Chapter Thirty-One
CHARLOTTE
The rink hums with quiet chaos—music echoing from the locker room, sticks tapping, skate guards clacking on concrete.
The Ice Foxes against the Vegas Infernos. Everyone’s been talking about how brutal this matchup will be. Vegas plays heavy, fast, and mean.
Dan’s at the bench reviewing treatment notes with Vic while I double-check the warmup charts. The air smells like menthol and coffee, a mix that always means playoffs.
I’ve been through postseasons before, but never from this angle: professional mask on, heart fully involved.
Declan still isn’t cleared to join the main sheet. Vic’s running him through isolated on-ice mechanics on the smaller rink across the hall: controlled glides, edge holds, weight-transfer drills.
I can hear the low scrape of his blades each time the door opens. Still no crossovers, no full stride work. But it’s something.
From across the rink, Vic’s voice carries faintly through the open door. “Keep that edge steady, Cap.”
Declan adjusts his stance, focused, and I can tell from the way he’s moving he’s pushing closer to the line of what the brace will allow.
I tap a quick note on my tablet—within limits. “Barely,” I add under my breath.
Even from here, I can sense it—that tension in his shoulders, the way he keeps testing how far the brace will let him go. He’s too close to rush, too proud to coast.
Between player tapings, I slip over to check in—not to interfere, just to monitor. Vic’s got the lead now on the skating side, but I’m still responsible for his medical benchmarks and progress notes.
“Good control,” I say, stopping at the boards.
Vic glances over from center ice and gives a quick nod, like he knows I can’t quite help hovering.
Declan gives me a faint grin. “Trying to look like I still belong out here.”
“You do,” I say before I can stop myself, then soften it. “Just not yet at full speed.”
His eyes flicker—equal parts frustration and focus. “Playoffs don’t wait for anyone.”
“That’s why you’re going to be ready when it counts,” I tell him, voice even.
He nods, takes another slow push, and I check the time again, like it’s just another rep. But I feel it—his need to get back, my need to keep him patient.
By the time I step back into the main rink, the team’s circling at center ice, and the pre-game playlist has shifted to something thunderous. Cameras and photographers crowd the tunnel, flashes popping. Everyone’s talking about Vegas’s goaltending, about our top line being due for a breakout.
When the horn sounds to end morning skate, I glance once more through the glass. Declan’s still out there, slow circles under the rink lights. Controlled. Alone.
And even from here, I can tell it’s killing him not to be in the fight.
By the time the puck drops that night, the building feels electric.
The bass from the pregame track vibrates through the stands, fans already on their feet, the sound of skates and sticks filling the air.
Conference Final: Ice Foxes versus Vegas Infernos.
I’m posted at the bench gate, just inside the tunnel, headset snug. A monitor in the nearby medical room shows a live feed from the bench and ice, so I can keep an eye on both. Vic’s planted at the end of the bench, eyes sharp.
Vegas plays heavy, just like everyone warned — fast transitions, relentless forecheck, bodies everywhere. The first ten minutes are chaos.
By the end of the first, it’s tied 1–1.
Declan leans against the boards at the far end of the bench, headset off but eyes glued to the ice, jaw set, arms folded.
Even without a stick in his hands, he reads the ice like he’s still captain out there. I catch him leaning toward Coach between whistles, voice low but calm — steadying the room the way he always has.
Second period: Vegas crashes the crease, draws a penalty. The penalty kill looks shaky, but our goalie stands on his head. Declan’s knuckles tighten on the railing with every blocked shot.
Third period. Two minutes left. Tied again.
The crowd’s on its feet. I hear my own heartbeat louder than the horn when Torres catches a rebound off the end boards and buries it with eleven seconds to go. The arena explodes — sound, motion, absolute chaos.
The bench empties. Helmets off, gloves in the air, everyone shouting. Declan’s grinning at last, clapping shoulders, yelling something I can’t hear over the noise.
The Ice Foxes take Game 1 of the Conference Final.
By the time I get home, my pulse still hasn’t settled.
The adrenaline makes everything feel too quiet. I drop my keys on the counter and my phone buzzes before I can even kick off my shoes.
Declan: Big one. Sophie’s buzzing but nervous about her musical on Friday.
I smile as I text him back: Tell her that’s normal. Big performances mean big nerves. I’ll be there for her musical cheering her and Maya on. Promise.
Declan: Wouldn’t expect anything else, Doc.
The nickname makes me laugh.
I set my phone down, the game still echoing in my chest.
The Foxes are up one-nothing in the series.
Declan’s close.
And so am I, in more ways than I should be.
It’s later in the week, and the high is gone. Vegas stole Game 2 last night in overtime, and the facility’s been tight ever since.
Sophie and Maya’s musical is Friday night. We fly out Saturday morning for Vegas, and Game 3 is Sunday night. Declan’s been pushing harder in PT, like he’s trying to outwork time itself.
I don’t blame him. Soon, he’ll be cleared to play again.
And we won’t have to hide our relationship anymore.
I’m halfway through updating treatment notes when my phone lights up on the counter.
I blink in surprise when I see it’s Sophie.
“Hey, kiddo. Everything okay?”
Her voice comes bright through the line. “Yeah! Dad’s making pasta for dinner, and I told him we should invite you.”
I smile before I can stop it. “You did, huh?”
“He said you probably like pasta too. Everyone likes pasta.”
“Fair point,” I say, laughing softly. “That’s hard to argue with.”
There’s a shuffle on her end, the sound of a pot clanging and Declan saying something in the background. Sophie lowers her voice like she’s sharing a secret. “He’s actually a really good cook when he tries. You should come over. Please?”
