Chapter 25
Chapter Twenty-Five
CHARLOTTE
The energy in the arena hums like static before a storm.
I hover near the tunnel entrance, ready for whoever limps off first. Between shifts, I help the athletic trainers swap out tape and check minor injuries before they send the players back out.
The air smells like sweat, rubber, and that sharp chill that clings to fresh ice—the familiar chaos that usually grounds me.
But tonight, everything’s just a little off-kilter.
Declan told me what happened with my brother yesterday. David’s concerned, and I understand why. I haven’t talked to him yet. I’m giving him space to cool off before we talk, but the air between us feels different now, more cautious than it used to be.
During the first intermission, David passes me in the hall outside the locker room. Usually he cracks a joke or asks how rehab’s going. Tonight, just a polite nod and a quick “Hey.”
It’s not anger. It’s distance.
And I get it. I’d probably be the same way in his position, trying to balance loyalty, family, and rules.
By the third period, the Foxes are up 2–1. Declan’s behind the bench again, crutch under his arm, voice low as he calls out shifts. Even on the sidelines, he commands the ice. Calm. Controlled. Focused.
He catches my eye once between whistles. It’s just a flicker, but it steadies something inside me.
Minutes later, we close it out with a win: 3–1.
The crowd explodes. Helmets crash together, gloves tap shoulders, the anthem remix blares through the speakers.
And for a few minutes, it’s easy to forget everything else.
Post-game chaos fills the hallway: sticks clattering, trainers hauling carts, David debriefing with coaches. I wait until it thins out before heading toward the treatment room. Declan’s already there, leaning against the table, brace strapped over his joggers.
He must’ve come straight here from the bench—still in his team gear, the captain even when he’s not skating.
He looks tired, but lighter.
“You okay?” I ask quietly.
He nods, glancing up. “Yeah. Good win. We needed that.”
I fold my arms, leaning against the doorframe. “How’s Sophie?”
He sighs slowly. “Quiet. Every time I try to talk to her, she shuts down. Said she didn’t sleep great.”
I frown. “That’s understandable. It’s a lot to process.”
“Yeah.” He rubs the back of his neck, eyes distant. “She likes you, Charlie. I think that may be what’s messing with her. She’s trying to fit what she saw with what she already feels. Plus, I haven’t dated anyone seriously since her mom and I divorced.”
The honesty in his voice softens the tightness in my chest.
“Do you want me to talk to her?” I ask quietly. “Just to check in? I don’t want her thinking I’d ever try to replace anyone.”
He shakes his head. “Give her a little time. She’s figuring it out.”
“Still,” I say softly, “I don’t want her to feel blindsided. Or like she can’t talk to me.”
His eyes lift, tired but full of something that looks a lot like gratitude.
“Thank you,” he says after a beat, quiet but certain. “For caring about her.”
For a second, it feels like we’re just… us again. No rules, no noise, no eyes on us. Just two people trying to figure it out.
I glance at the clock, breaking the moment. “You should head home. Rest that leg.”
“You heading out too?”
“Yeah. Long day.”
I grab my bag, then hesitate. “Text me tomorrow, okay? If she wants to talk, or if you do.”
He nods once. “I will.”
Out in the parking lot, the night air hits cool and clean. My phone buzzes with a text from Kristy:
You free tomorrow night? I have wine.
I exhale, smiling faintly.
Perfect. I’ll bring snacks.
The next day moves quickly, and I’m grateful for the distraction.
During our morning PT session, I ask Declan again how Sophie’s doing.
He says it’s the same—she’s quiet, withdrawn, barely talking at breakfast.
He’s giving her space, hoping she’ll come to him when she’s ready.
I nod, pretending that eases me, but it doesn’t.
Because I care about her. And knowing she’s confused and hurting?
That’s the kind of ache I don’t know what to do with.
Now it’s early afternoon. The clinic’s calmer than usual, sunlight slanting through the frosted windows and catching on the stainless counters. The rest of the medical team’s filtering back from lunch, and the hum of printers and low conversation fills the space.
I’m halfway through updating post-game notes when my phone buzzes.
My pulse stutters when I see that it’s Erin. I swipe to answer.
“Hey, Erin.”
“Hey, Charlotte.” Her voice is warm, if a little rushed. “I just wanted to say—I didn’t tell David anything about… you and Declan.”
