Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
DECLAN
One week.
Seven days until the game that's going to change everything.
I stare at the ceiling, watching the shadows shift as headlights pass outside. Beside me, Sutton is sound asleep. I've memorized the sound. The way she curls into me. The little sigh she makes when she's dreaming.
I can’t sleep. Even after great sex and sheer exhaustion, I can’t sleep.
Every time I close my eyes, I see the same scenario playing out. Sutton's face when she realizes I've been lying to her.
I need to tell her.
I'm going to tell her.
Tomorrow. I'll tell her tomorrow.
Except tomorrow comes, and I don't tell her. Because she's so happy when she wakes up, smiling and kissing me good morning, and I can't bring myself to destroy that.
"You okay?" she asks, studying my face. "You look tired."
"Couldn't sleep."
"Bad dreams?"
"Something like that."
She runs her fingers through my hair. "Want to talk about it?"
Yes. God, yes. I want to tell her everything.
"It's nothing. Just stressed about the game."
Another lie. I'm drowning in them.
My dad arrives in town three days before the game.
He texts me to meet him at his hotel—the nicest one in town, naturally. When I get there, he's already set up in the suite like he's planning a military campaign. Laptop open. Papers spread across the desk. A bottle of expensive scotch on the bar.
"You're late," he says instead of hello.
I think that is his way of saying hello. That’s the same greeting he’s been using forever. Even though I’m not late. Instead of “hello,” he says, “You’re late.”
"Traffic."
"There's never traffic in this town." He pours himself a drink. "Sit. We need to talk strategy."
I sit down. It's just easier than starting an argument.
“This is bigger than we thought." Dad's eyes gleam. "If you play well, we're talking a serious offer. Six-figure signing bonus. Full contract. I’ve been putting your name out there, and I’ve got a lot of interest. Seattle is the best shot at making it to the playoffs. They’re building an excellent team. In three years, you’ll have a cup. "
"What if I don't want this?"
I can’t believe I just said those words aloud.
My father barely acknowledges that I spoke at all.
"Don't be ridiculous. Of course, you want this."
"Maybe I want to coach instead of play."
"We've had this conversation. You can coach when you're forty and washed up. Right now, you're twenty-two and in your prime. You don't throw that away."
"It's my life."
"It's the life I've invested hundreds of thousands of dollars into. You don't get to throw it away because you're scared or lazy."
"I'm not scared."
"Then what's the problem?" He leans forward. "Is it the girl?"
My jaw clenches. "Her name is Sutton."
"I don't care what her name is. Is she the reason you're hesitating?"
"No."
"Because if she is, you need to end it. Now. Before Saturday."
"I'm not ending things with Sutton."
He takes a sip of his scotch. "Your first year in the NHL is crucial. You need to be focused. Committed. Not worrying about some girlfriend three time zones away."
"She's not just some girlfriend."
"No? Then what is she?"
The question hangs in the air. What is she? Everything. The only thing keeping me sane. The person I want to build a future with.
But how do I build a future with her when my career is pulling me away?
“Is that why you and Mom didn’t work out?”
He flashes me a glare. “That has nothing to do with this.”
“Doesn’t it? You and Mom couldn’t work, so you automatically assume that Sutton and I won’t work.”
I never really understood why my mother left.
I remember them fighting. Then one morning, she woke me up for school and said she was going to go away for a while.
I was five. She went away for a year. And then, while she was with her boyfriend, driving through Italy, the guy was drunk and slammed their tiny Fiat into a tree and killed them both.
And that was that.
No questions. No tears. She was just gone.
Dad sets down his glass and actually looks thoughtful, not angry. "Look, I'm not saying break her heart. I'm saying be practical. You're twenty-two. You'll meet other girls. Better girls. Girls who understand the lifestyle. You need someone who can support your career instead of holding you back."
"Sutton doesn't hold me back."
"She's already holding you back. You think I don't know about Coach benching you last week? About your performance slipping?" He stands up and moves to the window. "You're distracted, Declan. You're more worried about some girl's feelings than about the opportunity of a lifetime."
“What the hell?” I snap. “Do you have a spy? How do you know all of this shit?”
