Chapter 38
Chapter Thirty-Eight
DECLAN
The alarm goes off before sunrise, but I’m already awake.
For the first time in what feels like forever, there’s no brace on my leg, no scheduled PT, no limits. It’s game day, which means adrenaline hits before dawn.
My knee feels solid when I stretch, the movement clean, easy.
We’ve got our HR meeting after morning skate to make everything official. Charlotte handled the scheduling. She sent the email and locked it in. It feels like the final piece sliding into place.
Today isn’t just another game. It’s Game 6—my first one back. A chance to close out the Conference Final on home ice.
Downstairs, the house smells like toast and syrup. Sophie’s at the kitchen table, fully dressed in her Foxes hoodie and jeans, finishing the last details on a bright new poster. Blue marker smudges her fingers, and there’s glitter everywhere.
“Let me guess,” I say, grabbing coffee. “You’re going for subtle this time?”
She grins without looking up. “Nope. It’s supposed to be visible from space.”
I chuckle, leaning on the counter. “You’ll blind the goalie with that thing.”
“Perfect,” she says, smiling wide. “Then you’ll score faster.”
The doorbell rings and Sophie rushes to the get it. A moment later Erin and Maya step inside. They’re both in hoodies and jeans, sunglasses perched on their heads.
“Morning,” Erin says. “We figured instead of just texting Sophie to come out, we’d say congrats in person. Big day for you.”
“Appreciate it,” I say, smiling. “Feels good to finally be back.”
Maya nods, eyes bright. “We can’t wait for the game tonight.”
Sophie gives me a quick hug before grabbing her sign and heading for the door. “Good luck, Dad. You’ve got this. We’re gonna be cheering so loud for you.”
I squeeze her once, trying not to show how much those words hit.
They head out a moment later, Sophie chattering between them. The house quiets as the door clicks shut.
For a beat, I just stand there, letting it sink in. This is it. I’m really back.
My phone buzzes on the counter with a text from Mom.
Proud of you, honey. Dad says play smart, not stubborn.
I smile, typing back: Promise.
It’s simple, but it hits harder than I expect. They’ve seen every comeback, every fall. This one feels different.
Then I grab my keys and head out.
At the rink, the energy’s already buzzing. The early crew is setting up. Coach McCarthy and David are reviewing tape. That playoff hum is thick in the air. The guys greet me with back slaps and grins, the kind that say welcome back, Cap.
Charlotte’s near the training room when I pass, going over supplies with one of the assistants. Usually she looks up right away, that quick, easy smile that’s all hers.
Today, it’s smaller. Distant.
“Morning,” I say.
She glances up, voice soft. “Morning. You ready?”
“More than ready.” I pause. “Is everything okay?”
She nods, smiling too fast. “Just tired. Big day.”
Dr. Patel calls her name from the next room, and she slips away before I can say more.
Everything’s supposed to feel like it’s falling into place, but watching her walk down that hall, something in me tightens.
The locker room smells like tape, coffee, and adrenaline, and I couldn’t be happier to be in the middle of it again.
Almost ten weeks away, and somehow it feels like no time’s passed. The guys are loud again, chirping like they’ve been saving every joke just for me.
Dalton grins when I walk in. “Look who finally decided to show up.”
“Couldn’t let you guys have all the fun,” I shoot back.
Tyler claps me on the shoulder. “Good to have you back, Cap. Ice didn’t feel the same without you.”
“Glad to be back,” I say, meaning every word.
Once we hit the ice, everything clicks: the scrape of blades, the pop of pucks off the boards. It’s like muscle memory waking up.
My knee holds steady through every stride. No hesitation, no pain. Just rhythm. By the end of the warmup, the ache in my chest isn’t about injury anymore. It’s pride.
McCarthy calls us in for a quick huddle, his voice carrying through the rink. “Good to see you back, Tremayne. Boys, the captain’s home. Let’s make it count.”
David’s beside him, arms crossed, grinning. “Let’s finish this at home. No reason to fly back to Vegas.”
The stick taps and shouts echo around me, and I feel it. That pulse that’s been missing since the injury.
After practice, I shower fast, the buzz still humming through me. I walk over to the training room, where I spot Charlotte.
She looks up when she sees me, tucking a stray piece of hair behind her ear. “Ready?”
“Ready,” I say, matching her pace as we start down the hall toward the admin wing.
The HR office is down the hall, tucked behind a frosted glass door that hums faintly with the sound of a copier.
