Chapter 27
Chapter Twenty-Seven
CHARLOTTE
The plane hums with low conversation, the rustle of gear bags, and the occasional laugh from the rows up front.
I’m a few seats behind the players with the rest of the medical staff.
Vic’s out cold against the window, mouth slightly open.
Dan’s scrolling through treatment logs beside me, muttering about hydration reports.
My phone buzzes. It’s Kristy.
How’s Mr. Broody-and-Beautiful? Still driving you clinically insane?
I bite back a smile, thumbs flying. Headed to Seattle. He’s behaving. For now.
Sure he is, she replies. Don’t forget you’re supposed to be icing knees, not melting them.
I shake my head, tucking my phone away like I’m hiding evidence.
From here, I can see the back of Declan’s head a few rows ahead—broad shoulders stretched against the seat, posture easy for the first time in days. He’s talking with Dalton, and something he says makes both of them laugh.
After the last week—the tension, the quiet, Sophie’s distance—seeing him relaxed again feels like sunlight after a stretch of gray.
I know he and Sophie talked yesterday morning.
Whatever he said must’ve helped, because he’s been lighter ever since.
Softer, in small ways most people wouldn’t even notice.
He glances over his shoulder once, a casual check down the aisle that barely lingers. Still, his eyes find mine for half a second, and something inside me steadies. He doesn’t wink, doesn’t smile outright, but the corner of his mouth lifts just enough for me to see it.
I look away before anyone else notices.
But for the rest of the flight, that tiny flicker stays with me—quiet proof that we’re okay.
By the time we land, Seattle’s skies are a sheet of gray. The bus ride to the hotel is short and quiet; everyone’s conserving energy, the kind of stillness that sits just before a storm. Team dinner, meetings, lights out by ten. Playoff routine down to muscle memory.
When my alarm goes off, the sky outside my window is heavy with rain.
Game day. Win tonight and we move on to the Conference Final.
I’m at the arena by eight, ahead of the rest of the crew. Morning skate isn’t until ten, but I like the quiet before everything wakes up—the low hum of the Zambonis, the sharp scent of fresh ice and disinfectant in the air.
Dan’s downstairs in the locker room double-checking ankle wraps and braces, and Vic’s already down by the bench, headset on, running comms and staging what he might need for skate. The rest of the staff won’t roll in for another half hour.
Which means, for once, this little corner of the world is mine.
I start laying out ice wraps, restocking tape bins, and pretending the flutter in my stomach is from caffeine and not the fact that Declan’s name keeps circling through my thoughts.
The door clicks behind me.
“Morning,” comes his voice—low, rough around the edges.
I glance over my shoulder. “You’re early.”
“So are you.” He steps inside, closing the door quietly behind him. “Didn’t want to fight for table time.”
“Pretty sure no one else is rushing in here this early,” I say, raising a brow.
“Exactly.” His smile is small, knowing. “Figured this is the safest room in the building.”
He’s in joggers and a team quarter-zip, his brace snug over the fabric. His hair’s still a little damp, the ends curling unevenly. Without thinking, I step closer and smooth it down with my fingertips.
He doesn’t move, just watches me, eyes dark and steady.
“Thanks,” he says quietly. “Didn’t want to look like a mess.”
“You never do.”
The space between us hums, then I clear my throat and step back.
“Sit,” I say, pointing to the table.
I grab the nearest roll of tape, mostly for cover. “Any pain?”
He shakes his head, eyes on me. “Just the usual.”
“Which is?”
After a beat, quiet but unflinching, he says, “Missing you.”
I laugh under my breath and roll my eyes.
“Pretty sure it’s chronic,” he continues.
“Mm-hm. I didn’t know there was a comedian under all that grumpiness.”
I check the brace anyway, running my fingers along the edge where it meets his skin. He shifts slightly under my touch, muscles tensing.
I lean in closer. “I like it.”
“Charlie,” he murmurs, voice lower now. “I locked the door.”
I should step back. We both know it. But the quiet between us feels different now—safe, intentional, earned.
I rest a hand on his knee, meaning to steady the brace, but he catches my wrist instead. His thumb brushes just once along my pulse, like he’s checking more than circulation.
“Charlie.” His voice is rough now, quieter. “Tell me to stop.”
I hold his gaze, heat pooling low in my belly.
“Don’t.”
Declan’s eyes darken as he leans closer. His scent, a mix of sweat, soap, and something uniquely him, wraps around me and pulls me in.
His thumb brushing the sensitive skin on my wrist. I feel the hard line of his thigh beneath my hand, warmth seeping through the fabric of his joggers.
