of that.”
He meets my eyes again, and this time there’s no wall at all.
“You make things feel… lighter,” he says finally, almost like he didn’t mean to let it out loud.
The words land somewhere behind my ribs, steady and certain. “You do too,” I answer, quieter than I mean to.
He looks at me for a long beat before leaning forward, fingers brushing a stray strand of hair behind my ear. The touch is unhurried, the kind of careful that says he’s still learning this—us—and doesn’t want to rush what’s already right here.
“Dinner turned out okay, then?” he murmurs.
“Better than okay,” I say, the smile tugging before I can stop it. “I’d call it a win.”
He chuckles, low and easy. “I’ll take the assist.”
I shake my head, but the warmth doesn’t fade. If anything, it spreads—quiet, sure, the kind that doesn’t need grand declarations to feel real.
His words are still hanging in the air when a car pulls up outside. Headlights sweep briefly across the kitchen wall, then fade.
Declan frowns, half rising from his chair. “Sophie’s not supposed to be back until tomorrow.”
My stomach drops, heat crawling up the back of my neck.
Before I can think, the doorbell rings.
He’s already moving. I stay where I am, heart suddenly alert, half a glass of wine still in my hand—caught between fight and freeze.
From here I can see the reflection of the foyer light on the floor, the long shadow of him opening the door.
“Maya started feeling sick after dinner,” Erin’s saying, her tone apologetic but brisk. “Thought I’d drop Sophie here on my way to the pharmacy.”
“Oh,” Declan answers, steady but caught off guard. “Yeah—of course.”
Then, a pause—Erin’s voice sharpening a notch. “Is that Charlotte’s car in the driveway?”
I flinch before I can stop it. The sound of my name lands like a slap of cold air.
The door swings wider, and Sophie steps inside.
“Maya said she was—” She stops mid-sentence.
Her eyes land on me at the table. Two plates. Two glasses.
And just like that, the world tilts.