Chapter 34
Chapter Thirty-Four
DECLAN
Iwake before my alarm, the Vegas light cutting through the blinds in thin, sharp lines. My knee feels steady when I stretch. No sharp pain, just that familiar hum of effort that’s eased a little more every day.
Six more days until I’m cleared.
I run through my morning routine automatically: mobility drills, band work, all the same motions that used to feel like a chore but now feel like progress. My body’s catching up to where my head’s been for weeks.
Still, my mind drifts. Back to my kitchen. Her laugh. The way it felt to finally say I love you and hear it back. The words keep looping in my head, quiet but solid. I catch myself smiling, that small, private kind of smile I haven’t worn in a long time.
Everything about this morning feels grounded, like the work’s paying off, in rehab and outside it.
The hotel conference room smells like coffee and pastries. Cameras line the back wall, reporters packed shoulder to shoulder. Media always feels like noise: questions I’ve heard a hundred times, answers I’ve learned to give without thinking.
“How’s the knee feeling, Tremayne?”
“Day by day,” I say, same even tone, same practiced smile. “Progress has been solid.”
They want more—timelines, clearance dates—but I keep it vague. The truth is I’m close—closer than anyone outside the staff knows, but the last thing we need is headlines about my return before Dr. Patel officially signs off.
Someone asks if I’ve been frustrated sitting out. I nod once. “Of course. But I trust the process. We’ve got guys stepping up.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I spot Tyler across the room, laughing with a mic in his face. He’s really come into his own the last few weeks: louder, looser, starting to sound like a leader. It should bother me, but it doesn’t. Not the way it used to. I know I’ll be back soon enough.
After the media clears out, Vic catches me near the exit. “You look good out there,” he says, clapping a hand on my shoulder. “You seem lighter lately. Everything good?”
I just shrug, mouth twitching. “Guess so.”
He grins. “Whatever’s working, keep it.”
Captain mode outside. Quiet chaos underneath.
I’m supposed to be thinking about Game 3, about strategy and matchups, but all I can think about is her voice a few nights ago, soft and certain. I love you too.
And somehow, that’s the only answer that matters.
By late morning, the air in the rink feels charged.
It’s that pre-game calm where everyone’s running on caffeine, superstition, and adrenaline.
The team’s doing light activation work; David’s running point on optional ice drills while I hang near the bench area with the coaching staff, notebook in hand.
It’s supposed to be a strategy review, but my focus keeps slipping.
Across the rink, I catch a glimpse of Charlotte near the far corner, re-wrapping a shoulder: steady, unbothered, like nothing could shake her. Even from a distance, she makes the noise fade.
When the meeting breaks, I stretch my leg out, testing the joint. No pain, just a steady pull that reminds me how close I am. One more check-in with Dr. Patel, one more round of drills, and I’m cleared.
Tyler skates by on his way to the tunnel, stick tapping the boards. “You ready to make it official, Cap? Boys are counting down.”
I smirk. “You have no idea.”
He grins and disappears down the hall.
I should be thinking about power-play adjustments, about keeping the bench steady tonight. But my head’s already spinning ahead.
To clearance, to the ice, to what happens when I don’t have to keep pretending Charlotte’s just part of the staff.
Less than a week. Then I get both back.
The arena hums before puck drop—bass from the intro track vibrating through the floor, lights sharp through the haze. From my spot at the end of the bench, I can feel the tension running through the team like a current.
Vegas plays mean. Heavy hits, quick transitions, constant traffic in front of the net. The kind of game that makes you itch to grab a stick and fix it yourself. I keep my posture easy, but inside, every muscle’s coiled.
McCarthy runs the bench like clockwork, barking matchups, juggling lines. I stay quiet, watching for the small things: the slump of a shoulder after a bad shift, the kid who stops making eye contact after a turnover.
Every so often, one of them glances back. I just nod. Sometimes that’s enough. They don’t need me talking; they just need to know I’m still here, steady, watching.
When the final horn sounds, it’s a loss: tight, hard-fought, the kind that leaves a bruise deeper than any hit on the ice. The room’s quiet afterward, the sting fresh. Guys unlace in silence, the shuffle of skates, showers hissing in the back, gear hitting the floor in slow, tired rhythm.
I make my rounds: shoulder claps, quiet words, steady tone. They need to see calm, not frustration. But inside, it burns. Not the loss. The wait. The knowing I could’ve changed the outcome if I’d been on the ice.
When the last player heads out, I sit for a second by the bench door, brace creaking faintly as I shift.
Through the glass, I spot her at the far end of the tunnel, packing up her kit with the same calm precision that keeps me steady.
She glances up just once, and for a heartbeat, everything else fades—the noise, the ache, the loss.
Her look isn’t pity. It’s steady. Quiet. Like a promise that this won’t last much longer.
I take a slow breath, roll my shoulders, and push to my feet.
Six more days.
Then I’m done watching from the sidelines.
The hotel room’s dark except for the city bleeding neon through the curtains. Vegas never sleeps. I wish I could. The adrenaline’s still in my blood, too loud to rest, too quiet to escape.
My chest feels like it’s still back in that arena. Every game I sit out twists the same knife: the captain watching, not leading. I ice more out of habit than need, the cold seeping through the towel as I scroll mindlessly through my phone.
A message from Sophie pops up first:
Proud of you anyway, Dad. You’ll win the next one.
I can’t help the smile that tugs at my mouth. I type back:
Thanks, kiddo. Get some sleep.
No new messages from Charlotte, but I know why. We can’t risk it tonight. Cameras and eyes everywhere. Still, I picture her a few floors away, hair down, probably sitting on the edge of her bed writing notes for tomorrow.
I open our last thread, thumb hovering over the screen.
Counting down the days.
That’s what I told her last night, and I am. Not just to clearance, but to walking beside her without having to pretend.
I toss the ice pack aside and lean back against the headboard, the city’s glow catching on the silver of my watch.
I’ve been fighting to get back on the ice for months. Somewhere along the way, it stopped being only about the game.
It’s about the woman who made me believe I still had more to fight for.