The HR Director greets us with a polite nod. “Thanks for coming in. Have a seat,” he says, gesturing to the chairs across from his desk.
Charlotte starts, steady and composed. “Declan’s been cleared, and I’m no longer assigned to him,” she explains.
The Director nods once, typing into his laptop. “Good to note. And what brings you both in today?”
I glance at Charlotte, then back at him. “We wanted to disclose that we’re in a relationship,” I say simply.
Charlotte adds, “We just wanted to make sure everything’s handled properly.”
The Director nods, typing something into his notes. “Thank you for coming forward. These situations aren’t unusual, but we do need to document the relationship and review any potential conflicts. Given your roles, we’ll take a look at current assignments to make sure there’s no overlap.”
I nod. “What needs to happen next?”
He leans back slightly. “It’s usually a few business days once Legal and management sign off, but we’ll notify you both by email once the review’s complete. For now, we’d ask that you keep this confidential within the organization until everything’s finalized, mostly to manage optics and timing.”
I nod, jaw tight, even though the word optics grates.
Charlotte nods, composed. “Understood.”
We thank him and step back into the hallway.
Charlotte exhales, shoulders lowering a fraction. “Well,” she says quietly, “that’s done. Or almost.”
“Almost,” I agree. “Guess we wait for the email.”
She gives a small, tired smile. “A few more days won’t kill us.”
I nod, though the thought sits heavier than it should. Ten weeks of waiting, and somehow we’re still not quite free.
I study her a second. She looks pale. “You sure you’re okay?”
She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, smiling like she’s fine. “Just tired. It’s been a long stretch.”
I nod, even though I feel like there’s something she’s not saying. “We should celebrate once we get that email, okay?”
“Deal.”
She turns to go, the folder pressed to her chest, shoulders still tight. I stay where I am, pulse still buzzing from the ice and the meeting, watching her disappear down the hall.
Everything’s finally falling into place: my knee, the team, us. But deep down, I can’t shake the feeling something’s about to shift again.
By puck drop, the arena is already shaking.
The place is a blur of noise and lights: silver rally towels spinning, the crowd chanting before the first whistle. My chest feels like it’s going to crack open. Finally, I’m here. Back where I belong.
The anthem ends, the horn sounds, and I skate a slow circle at center ice, letting the noise hit me. The boards hum under my blades. Every stride feels like coming home.
Across the rink, I catch a flash of navy near the tunnel. It’s Charlotte, headset on, tablet in hand, calm and professional as ever. She looks up just once, and even from this far away, I see it—the faint smile, the quiet pride. It’s enough to center me.
Sophie’s in the stands too, grinning a few rows up behind the bench. Her sign’s impossible to miss: “WELCOME BACK, DAD!” covered in glitter that practically glows under the lights.
The first shift hits like an adrenaline rush. Vegas plays desperate, throwing checks like it’s their last game of the season. My timing’s off for maybe half a shift, then it all locks in: vision, tempo, the old rhythm slotting back into place.
I take a hard pass off the boards, fire it cross-ice to Tyler, and the crowd roars as he buries it top shelf. One-nothing, Foxes.
We build from there with tight plays and a relentless pace. Every line’s rolling. David’s barking adjustments, McCarthy keeping the fire lit. The energy’s the kind you only get in playoff hockey: loud, hungry, electric.
By the third, we’re up by one. Vegas pulls their goalie, crowd’s on its feet. I win the draw clean, chip it down the ice, and watch it glide—slow, perfect—straight into the empty net.
Horn.
3–1.
Series over.
We win the Western Conference. We’re in the Final.
The bench clears, gloves and helmets flying. McCarthy grabs me first, arms around my shoulders. “Hell of a comeback, Captain.”
David’s next, grin wide. “Welcome home, man.”
It’s chaos: cheers, cameras, rally towels whipping through the air. But under it all, there’s this quiet thrum in my chest. Relief. Gratitude. Home.
When the crowd noise finally softens, I glance toward the tunnel again.
Charlotte’s there, headset off now, just watching.
Our eyes meet through the blur of people and confetti, and for a second, everything else drops away.
She smiles—tired, proud—but there’s something else there too, something I can’t quite read.
I should feel nothing but joy, but there’s a flicker of unease I can’t shake.
I need to talk to her, figure out what’s going on behind that smile.
Because something’s off.
And whatever it is, she’s not carrying it alone.