Chapter Thirty
DECLAN
My blade bites into the ice, steady this time. The brace on my left knee keeps me in check.
“Better,” Charlotte says beside me, matching my slow glide. “Keep that knee steady.”
She keeps pace beside me, close enough to steady me if I drift.
She’s focused but calm, the same way she’s been all week.
Charlotte skates a few feet alongside me, eyes on my stride. “Looks solid,” she says, hands loose at her sides, within reach if I lose balance.
“Try the transfer again.”
I do. Controlled. Deliberate.
“Feels good,” I say. “Almost natural.”
Her mouth twitches. “Almost natural is still progress.”
I can’t help the grin that slips out. It’s been like this all week—her voice steady, my focus locked in, the ice finally back under my skates. The rink’s quiet except for us. No cameras, no teammates, no noise—just the rhythm of work.
She steps in close and crouches to check the strap tension on my brace. Her gloved hand brushes my calf and for a second, everything stills.
“Your hip’s staying level now,” she says without looking up.
“Guess I’m trainable after all.”
That earns me a look over her shoulder, half amused, half exasperated. “Don’t push it, Captain.”
But when she stands, I catch the flicker of pride she’s trying not to show.
We finish with balance holds at center ice—ten seconds each, her voice counting low. By the last one, sweat beads at my temple and the ache in my leg is the kind that means I’m getting stronger.
The cold hits my lungs sharp and clean. I’ve been out here every day this week, but the sound of my blades cutting into the ice still feels like coming home.
Charlotte tracks my stride, eyes sharp, posture relaxed in that way that says she’s letting me push it but watching every move.
When she finally says, “That’s enough for today,” I coast to a stop near center ice, breath fogging in the rink air.
“C’mon, Doc,” I say, grinning. “Five more minutes.”
She shakes her head, amused. “You’d stay out here all day if I let you.”
I step off the ice still grinning, breath still coming fast, the good kind of ache humming through my leg. Charlotte walks beside me down the tunnel, gloves tucked under one arm, her tablet forgotten now that the session’s done.
“Feels different,” I say. “Not just the knee—everything.”
She glances over. “That’s what happens when you stop fighting the process.”
I give her a look, raising an eyebrow. “If I keep cooperating, do I get a reward?”
Her voice stays even. “You get less swelling.”
“Not the reward I meant.”
She clears her throat, eyes forward, but the corner of her mouth betrays her.
“You know,” I say, “working with you is the first time I’ve actually liked hearing someone tell me what to do.”
She looks up, amused. “Good. Because I’m not done.”
I smirk. “Enjoy it while you can. A little over two weeks and I’m cleared.”
She laughs under her breath, the sound low and warm.
“Seriously,” I say after a second. “Thank you.”
She straightens, eyebrows lifting. “For what?”
“For getting me this far.”
She shakes her head. “You did the work.”
“Yeah,” I say quietly. “But you make the grind feel doable.”
She studies me for a moment, the edge of a smile tugging at her mouth.
“Big day tomorrow,” she says quietly.
“Yeah.” I nod. “Sophie’s been talking about the charity event all week. She’s excited you’ll be there.”
“I’m glad,” she says, voice softening. “She deserves a good weekend.”
I want to lean in and kiss her, but I don’t. Not here. Not at the rink.
I hold her gaze for a second longer than I should. “See you in the morning, then.”
When Sophie gets home after school, she’s already humming one of her musical numbers and asking if she can bring a sign to the event.
I tell her sure, and she disappears into the kitchen with tape and poster board.
By the time I’m icing my knee again, she’s already finished it.
The parking lot’s already packed when we pull up the next morning—families in Foxes jerseys, a sponsor tent handing out cocoa, a couple of local news vans parked by the entrance.
Two team-security staff in branded jackets direct foot traffic by the doors, scanning badges for media and staff, and guiding families and youth groups through the check-in line.
Sophie leans forward in the passenger seat, grinning. “They’ve got a hot-chocolate stand!”
“Of course that’s what you noticed,” I tease, pulling into the space marked Reserved – Ice Foxes.
Sophie’s clutching the handmade sign she finished last night: Go Dad!
“Think it’s big enough?” she asks, holding it up proudly.
I grin. “Pretty sure they can see it from center ice.”
She beams, and for the first time in a while, she looks weightless.