I blink. “You didn’t?”
“No. He heard it from the girls. Sophie told Maya you were over for dinner. Maya told us at breakfast, and… well, you know how fast that chain goes.”
A soft laugh slips out—more relief than amusement. “Right. Kids.”
“Yeah. I figured you’d want to know,” she says. “David’s processing, but he’s fine. He said he talked to Declan the other day, and I could tell it went okay. So… don’t stress too much, okay?”
I close my eyes, leaning back in the chair. “Thanks, Erin. Really. For not—”
“Telling anyone? Please. I have enough gossip flying around my house without adding an NHL scandal to it.”
That earns a small smile. “I owe you one.”
“Just make sure you two know what you’re doing,” she says, gentler now. “I think you’re good for him. And for what it’s worth, David’s not mad, just surprised. He’ll come around. Just… be careful, okay? For both your sakes.”
“I will,” I whisper.
When the call ends, I stare at the screen a moment longer before setting the phone down. The quiet rushes back in, heavy and full of what-ifs.
I exhale slowly, a tangle of emotions settling in: relief that David isn’t furious, ache for what Sophie must be feeling.
By the time I pull into Kristy’s driveway the next night, the sky’s gone soft and lavender, the kind of spring dusk that hums with quiet relief. Her porch light glows warm, and when I knock, she yells, “It’s open!”
Warm light spills over the living room, all mismatched throw blankets and candle wax that smells like citrus and cedar. It feels good just stepping inside—like exhaling for the first time all week.
Kristy’s barefoot, hair in a messy knot, pouring wine with the focus of someone solving the world’s problems one generous pour at a time. She glances up when she hears me.
Kristy takes one look at me and groans. “You look like someone who’s been through emotional overtime.”
“Something like that,” I say, dropping onto her couch. “Please tell me you opened the wine.”
She waves the bottle like a trophy. “I was born ready.”
She studies me over the rim of her glass, eyes narrowing.
“So… what’s his name?”
I hesitate, staring at the swirl of wine before I say it. “It’s Declan.”
Her brows shoot up. “Captain Tremayne? That Declan?”
“The one and only.”
“Oh, sweet mercy.” She leans back, one hand to her chest in mock shock. “When you said you had dinner plans a few weeks ago and then he backed out, that was him?”
A laugh slips out despite myself. “I didn’t plan on it. But once we started spending time together, it just… happened.”
“Okay,” she says softly, nodding her head and leaning in closer. “Tell me everything.”
And I do. I tell her we’re keeping it quiet for now and about how we’ll disclose it once he’s cleared. About Erin and Sophie walking in during dinner. About David finding out.
Every word feels equal parts confession and release.
Kristy listens without interrupting, eyes steady and kind. When I finish, she exhales low. “Okay. That’s a lot.”
“Yeah.” I take another sip, the burn grounding me. “I know it’s complicated. I know the rules. But it doesn’t feel wrong.”
“It’s not wrong,” she says. “It’s messy. There’s a difference.”
That makes me laugh—a small, tired sound. “Messy I can handle. But hurting Sophie? Or risking my job? That part scares me.”
Her expression softens. “Then stick to your plan. Be careful until he’s recovered. You’re doing the right thing, Charlotte. It sounds like Sophie just needs time, and she will come around.”
The words land exactly where I didn’t know I needed them.
I set my glass down, fingers tracing the condensation ring it leaves behind. “I’m more worried about Sophie than anyone. She’s confused, and I hate that I’m part of that.”
Kristy nods slowly. “Of course she’s confused. Her world’s shifting, but you can love her through that. She’ll feel it.”
For a moment, the air settles between us—soft, honest, full of the kind of friendship that doesn’t require fixing anything.
Then Kristy grins, breaking the tension. “Also, can we take a second to acknowledge that you are dating the grumpiest, hottest man in professional hockey? I mean, if you’re going to cause mild chaos, at least it’s premium chaos.”
I laugh for real this time, the sound loosening something that’s been tight for days. “You’re terrible.”
“Maybe. But I’m right.” She raises her glass. “To complicated, infuriatingly hot men, and the women brave enough to deal with them.”
I clink mine against hers. “To bad ideas that feel right anyway.”
We drink, the laughter fading into easy silence. Outside, the night deepens, and for the first time all week, the ache in my chest doesn’t feel quite so heavy.