Chapter 46
Chapter Forty-Six
DECLAN
David and Erin’s house has that late-night calm to it.
Erin met us at the door earlier, hugged me, then gave David one of those looks that says she knows we needed time to talk.
The Game 2 highlights play quietly on the TV while Maya and Sophie laugh upstairs, their voices drifting downstairs every so often.
David and I have been sitting here a while, half-watching the clips, half just… being. It’s one of those rare quiet nights between the storms.
He leans back, beer in hand, grinning. “Twins, man. You know you’re outnumbered now, right?”
I laugh, shaking my head. “Don’t remind me. I’m still trying to wrap my head around the fact that I’m going to be a dad again. Let alone twins.”
“Guess the universe figured you needed the challenge.”
“Maybe,” I admit, smile tugging despite myself. “It’s a lot. But… it feels right, you know? Like everything finally fits.”
David’s grin softens. “Yeah. You look like it fits. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this settled.”
“Settled,” I echo, rolling the word around like it’s still new. “That’s not something I ever thought I’d be again.”
He snorts. “Please. If anyone can handle you, it’s Charlotte. Always has been.”
That earns a laugh out of me, a quiet one. “You’re not wrong.”
We sit there for a bit longer, just letting the silence stretch. Two guys who’ve been through enough seasons, on the ice and off, that they don’t need to fill every space with words.
The muted game rolls into post-game interviews, the flicker of the screen catching the edge of David’s glass. The girls’ laughter trickles down again.
David glances toward the stairs. “We should check on the girls before they turn movie night into an all-night marathon,” he says, pushing up from the couch.
I stand, stretching my back. “Sounds good. I should say good night to Sophie and head out soon.”
We head upstairs, the sound growing clearer—music, giggling, the crunch of chips.
In the entertainment room, the lights are dim, the big sectional crowded with blankets and bowls of popcorn.
Erin’s perched on the armrest, laughing as Maya and Sophie belt out lyrics from whatever song’s playing.
Tom’s there, standing near the doorway with a mug in hand, smiling like he’s exactly where he wants to be.
“Everything good up here?” David asks, leaning on the doorframe.
“Better than good,” Erin says. “They’ve already seen this movie twice, but apparently it’s still funny.”
Sophie grins over at me. “We’re just watching the best parts!”
I grin back. “Alright. Try to keep it under concert volume, yeah?”
That earns a few dramatic groans and a giggle from Maya. Tom chuckles, setting his mug on the shelf by the door. “I’ll walk down with you before they recruit me for the next sing-along.”
David stays behind, dropping onto the arm of the couch beside Erin as I follow Tom back down the stairs.
When we reach the quiet of the living room again, he lowers himself into the chair David left, rubbing a hand over his face. “Figured I’d get some quiet time before they rope me into another performance,” he says with a chuckle.
I laugh, but there’s a tightness under it I can’t shake. The room feels different now. Quieter, heavier. The kind of quiet that makes you notice every thought you haven’t said out loud yet.
For a minute, we just sit there. The muted TV flickers, the faint soundtrack of laughter drifts from upstairs.
My hands are loose on my knees, but my chest feels wired, the kind of nervous you get before a playoff game.
Only this isn’t a game.
Tom glances over. “Heard you’ve got some big news.”
I chuckle. “Yeah. Charlotte told you?”
He nods slowly. “She did. Twins, huh?” He exhales, the sound somewhere between disbelief and a quiet chuckle. “I’ll be honest. I’m still wrapping my head around that one.”
I smile faintly. “You and me both.”
He looks down at his hands, then back up. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m happy. She sounded happy. But she’s my little girl, Declan. It’s hard not to picture her at ten years old, tagging along to practice with orange slices and a clipboard.”
I let out a slow breath, the kind that tries to steady everything else inside me.
“I still remember that. She was fearless even back then.”
He nods, the edge in his expression easing. “I’ve known you a long time. Coached you, watched you look out for David, for your teammates. So if it had to be somebody…” He trails off, shakes his head with a wry smile.
He lets out a breath that’s half laugh, half sigh. “You’re gonna have your hands full, you know that?”
“I know,” I admit, smiling despite the weight in my chest. “She’s been handling it better than I have. Mornings are rough sometimes, but she pushes through. Same way she handles everything.”
He nods, the smile easing into something gentler. “Sounds like Charlotte.”
I lean forward, elbows on my knees. “I’ve been thinking a lot about what’s next,” I say quietly.
He doesn’t interrupt, just waits.
“I love her,” I say finally. “More than I ever thought I could again. She’s changed everything: how I see the game, my life, what home means.”
I take a long breath. “We’re already building a family, but I wanted to ask properly. I’d like your blessing to marry your daughter.”
Tom’s quiet for a long moment, eyes on the muted screen though I know he’s not watching. Then he nods once, voice steady.
“If you love her the way you play this game—with all your heart—you’ve got my blessing.”
My chest tightens. I stand, and so does he. We shake hands, firm and sure, the kind of grip that carries more than words ever could.
“Thank you,” I say quietly. “I’ll never take her trust, or this family, for granted.”
He smiles, warm and certain. “That’s all a father wants to hear.”