I bite back a smile, my heart doing something inconvenient in my chest. I can practically hear her grinning on the other end, and behind her, Declan’s voice—low, amused—“Don’t pressure her, Sophie.”
“No pressure,” she parrots, still giggling. “But you should come.”
I hesitate, heart thudding. I know the optics. I know the lines we’re not supposed to cross. But the combination of her enthusiasm and that small, hopeful pause on the other end is impossible to resist.
I exhale slowly. “Alright. But only if I can bring dessert.”
“Deal!” she says instantly. “See you at six!”
When the call ends, I’m still smiling, even as my pulse stays uneven.
I stare at the screen for a second, then thumb over to Kristy.
Me: I may have just agreed to pasta at his house. With Sophie.
Kristy: That’s not pasta, that’s escalation.
Me: She invited me.
Kristy: Well, how could you say no to his daughter? That’s basically illegal.
I laugh and then another text from her pops up:
Bring dessert. And behave.
I continue laughing, tension easing.
As I decide what to bake, a familiar twist of nerves settles low in my stomach.
I’m crossing another invisible line tonight.
And I’m not sure I want to find my way back.
Declan’s front porch light is already on when I pull into the driveway, balancing the dish of brownies in one hand. My pulse hasn’t slowed since I turned onto his street.
Before I can knock, the door opens. Declan fills the doorway—barefoot, sleeves rolled, a dishtowel tossed over his shoulder. The scent of garlic and tomato drifts out behind him.
“Hey,” he says, voice low and easy. “Come in before Sophie strains her neck checking the window again.”
I laugh, stepping inside. “Tell her she doesn’t need to keep watch. I brought dessert.”
“That’ll win you points,” he says, a hint of a grin touching his mouth as he closes the door behind me.
Sophie appears a second later, hair in a messy braid, cheeks pink. “You came!”
“Of course,” I say, holding up the brownies. “You said pasta night. I couldn’t miss that.”
She beams. “Dad made the sauce from scratch. It’s actually good!”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Declan mutters, but he’s smiling.
“It smells amazing,” I say, laughing softly as I set the brownies on the counter. “You weren’t kidding.”
Dinner’s easy. The three of us gather around the table: pasta steaming, laughter cutting through the hum of playoff talk and Sophie’s nonstop chatter.
She tells me about her musical rehearsal, about how she and Maya practiced their duet a hundred times, about the glitter that somehow got in her hair and “will not come out, Charlotte, no matter what.”
Sophie also talks about how her stomach feels “fluttery” when she thinks about tomorrow night.
“That’s called excitement,” Declan tells her, twirling pasta onto his fork.
Sophie frowns. “Feels more like I might throw up.”
The honesty makes me smile. “That’s nerves,” I say gently. “They show up when something really matters.”
She slumps in her chair. “What if I forget my line?”
“Then you take a deep breath,” I say. “You’ve practiced a hundred times. You’ll find it again.”
Her brow furrows. “Deep breaths don’t work for me.”
“They might if you do them right,” I counter lightly. “Want to try after dinner?”
She hesitates, then nods.
Later, with dishes rinsed and stacked, we move to the couch. Sophie sits cross-legged beside me, still in her glittery rehearsal sweatshirt, hair falling from her braid. I talk her through it: slow breath in through the nose, out through the mouth.
“Pretend you’re blowing out candles,” I say. “But slower. It helps tell your body you’re okay, even if your brain forgot.”
She follows along, the tension in her shoulders slowly easing. After a few rounds, she grins. “That actually worked.”
“Told you,” I say softly. “You’ve got this, Sophie.”
Declan leans in the doorway, towel still in his hands, watching quietly. “Yeah, you do, kid.”
She beams, then hops off the couch to hug me. “Thanks, Charlotte. You’re gonna be there, right?”
“Yes,” I promise. “Cheering you and Maya on.”
“Okay,” she says, cheeks pink as she heads for the stairs. “I’m gonna go practice one more time.”
When she’s gone, the silence that settles feels warm but charged. Declan crosses the room and sets the towel on the counter. “She’s been nervous all week. You helped her in five minutes.”
His eyes hold mine, something unspoken moving in the space between us. “Thank you.”
I nod once, heartbeat thudding. “Anytime.”
He walks me to the door a few minutes later, quiet except for the soft sound of Sophie’s voice drifting down from upstairs. When I step onto the porch, the night air feels cooler than it should.
He smiles at me, and it pulls at something deep in my chest. For a second, neither of us moves. Then his expression softens.
“Come here.”
His hand slides to the small of my back, steady and familiar, and when he kisses me, it’s unhurried. I melt into him before I even think to resist, one hand fisting lightly in the front of his T-shirt.
When we finally pull apart, his breath brushes against my cheek. “Wish you could stay,” he murmurs.
My pulse skips. “Nine days.”
He nods, thumb tracing a pattern against my hip. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “Then I’m cleared. Then we don’t have to keep this a secret anymore.”
I smile up at him. “Think you’ll survive that long?”
He chuckles. “Barely.”
I lean in again, press a softer kiss to the corner of his mouth. “You’re impossible. Go ice your knee.”
“Yes, Doc,” he teases, mock-obedient, and it makes me laugh.
I back down the porch steps, still smiling. He stays in the doorway, one hand braced on the frame, watching me with that look that always undoes me—steady, quiet, a little in awe.
“Goodnight, Charlie.”
“Goodnight,” I whisper.
By the time I reach my car, my chest still hasn’t settled.
Somewhere between the scent of pasta, the sound of Sophie’s laugh, and the look in Declan’s eyes…
I know I’m already in too deep.