His other hand slides up my arm, unhurried, like he’s memorizing every inch of me. My breath catches as his fingers skim the curve of my shoulder, then the side of my neck. I tilt my chin up, meeting his gaze, and his thumb grazes my jawline before he leans in.
His lips brush mine, and heat rolls through me so fast my breath stutters. It’s gentle, but it lights something wild and urgent in my chest. I feel the tension in his body, the flex of muscle under skin, the restraint he’s holding by his teeth.
My fingers dig into the edge of his knee brace as I press forward, closing the last inch between us.
His lips part, and I taste the salt of his skin, the faint bite of mint from his gum.
His hand slides down my back and pulls me tighter against him, and I feel the hard press of him against my hip.
My pulse kicks up. My body aches for more.
Declan breaks the kiss, eyes burning into mine as he pushes me back—gentle, but unarguable. His hands roam over me, slow and thorough, like he’s memorizing every curve, every dip and rise.
“Lie down,” he says. His voice is rough, but there’s a tenderness in it that makes my knees go weak.
I obey. My heart races as I lay back on the padded table, scooting to the edge. The cool vinyl under my back is a stark contrast to the heat of his stare, and I shiver when his eyes track down my body like a promise.
He steps closer, his brace a sharp reminder of what he’s still fighting through. But right now he doesn’t look vulnerable. He moves with a confidence that steals my breath—every step purposeful, every touch intentional.
My breath hitches when his fingers catch the bottom of my shirt. In one smooth motion, he peels it up and over my head, then his hands slide to the clasp at my back. A quick tug, a soft snap, and the bra is gone too—my skin suddenly bare to the cool air and his stare turns darker.
He leans in, his breath ghosting over my skin, and I arch slightly, my body instinctively seeking his touch.
His thumb grazes one nipple, circling it gently and sending a jolt of pleasure through me.
I gasp, my body tensing as he repeats the motion, teasing the other peak until it’s achingly hard.
His touch is slow, deliberate, as if he’s savoring every moment, every reaction.
“You’re so responsive,” he says, his voice a whisper, and my pulse jumps. I moan softly, my body arching into his touch, my breath coming in short, shallow gasps.
He smiles, a rare, devastating curve of his lips, and my heart skips a beat.
He leans down, his lips brushing against my nipple, a soft, feather-light touch that makes me shiver. He kisses it, his tongue flicking out, and I moan, my hands gripping the table padding beneath me.
His mouth is warm, his tongue skilled, and I melt into the table, my body surrendering to his touch.
He switches to the other nipple, his lips and tongue working in tandem, sending jolts of pleasure through me.
My breath comes in short, sharp gasps, my body lifting toward him, my back pressing into the table.
He hooks his fingers into the waistband of my leggings and eases them down, slow. His eyes never leave mine. My panties follow, and I’m exposed, flushed under his gaze.
“Fuck, Charlie,” he growls, voice thick with need. “You’re so beautiful.”
The words hit like a shiver down my spine. I arch slightly, thighs parting in a silent invitation. I feel powerless under him in the best way.
Declan’s hands are everywhere—gentle, demanding, reverent. I cry out as he lowers between my thighs, one hand bracing my leg as he leans in. His tongue traces from my thigh to the center of me, slow and deliberate, and I gasp—sharp, helpless.
My hands tangle in his hair as he sucks on my clit like he has all the time in the world. “Declan,” I moan, hips lifting toward him. “Please.”
He chuckles, dark and low, and the vibration sends sparks straight through me. “Not yet,” he murmurs, and then his mouth closes over me—hot, relentless. His tongue flicks with steady precision, and my back arches off the table, pleasure coiling tighter and tighter.
“I’m so close,” I plead, breathless.
His fingers slide inside me, his thumb pressing against my clit, and I shatter, my body convulsing.
“Oh God, yes,” I cry out, my body trembling with pleasure. Declan’s mouth continues to work its magic, his tongue and fingers sending aftershocks through me, until I’m boneless, completely breathless.
Only then does he lift his head, a slow, satisfied look in his eyes. “Good,” he murmurs. “But I’m not done with you yet.”
He pulls back with a smirk that makes my stomach flip. His lips are swollen and shining when he rises. He reaches down, peels the Velcro loose, and slides the brace off. Then he unzips his joggers and frees himself, thick and hard, and my mouth goes dry at the sight.
I reach out and wrap my hand around him, stroking slowly. “You’re so hard,” I murmur, my thumb brushing the tip.
“All for you,” he growls.