Chapter 44
Chapter Forty-Four
DECLAN
The sound hits like contact. Clean. Full-body.
A blur of color in the stands. It’s Sophie between Erin and Maya, their faces painted blue and silver, pounding the glass when we skate by. She catches my eye and grins so big it damn near splits me open.
The puck drops.
And just like that, the world narrows.
It never gets old. The scrape of my edges digging in, the whip of cold air when I pivot, the flash of white ice under floodlights.
Tyler wins a battle on the half wall and chips it back. I cut across, take the puck in stride, and fire low through traffic. It hits a pad, the rebound pops loose, and he’s there to bury it before the goalie can recover.
The noise detonates: sticks banging, helmets clattering, voices swallowed by the chaos. My lungs are burning, but it feels good. Earned.
Next shift, I’m back on the draw. Drop my shoulder, lean into it, win it clean. That deep thud of contact feels perfect. Steady, certain.
The Forges push hard with fast transitions and crease pressure, but my body moves before my brain catches up. Stick down. Angles tight. I take a shot off my shin pad, kick it clear, pivot hard, and send it up ice.
The whistle blows late—too late—and the ref’s arm goes up for interference on Dalton. I’m already skating toward him, breath sharp in my chest.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I say, pointing toward the crease. “He was battling for position, not interfering.”
The ref just shakes his head, already moving toward the box. I skate backward, jaw tight, keeping my tone measured but firm. “Call it both ways, then. You’re missing half of what they’re doing down low.”
Behind me, the bench erupts: helmets banging, Dalton shaking his head.
He gives the noncommittal shrug I’ve seen a hundred times. I turn back toward the bench, the kind of frustrated energy that lights a fuse under the guys instead of draining it.
Tyler slaps my shoulder as I sit. “There he is. Classic Tremayne diplomacy.”
I grin despite myself. “Someone’s got to keep them honest.”
Behind the bench area, Charlotte’s voice is steady—quietly relaying to Dan about a player’s shift load, jotting notes on movement patterns, eyes flicking between the ice and tablet. Calm, focused. Grounding even in chaos.
Back out there, the pace hits a new gear. Dalton threads a hard pass, Torres goes bar down, and the place erupts again.
Rally towels blur into one long storm of motion, a whole city losing its mind.
When the clock finally runs out, we’re up 3–1 again.
I skate toward the bench, unbuckling my chin strap, lungs on fire. Cameras flash, voices crash together, but I find her through the chaos. Charlotte—tablet in one hand, smiling that quiet, proud smile that says everything.
I tap my chest once.
Not for the crowd.
For her.
We’ve got this.
The horn still echoes through my ribs when I hit the tunnel.
Game 2 is ours. Two up in the Final. The air in the arena feels electric, buzzing like it can’t calm down.
Inside the room, it’s chaos in the best way. Helmets tossed, gloves on the floor, guys shouting over each other as they peel off gear. Reporters hover at the door, waiting for quotes, but no one’s ready to come down yet.
The smell of sweat, tape, and adrenaline fills the air. Real hockey air.
I unstrap my pads, rolling my shoulders until they crack. I test my knee out of habit, but it feels solid. No hesitation, no pull. Just strength.
Not too long ago, I was in a rehab room wondering if I’d even get to skate during the Playoffs. Now I’m the one leading us in the Final.
When the last interview wraps, Charlotte finds me lacing my shoes on a bench outside the locker room.
“You okay?” she asks, eyes flicking to my leg.
“Better than okay,” I say, grinning. “That one felt right.”
She smiles, a little breathless. “I could tell. You didn’t hold back out there.”
“Feels good to be playing again,” I say.
Her eyes soften. “You earned that.”
She gives me a look that says everything without words. Pride, maybe relief. I nod once, silent agreement, before we both turn back to the noise around us.
The house is quiet when I get home.
Sophie’s at Maya’s for a sleepover, the house dark except for the kitchen light. I grab a bottle of water and lean against the counter, the silence settling around me like a deep exhale.
There’s this stillness that wasn’t here before. The kind that feels like arrival.
My phone buzzes with a text from David.
Dad’s driving down Friday. You and Charlotte in for dinner?
I respond immediately:
Wouldn’t miss it.
I set the phone down and stare at the kitchen table—the second chair she always takes, the mug she left from the other night, her sweatshirt draped over the backrest.
It already feels like she lives here.
I picture it without hesitation: her things next to mine, Sophie’s laughter echoing down the hall, the twins in her arms.
She’s moving in, but standing here now, it doesn’t feel like enough.
I think about Tom Blake, about the kind of man he is. The one who taught me discipline before I even understood what that word meant. The one who raised the woman who keeps my whole world steady.
Somewhere between exhaustion and clarity, the thought settles deep and sure:
I’m going to ask him.
Not because I have to.
Because I want to.
