Chapter 3
Declan
The crowd's roar swells, drowning out every thought as the final horn blares.
The Titans have won. But the victory feels hollow, a phantom cheer reverberating through thick glass. It doesn’t matter. My job is to work, not to celebrate.
As the team crashes into me, bodies collide like a tempest, shoving me toward the pile-up forming in front of the net.
Gloved hands slap my helmet; sticks bang against my pads.
I can tolerate this for a few seconds—four, five.
Long enough to deflect questions. To prove I’m not a complete asshole.
But then I peel away, carving a hard line out of the mess, skating toward the neutral zone.
I don’t join the center-ice show. I don’t loop back for a salute.
My job is done. Now, I need to escape the chaos.
I skate slowly toward the boards near the bench, letting the team surge past me for the handshake line and the initial celebration. I stare down at the ice, breathing hard, granting the current a chance to clear. I cross the blue line, then the red, eyes locked on the mouth of the tunnel.
Exit. A single directive. The only target that matters.
A trainer reaches over the boards to tap my helmet; I duck it, veering closer to the wall, not slowing down.
The air shifts as soon as I leave the sheet—less cold, more concrete and disinfectant.
Steel hits rubber. I rip the helmet off, the cage dragging sweat-slick hair from my forehead.
The mask dangles from my fingers, heavy and damp.
The arena’s roar chases me into the tunnel, bouncing off cinderblock, smearing into one long, distorted note.
I mean to keep moving—left turn, rubber under steel, eight steps to the door. That’s the plan.
But I don’t take the first step.
My body betrays the directive before my brain even registers the threat. I stop dead inside the mouth of the tunnel, halfway in shadow. The rest of the team flows around me like water around rock, but I’m frozen.
I feel it before I see it—a glitch in the system. That prickling sensation between my shoulder blades. The sense of being watched by someone who truly sees.
My gaze drags up, involuntary and heavy. It snags on her.
Talia.
She stands a step beyond the main flow, hands shoved deep in her pockets. I’ve known her name for years, but right now it doesn’t feel like a label. It hits like a collision, visceral and raw.
She isn’t moving. She isn’t cheering. She’s just standing there, bracing for impact, refusing to duck.
It’s a direct hit—hazel on green across ten feet of concrete.
The crowd noise dulls, dropping to a distant thud.
The smell of rubber, sweat, and cold metal sharpens until it’s all I can taste.
My fingers tighten around the helmet, the edge of the shell biting into my palm.
Move, I tell myself. Look away. Eight steps to the door. Armor on.
I don’t.
I hold her gaze instead. Something in my chest cracks under the pressure—a hairline fissure in a wall I’ve spent years pouring concrete into. She doesn’t look at me like I’m a performance or a score. She looks at me like she’s cataloging the damage. As if she recognizes it.
For a heartbeat—two, three—it feels like we’re locked in the same small, airtight room. Her chin tips up, a defiant angle that says I’m here, and I hear it as a challenge aimed straight at that fracture.
A trainer claps my shoulder, hard. “Nice work, Thirteen.”
The impact jerks me forward; the current of bodies slams back into motion around us, shattering the moment. I give the trainer a sharp nod, but my eyes stay on her for one more brutal second—long enough to see her fingers whiten around her bag strap. Enough to know she doesn’t look away first.
Then I move. Left turn. Rubber floor under steel. Count the steps to the door. One. Two. Pads knock against my thighs, a metronome I can trust more than the arena behind me. Three. Four. The roar fades, replaced by the hum of old fluorescent lights and the distant drone of the Zamboni. Five. Six.
Each step is a deliberate retreat from the fracture I just let in. Seven. Eight.
By the time I hit the door and shoulder it open, the helmet is back up, clamped between my ribs and arm like a shield I don’t remember deciding to lift.
The locker room erupts into chaos. Music blares, bass thumping so hard the mirrors vibrate, and my teeth ache with it. Guys scream, spray water. The air thickens with the cloying sweetness of cheap champagne someone always smuggles in, layered over the raw, animal reek of sweat.
Gio stomps in, whooping, slamming his stick against the trash can. “That’s how we fucking do it!” He claps my shoulder pad, a jarring impact that makes my muscles seize, wired to reject an impact I didn’t see coming. “Stone wall, Reid! A fucking stone wall!”
Nodding with my head down, I retreat to my stall—my only sanctuary.