The laughter upstairs picks up again, softer now, and Tom claps my shoulder before heading back up.
The drive home is quiet, the kind of quiet you feel more than hear. Streetlights blur by, the city thinning into dark sky and open road.
But this time, it’s not just the ice pulling me forward. It’s Charlotte. Sophie. The twins. The life I finally get to skate toward.
The next morning, the team meets at the private terminal. The air smells like jet fuel and coffee, the kind of mix that means playoff travel.
Charlotte’s near the equipment table, tablet in hand, talking with the trainers. She’s focused, already in game mode. You’d never know she’s been fighting morning sickness half the week. I don’t know how she does it.
Players file in with travel mugs and headphones, trading half-awake chirps about card games and seat assignments.
I drop my bag and catch her eye. She smiles, and I can’t help but grin back.
Torres grins as he walks by. “Look at that. Cap actually smiles now. Didn’t think it was medically possible.”
Tyler smirks over his coffee. “It’s the Charlotte effect. Guy’s domesticated.”
I shake my head. “If you two spent half as much time on the ice as you do in my business, we’d already have the Cup.”
Their laughter trails off, folding back into the low rumble of travel noise: voices, footsteps, the thud of bags.
A little later, we’re taxiing out. The cabin hums with quiet energy: low voices, shuffling cards, the faint beat of someone’s music bleeding through earbuds.
A few rows back, she’s by the window now, hair pulled up, team polo, tablet balanced on her lap. She glances up just as I do and gives me that subtle smile.
I text: Still a little unreal, huh?
Her reply comes almost right away: It is, but in the best way.
I pocket the phone, lean back as the engines spool higher. Through the window, the mountains fade behind us, sunlight catching on the wing.
New York next.
Games 3 and 4. Noise, cameras, pressure.
And I’m ready for it.
By the next night, New York hums like it’s alive: horns, sirens, camera flashes bouncing off wet pavement as the bus rolls through the tunnel beneath the arena. I can feel it vibrating in my chest before I even stand up.
The locker room is bright and loud, but focused. Sticks clicking. Velcro tearing. Tape stretching tight. The air smells like sweat, coffee, and adrenaline. Every sound is familiar, but sharper tonight.
I pull on my jersey, fingers brushing over the C stitched to the chest. The fabric feels heavier somehow, like it remembers everything I had to do to get back here.
When we hit the tunnel, the roar of the crowd slams into us—low, deep, relentless. My pulse syncs to it.
“Let’s go, boys!” I shout over the noise, sharp and sure. Tyler answers with a stick tap, Torres grins, and we step into the light.
During warmups, the first glide cuts smooth and easy. The ice feels fast tonight, sharp under my edges—exactly how it should.
Charlotte’s in the bench area, headset on, tablet tucked under her arm. Her eyes find me when I circle past. The noise fades and my pulse evens. I nod, and she gives me a small, certain smile.
The anthem ends. The puck drops.
The first contact comes fast—a clean shoulder at the blue line that rattles through my chest and wakes up every nerve I’ve got. The crowd howls, but I just focus on my skates carving hard into ice.
I catch a rimmed puck, turn off the half wall, and thread it through traffic to Torres. He redirects it low, and the rebound pops out front. Tyler’s there. One touch, top shelf.
1–0.
Our bench explodes. My vision tunnels for a second in pure relief.
The next shift, I’m killing a penalty. Heart pounding, legs burning, every muscle humming with that playoff edge.
Their captain tries to cut around me on the rush. I get a stick on the puck, chip it up ice, and it dies perfectly along the boards for Torres to chase. The roar from our end sounds like home.
By the second period, everything blurs into rhythm. Pass, pivot, hit, recover. My body’s doing what it’s supposed to: no hesitation, no second-guessing. Every stride feels earned.
Then a collision.
Their winger drives me hard into the glass, shoulder first. The hit rattles through my ribs, knocks the breath out for half a second, then burns off in the rush of adrenaline. I stay on my edge, shove back, keep the play alive.
Next shift, I dig a puck off the boards and drive the net. The goalie kicks the rebound out, but I’m already pivoting, sliding it backdoor for Tyler again. It hits his tape, then the back of the net.
2–1.
The crowd rains boos. I drink them in.
The third drags. Tight play, hard defense, every breath sharp. Their coach pulls the goalie with a minute left. I take the draw in our zone, tie up the center, kick the puck loose, and backhand it down the ice. It slides, slow and clean, until it kisses the empty net.
3–1.
Done.
The horn splits the air. Sticks slam against the boards, gloves flying, Torres yelling my name. I grin so hard it hurts.
Up three games. One more, and the Cup’s ours.
Sweat stings my eyes, breath burning in my chest, the sound of the crowd crashing like surf.
The boys pile in, the noise deafening, and all I can think is: I’m back. Really back.
When the chaos settles, I glance toward the bench. Charlotte’s there, headset off, watching me. There’s pride in her smile, but something else too—something quiet, like she knows exactly what this means.
And for the first time in a long while, it’s more than just hockey.
Every stride, every play—it’s for something bigger waiting off the ice.
For her. For the life we’re building. For all of it.
And damn if that doesn’t make me feel unstoppable.