The Final’s ahead. The kind of future I never saw coming. The woman I can’t imagine any of it without.
Yeah. It’s time.
It’s Friday night, a couple days after Game 2. The buzz still hangs over the city: billboards, radio segments, the kind of energy that doesn’t let you sleep even when you’re dead tired.
Charlotte rides beside me, window cracked, her hair shifting in the breeze. She’s quiet, thoughtful in that way she gets after long days. I rest my hand on her knee at a red light; she threads her fingers through mine and gives a small squeeze.
“How are you feeling?” I ask quietly.
“I’m fine,” she says, smiling faintly. “Just tired. Twins are making their presence known today.”
I glance over, half a smile tugging at my mouth. “They’ve got good timing.”
“They get it from you,” she murmurs, squeezing my hand again.
“And you don’t have to keep adjusting your collar,” she teases softly. “My dad always liked you, remember?”
“That was before I started dating his daughter,” I say.
She laughs. “Just talk hockey. That’s both of your love language.”
We pull into the restaurant lot a few minutes later. Warm light spills through the windows. David’s already there with her dad. I catch the familiar figure immediately: same posture, same steady coach’s presence, just a little more silver at the temples.
Tom stands when we walk in. “Well, if it isn’t Tremayne himself,” he says with a grin that still carries the echo of a whistle.
“Hey, Coach,” I say, shaking his hand. “It’s good to see you.”
“It’s been—what—fifteen, sixteen years since I tried to get you to stop over-skating drills?”
“Sounds about right,” I say, laughing. “Didn’t work then, still doesn’t.”
That earns a chuckle.
He claps my shoulder, that same fatherly weight that used to mean do better, kid. Now it just feels… steady.
David grins across the table. “I told him you’d still argue your way through a drill if someone gave you a whistle.”
“Only if you’re the one running it,” I shoot back, shaking my head.
Charlotte sighs, amused. “Please don’t start reliving high school hockey. I’ll never survive it twice.”
We sit—Charlotte and I together, her dad and David opposite. The place is a small family steakhouse, the smell of wood smoke and steak feels comfortable and familiar.
Conversation starts easy. He asks about the Final schedule, how my knee’s holding up, what the locker-room feels like this deep in a series. His tone isn’t nosy—more like he’s cataloging details out of habit, the way a coach reads a stat sheet.
“It’s solid,” I tell him. “Feels good to lead again. The group’s focused, hungry.”
He nods. “That’s what you want to hear. You were always the steady one out there—glad to see that didn’t change.”
I smile. “Tried to hold on to a few good habits.”
David leans in, grinning. “He’s underselling it, Dad. The room’s night and day with him back in. Guys feed off it. You can feel it.”
“That right?” her dad says, smiling at him.
“Yeah,” David says. “And he still chirps the refs the same way you used to.”
“That’s called leadership,” I deadpan, which makes both of them laugh.
Halfway through dinner, Tom leans back, studying me. “You know, when I heard you and Charlotte were seeing each other, I thought, ‘Well, that’s a surprise.’ But watching you two tonight, it doesn’t seem like one anymore.”
Charlotte squeezes my knee under the table, half embarrassed, half touched.
“I appreciate that,” I say quietly. “She’s changed everything for me.”
He nods once, slow. “I can tell. She’s happy. That matters more than anything else.”
“And I’ll do whatever it takes to keep it that way,” I say, meeting his eyes.
The air between us steadies after that. We drift to lighter stories: David’s coaching gig, his dad’s half-finished boat project, a few old high-school memories that make us all laugh.
David shakes his head mid-laugh. “And for the record, I still say you were offside on that championship goal senior year.”
“You’re out of your mind,” I tell him. “That puck was clean.”
“Sure it was,” Charlotte says, amused. “Funny how hockey players remember every goal from high school like it was the Cup Final.”
David laughs. “Especially the ones that weren’t goals.”
“You’re both delusional,” I tell them, grinning.
But beneath the laughter, something keeps pulsing under my ribs.
It’s not nerves, not even anticipation. Just certainty. The kind that builds when the last missing piece settles into place.
When the check’s paid, Tom shakes my hand again, firmer this time. “Good luck in New York,” he says. “Finish what you started.”
“Yes, sir,” I answer.
Then he looks at Charlotte, softening. “You take care of each other, alright?”
“We will,” she says, giving him a hug.
In the truck, Charlotte turns to me, that tired, soft smile still on her face. “You handled that perfectly,” she says.
“It went better than I hoped,” I say, arm wrapping around her.
She looks up at me, smiling. “You even got the ‘yes, sir’ right.”
I smile, brushing a kiss against her hair.
Our fingers intertwine, and before I start the engine, she leans into me for a kiss. It feels easy and natural, like something that’s already been decided.
And in my head, it is.
When the time’s right, I’ll ask her dad the question.
The one that makes this family official.