High-fives and helmet taps come my way, but I let them bounce off my armor, tolerating the chaos without engaging.
Joining in isn’t an option. My job is done.
The win is the receipt, proof of services rendered. A transaction. Never joy.
I start the reverse ritual, undoing the armor piece by painstaking piece.
Helmet off. The noise in the room triples, a physical assault.
I unbuckle my chest protector; the clicks drown in the shouting.
Gloves off, set side by side on the shelf.
Blocker. Pads. Left, then right. Each strap unhooked, each piece placed in my bag—but the bag stays open, one side gaping.
I run a hand over the scuffed leather of my glove, checking the lacing. I checked it twice. It doesn’t matter. The act matters more than the answer. The ritual keeps the breaks from widening.
The ridged imprint of the chest plate still grooves my skin; I press a thumb to the mark until it hurts more than the noise does. Pain I choose is better than sound I can’t control.
Adrian strides in, a dark grin carved into his face. He rides the high of the win, ice-blue eyes burning with a victor’s fire. He catches my eye as he passes my stall; the grin falters for a split second—a silent question: You good?
The one he’s been asking since high school. Since before the contracts. Since before my father’s leash tightened. The question that really means: Are you still holding the line, or did something get in?
I give him a sharp nod. “I’m good.” The lie slides out smooth. Automatic.
He nods back, lets it stand—for now.
“Hale’s girl is his good-luck charm!” someone yells, and the room erupts.
Adrian shakes his head, grin still in place. He’s found his anchor. Good for him. Some people get to have soft things. My hands clench around the glove, the blade of my skate glinting cold where it rests on my thigh.
Laughter spikes behind me—shouts, whistles, bodies leaning too far into my space. One of them bumps my shoulder; the sudden proximity turns the air sharp.
“Jesus, Reid, you ever crack a smile?” Cole asks, peeling soaked tape from his wrists. From the stall beside him, Dante Voss only grunts, his intense gaze fixed on nothing. “You need to get laid, man. Seriously.”
A few guys laugh. I don’t look up. I ignore it. But the words stick, grit under my skin.
I finish packing, movements economical, precise.
When the last piece is in, I zip the bag closed—a deliberate full stop.
While other guys are still reliving the third period, my armor’s already stowed.
Their noise is celebration. Mine is invasion.
The lights are too bright. The music is a knife.
I track exits without thinking—habit, threat grid.
If I need to get out, I can be in the hallway in six strides.
Five if I don’t care who I shoulder aside.
I grab a towel and disappear into the showers, the steam a welcome shield. The pounding music dulls to a low pulse through tile and concrete, like a heartbeat on the other side of glass. Hot water hisses over me, washing away sweat, sound, and the crowd still roaring somewhere far above.
The spray needles the grooves the straps left in my shoulders. I brace a palm on tile, lower my head, and let heat hammer the back of my skull until the picture that keeps forcing itself into my brain settles, a shade less sharp.
Section 104. Dark jacket. Hands buried like she’s holding herself in place.
I picture the glass cracking near her section. Picture her staying put. Her chin tipped up, barely—like a dare. The stillness she wore like armor. A calm I recognized.
My fist flexes against the tile, knuckles whitening. The heat doesn’t burn it out; it refines it instead. I know her name. I’ve known it for years. But tonight it feels different—like hearing it in a new language. As if someone redefined it without my permission.
I’m the first one out. Showered, dressed in jeans and a black hoodie, the fabric a soft, anonymous shroud.
The hallway outside the locker room is emptying, the roar replaced by the distant, lonely hum of the ice machines.
All I want is the silence of my truck. The cold, dark quiet is my only sanctuary.
“A word, Reid.”
I stop. My hand tightens on the gear bag strap, nylon biting into my palm.
Coach Addison stands by the exit, arms crossed, his expression a carved mask of authority—but there’s something softer beneath it tonight. He’s been waiting for me.
Men only wait in empty hallways when they’re about to close a door on you. Or when they’re standing guard over something that matters.
“Coach,” I say, turning, body stiff, already braced for impact I can’t see.
“Good game,” he says. It’s not praise; it’s an assessment.
“We won.”
“You were solid.” He steps closer, invading my space. The hallway shrinks, air thickening—but not in the way it does with my father. “Focused. I like that.”
“It’s my job.”
“It is,” he agrees quietly. He studies me for a beat, his gaze too sharp, too knowing. “But that’s not why I stopped you.”