He shrugs. “That doesn’t matter.”
“You need to back off. I’m a grown man. I don’t need you trying to run every facet of my life.”
"You need to make a choice," he says. "Your career or the girl. Because you can't have both. Not if you want to succeed."
"That's not fair."
"Life isn't fair. But winners make hard choices. Your grandfather understood that. He sacrificed everything for hockey—his marriage, his relationships, everything—and he became a legend."
"He also died alone."
Dad's face hardens. "He died fulfilled. He died knowing he achieved something great. What will you die knowing? That you gave up your dreams for a girl you dated in college?"
"I'll play Saturday. I'll meet with the scout. But I'm done listening to you trash Sutton. She's important to me, more important than hockey."
"Then you're a fool."
"Maybe I am." I head for the door. "I'll see you at the game."
I leave before he can say anything else.
By the time I get home, it's after nine. The house is quiet. I find Sutton in her room, studying.
She looks up when I walk in, and her face immediately shifts to concern. "Hey. Where have you been? I texted you."
"Sorry. My phone died." Another lie. I just couldn't bear to look at it.
"You okay? You look upset."
"I'm fine."
She sets down her textbook. "Declan, what's wrong?"
"My dad's in town," I say finally.
"Oh. How did that go?"
"About as well as you'd expect."
She pats the bed beside her. "Come here. Tell me about it."
I sit down, and she gets to her knees behind me and begins to rub my shoulders.
“Can we not talk about it?” I ask. “I don’t want to be a dick, but I really don’t want to talk about it.”
“Then don’t say a word.” She kisses the side of my face. “Let me work out all this tension in your shoulders.”
Her fingers work their way down my spine, kneading out knots I didn't even know I had. I close my eyes, letting myself focus on her touch instead of the chaos in my head.
"You're so tense," she murmurs, her breath warm against my neck.
"It’s been a long week."
Her hands slide up to my shoulders again, pressing harder this time. I groan despite myself.
"Feel good?"
"Really good."
She continues working, her thumbs digging into the muscles along my shoulder blades. Each touch sends heat through me, loosening something more than just physical tension.
"You do too much," she says softly. "You need to learn to relax."
"I'm relaxing now."
Her lips brush against my shoulder, a feather-light kiss that makes my breath catch. "Are you?"
"Getting there."
Another kiss, this one lingering. Her hands slide down my sides, her body pressing closer against my back. I can feel her breasts through the thin fabric of her tank top.
"Sutton," I warn.
"Hmm?"
"What are you doing?"
"Helping you relax." Her hands move to my stomach, fingers splaying across my abs. "Is it working?"
It's definitely working. Heat is pooling low in my gut, and every nerve ending is suddenly hyperaware of her touch.
I turn, catching her wrist. "You're playing with fire."
She meets my gaze, her blue eyes dark with want. "Maybe I want to get burned."
That's all the invitation I need.
I pull her into my lap, my mouth finding hers. The kiss is deep and hungry. She responds immediately, her fingers threading through my hair, her body molding against mine.
"Declan," she breathes when we break apart.
I kiss down her neck, finding that spot that makes her gasp. Her hips roll against me. I groan at the friction.
"Too many clothes," I mutter against her skin.
She laughs, pulling back just enough to tug her tank top over her head. No bra. Damn.
My hands move to her breasts, thumbs brushing over her nipples. She arches into my touch, her head falling back.
"I love watching you like this," I tell her. "So beautiful."
She opens her eyes, looking down at me with a seductive smile.
I capture her mouth again, my hands moving to her hips. She grinds against me. I can feel how wet she is even through our clothes.
"Need you," she whispers.
"You have me."
We strip off the rest of our clothes quickly, urgently. When I finally slide into her, we both groan at the sensation.
"God, you feel good.”
We move together, chasing that moment. When she comes apart around me, I'm right there with her, burying my face in her neck as pleasure crashes through me.
After, we lie tangled together, her head on my chest, my fingers tracing lazy patterns on her back.
"Better?" she asks softly.
"Much better."
"Good." She tilts her head to look at me. "I'm here, you know. Whatever you're dealing with, you don't have to do it alone."
"I know," I whisper, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "I know."