Inside, the air smells like coffee and fresh ice. A team PR coordinator in a branded jacket waves us over, tablet in hand.
“Captain Tremayne! So glad you made it. We’ll get you checked in. Charlotte from medical’s already in the locker tunnel waiting for you.”
“My daughter Sophie’s on the guest list,” I tell her. “She’ll stay with team staff in the viewing section until we’re done out there, right?”
“Of course,” she says warmly. “Security will be stationed by the tunnel, and one of our staff will stay with her near the viewing section.”
Sophie spots Charlotte tying her skates by the tunnel and waves. Charlotte lifts a hand and smiles in return, making Sophie beam.
A rink attendant scans our badges before opening the tunnel door, and a team security guard nods me through.
Sophie says, “You’ll wave, right?”
“You bet,” I tell her, squeezing her shoulder before heading down the tunnel.
Charlotte’s waiting where the ice meets the mat. The sight makes something in my chest ease instantly.
“Morning,” she says without looking up, but there’s a smile tugging at her mouth.
“Hey,” I answer, lowering onto the bench beside her. “Big crowd.”
She nods, finishing her laces and glancing at my brace. “You ready?”
“As I’ll ever be.”
She crouches, checking the brace. Her gloves brush my calf, quick and professional.
“Keep your weight even when you step out. They’re going to want photos right away.”
“Standing only,” I remind her, and she smirks. “I know. You think I’d let you forget protocol now?”
I huff out a quiet laugh as she stands, skates clicking lightly on the rubber mat. Together we move toward the rink door.
“She’ll be out there with you,” the PR coordinator says from behind us. “I’ll stay with Sophie. She’s already got hot chocolate.”
Charlotte glances back, reassured, then nods for me to go first.
The first breath of rink air hits my lungs as I step onto the ice and stop immediately by the boards, skates planted. Cameras flash, the crowd claps politely.
“Looks good,” Charlotte says under her breath as she skates out a few feet beside me. “Just don’t try to impress anyone.”
I grin. “Not even the kids?”
She rolls her eyes but doesn’t hide her smile.
The sponsor waves a group of youth players over to me: tiny kids in oversized Foxes jerseys, grinning like it’s Christmas. Cameras flash, and I shake hands, lean carefully for photos, my brace locked, my smile practiced.
Charlotte hangs back a few strides away. She’s close enough to keep an eye on my balance, but far enough that no one could mistake her for anything but staff.
When it’s over, the PR coordinator nods toward the tunnel where Sophie’s waiting by the railing, hot chocolate in hand, a grin stretching wide.
I lift a hand in a wave. Her whole face lights up, and it makes the whole thing worth it.
Charlotte catches the moment, her expression soft but professional, and I know she understands why I needed this day to go right.
By the time we get home, my knee’s throbbing beneath the brace. Sophie’s still mid-story as I park. She’s saying something about the kids on the ice and how the mascot nearly face-planted twice but “stuck the landing.”
Inside, she kicks off her shoes and tosses her Foxes hoodie—the gray one with my number stitched on the sleeve—onto the couch.
“That was awesome,” she says, cheeks still pink. “You looked like yourself again.”
“Pretty sure ‘myself’ is about ten years younger and not this sore.”
She grins, heads to the freezer, and comes back with an ice pack wrapped in a towel. “Here. Doctor’s orders.”
“Bossy.”
“Learned from Charlotte,” she says easily, sitting down beside me.
She leans her shoulder into mine, quieter now.
Sophie’s voice softens. “She’s so nice.”
“Yeah?”
“She talked to me during the break, helped one of the little kids fix his helmet. She’s funny. Not, like, trying-to-be-funny—just normal. It’s weird that she works for the team and she still feels…normal.”
That hits somewhere quiet inside me. “Yeah. She’s good at that.”
Sophie’s phone buzzes.
She squeals and holds up the phone for me to see. When I see it’s from Vanessa, I tense.
Can’t wait for your big musical!
I stare at it a second too long before forcing a smile and a nod.
She better not flake. Not this time.
Sophie hums a few bars of her solo as she heads upstairs, and for a moment the house feels easy—steady. Maybe even hopeful.
The other series is headed for Game 7. Once that’s done, we’ll know who we’re facing in the Conference Final. Until then, it’s rehab and rest.
At this rate, I might even make it back before the Conference Final’s done.