Chapter 36
Chapter Thirty-Six
DECLAN
“Don’t hover,” Sophie says without looking back. “I’ve got this.”
The house smells like burnt toast and ambition.
She’s at the stove, one earbud in, flipping pancakes with way more confidence than skill. There’s batter on her wrist and a streak of flour across her cheek.
I lean against the counter anyway. “Pretty sure you said that right before almost setting off the smoke alarm last time.”
She groans. “That was grilled cheese, not pancakes. Totally different situation.”
“Oh, right,” I say. “Forgot you graduated culinary school since then.”
She shoots me a look over her shoulder. “You’re hilarious.”
A few minutes later she slides a plate toward me. It’s slightly uneven, maybe a little too brown on one side, but it works. “See? Nailed it.”
I take a bite and nod. “Best one yet.”
She smirks, proud but pretending not to care. “Told you.”
My phone buzzes on the counter.
Mom: Checking in before your big appointment tomorrow. You still on track?
Dad: Proud of you, son. Can’t wait to see you back where you belong.
I text back: All clear so far. Doctor signs off tomorrow.
When I look up, Sophie’s watching me, chin propped on her hand. “You’re really playing again soon?”
“Soon as I’m cleared,” I say. “Tomorrow morning.”
Her grin widens. “Good. Means tonight’s game will be the last one without you.”
She’s been buzzing ever since I told her she could go to the game. Erin’s picking her up in an hour. She’ll hang with Erin and Maya all day, then they’re heading to the game together. Sleepover after that. She’s already got her Foxes hoodie laid out by the door.
“Be careful. Make sure you listen to Erin,” I say.
“Yeah, yeah,” she says, waving me off. “Don’t break the glass with your captain glare.”
I laugh. “Deal.”
Later that morning, the rink’s already humming: skate blades on ice, pucks echoing off glass, the low murmur of voices from down the tunnel.
Charlotte’s already in the training room when I walk in, hair pulled up, humming softly as she restocks her kit. She looks up, and that easy, familiar smile hits straight in the chest.
“Morning,” she says.
“Morning.” I grin. “Big day.”
Her brows lift. “Tomorrow’s the official one.”
“Still feels like today counts,” I say, climbing onto the table. “Last PT session. Last time we have to keep our hands to ourselves in public.”
She laughs, bright and unguarded. “You’re impossible.”
“And yet, you love me anyway.”
She shakes her head, a smile tugging at her mouth. “God help me, I do.”
I never get used to hearing it. Every time she says it, I feel it settle deeper.
She starts the final round of checks: stability, flexion, strength. Every touch feels familiar now, but different too. Lighter. Like we’re both aware that after tomorrow morning, she won’t have to pretend I’m just another player.
“How’s it feel?” she asks.
“Strong. Ready.” I pause, catching her gaze. “You okay? You look tired.”
Her hand stills for half a second before she smiles. “Just didn’t sleep great. Probably all the travel lately. I’m fine.”
“You sure?”
She nods, brushing it off easily. “You’re the patient, remember? Let me worry about you.”
I let it go, but something about the faint shadows under her eyes doesn’t sit right.
She finishes her notes, sets the tablet aside, and rests a hand lightly on my arm. “Tomorrow,” she says quietly.
“Tomorrow,” I echo, smiling. “And then the guys will finally know why I’ve been in such a good mood lately.”
That earns another soft laugh, the kind that stays with me all day.
That night, home ice hums before puck drop—the kind of energy that vibrates through your chest.
Game 5. The Conference Final is tied, two games apiece. The building’s packed, loud enough to rattle the boards.
From my spot at the end of the bench, I can feel it—the rhythm of it, the pull. My knee’s solid, no brace now, just a light compression sleeve. Tomorrow, Dr. Patel signs off. Tomorrow, I’m officially cleared.
McCarthy leans over. “You ready to get your ass back on the ice?”
“More than ready,” I say, and he grins.
David’s beside him, arms crossed, scanning the lineup sheet. He glances my way. “We’re ready to have you back out there, Cap. We need you.”
Then quieter, so the others can’t hear: “And I’ll be glad when everything’s official tomorrow—for the team and otherwise.”
I nod once. “Yeah. Me too.”
Just beyond the bench glass, I spot Sophie a few rows back with Erin and Maya, her Foxes hoodie swallowed halfway up her hands. She hasn’t been to a game all season because of late nights and school, but seeing her here hits different.
She catches me looking and lifts a bright handmade sign that says, “GO DAD!” The glitter catches the light. My chest tightens, all pride and love.
The anthem ends, the puck drops, and the game roars to life—heavy, fast, playoff-tight. Vegas plays hard, but our guys play harder. McCarthy’s barking matchups, David’s keeping the lines sharp, and I just watch the flow, every instinct screaming to be out there again.
A few times, Tyler or Dalton glances back. I meet their eyes, toss a quick nod, a word of encouragement. The energy’s different tonight—tight, hungry. They can feel it too. Tomorrow I’m cleared, and they know what that means.
Their captain’s coming back.
By the third period, it’s tied 2–2. Then Torres drives the net and buries the rebound. The place erupts.
When the horn sounds, it’s 3–2 Foxes.
The bench explodes. McCarthy claps my shoulder hard enough to sting. David laughs—a full, unguarded sound I haven’t heard in weeks.
In the tunnel, McCarthy says, “Patel clears you tomorrow, you’re suiting up for morning skate. Been a long road.”
David lingers as the guys head to the room. “Seriously, man. Tomorrow’s good for everyone. You, the team…” He pauses. “And Charlotte. It’s time you both stop holding your breath.”
“Yeah,” I say, grin pulling wider. “It’s time.”
I stay back a second, soaking it in. The crowd still buzzing, Sophie waving from the stands, and Charlotte by the tunnel, her eyes finding mine through the crowd.
Tomorrow, I get the ice back.
And I’m ready for everything that comes with it.