Chapter 13
Talia
The silence of the Academic Center is a lie, but I’ve learned to tune it out.
Two hours of proctoring mandatory Sunday study hall.
My job is simple: sign them in, make sure they don’t kill each other, and tell them when they can leave.
The room is a low hum of scratching pens, typing, and the restless shifting of twenty hockey players who are still buzzing with adrenaline from last night’s win.
I finish the last sentence of my own paper, hit save, and close my laptop with a soft, exhausted exhale. My brain is tired, but it’s the good kind of tired—the kind that comes from work, not vigilance. A quiet victory.
At the table directly in front of my desk, Clara taps her pen against Adrian’s notebook.
“Focus, Hale,” she murmurs, sliding a worksheet back toward him. “You’re not solving for X, you’re solving for Y. We went over this.”
Adrian groans, rubbing a hand over his face, but he doesn’t look annoyed. He looks charmed. “You’re a tyrant. I thought tutors were supposed to be supportive.”
“I support your eligibility,” she counters, pointing at the page. “Do it again.”
I hide a smile behind my hand. I don't have to look right to feel him there.
Declan hasn’t moved in forty minutes. Not sitting with the team, he has pulled a chair up to the far end of my proctor table.
His body is angled slightly, with his back to the room, and his shoulder creates a wall between me and the rest of the players.
A tablet occupies his attention, the stylus moving in sharp, precise strokes.
He hasn’t spoken to me or touched me. He’s just… stationed there.
Every time one of the guys gets too loud three tables over, Declan’s pen stops. He doesn't turn around, but the silence around him thickens, radiating outward until the noise drops back down.
He’s a filter. A buffer.
I glance at the clock on the wall. The second hand sweeps past the twelve.
“All right,” I announce, my voice cutting through the low hum. “Eight o’clock. Pack it up.”
The room instantly erupts into the zip of bags and the scrape of chairs. The team is a collective animal waking up—loud, hungry, restless. The energy from Saturday’s win is still vibrating off them, looking for an outlet.
“Starving,” Gio announces, stretching his arms over his head as he walks past the front desk to sign out. “I could eat a horse. Box?”
“Box,” Cole confirms, grinning. “Wing night.”
A chorus of agreement ripples through the room as they file past me, scribbling signatures on the sheet.
Clara packs her tutoring materials, shoving flashcards into her bag. “Food. Yes. Immediately.” She looks at me. “T? You coming? Adrian’s driving.”
The Box. Loud. Crowded. Sticky floors. Too many voices. Too many variables.
I pause long enough for her to read me. I’m not hiding—it’s just… tonight, my battery is blinking red.
“Raincheck,” I say lightly, stacking my own books. “I’m actually exhausted. I think I’m just going to crash.”
Clara studies my face—her usual is this avoidance? scan—but I meet her eyes without flinching. I’m fine. This is a choice.
She sees it. She softens. “Okay. Text me later?”
“Promise.”
She hugs me—quick, warm, and vanilla-scented—and links her arm through Adrian’s as they head for the door. The rest of the team flows out around them, a river of navy hoodies and loud voices.
I take my time packing up the sign-in sheets, letting the room empty out.
When I finally stand, the room is almost quiet.
Almost.
Declan is still there. He’s leaning back in his chair, tablet put away, hood up, watching me.
“You’re not going,” he says.
“I have a paper to edit,” I lie.
He stands. He takes up so much space, blocking out the fluorescent lights, blocking out the empty room. “You finished the paper twenty minutes ago. I watched you save it.”
My cheeks heat. “Stalker.”
“Observant.” He slings his bag over one shoulder. “I’m going to The Box.”
That stops me.
“The Box?” I echo. “You usually… don’t.”
Declan Reid avoids crowds. Everyone knows that. He does his job, he protects his net, and he disappears.
“I’m going tonight,” he says.
“Why?”
He adjusts the strap of his bag, his eyes holding mine. “Because you looked like you wanted to go but were scared to.”
The honesty strips the air from my lungs. Not going for the wings. Not going for the team. He steps closer, just enough to force me to look up.
“I—Declan, I’m tired—”
“Then sit,” he says. His voice drops, low and rough, vibrating in the empty space between us. “Noise hits different when you're not in it alone.”
The sentence lands deep. Quiet. Heavy. True.
Safe versus complicated.
Complicated wins.
I hesitate, my fingers curling around the strap of my bag. “I’m not—”
I stop. The person I meant to avoid doesn’t matter. Rylan’s not welcome anymore. Nobody would let him through the door.
Declan sees the shift in my face. His voice softens. “You’re with me.”
I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. “Okay.”
We walk out together. The night air is crisp, smelling of dead leaves and approaching snow. The parking lot lights hum overhead. We get into his truck—warm air, leather, clean soap.
“You’re bossy,” I mutter as I buckle in.
“You’re stubborn,” he answers, putting the truck in gear.
We fall into silence—not awkward, not tense. Just calibrated. Mutual.
When we reach The Penalty Box a few minutes later, the lot is full. He parks in the back row but doesn’t get out right away. He just sits there, staring at the neon sign flickering above the door.
“You can still bail,” he says quietly. “I’ll take you home.”
My pulse flickers. “You want me to come in?”
His jaw works. “Yeah.”
Not because he needs company.
Because he wants mine.
I unbuckle. “Okay.”
We get out together. The cold wind hits hard.
As we approach the entrance, the heavy door swings open. A figure steps out, zipping a Titans jacket against the wind.
I freeze.
Dad.
He stops dead, hand still on the door handle.
His eyes go from Declan, to me, to the space between us.
Surprise. Then instant, razor-sharp suspicion.
“Talia,” he says, brow furrowing. “Didn’t know you were coming tonight.”
“I wasn’t,” I admit softly, fighting the urge to step away from Declan. “Plans changed.”
He looks tired, lines etched deep around his eyes. He must have stopped in for food after whatever post-game meetings kept him late. But the exhaustion vanishes under a layer of cold assessment.
He looks at Declan.
This isn’t a friendly look. It’s not a coach looking at his starting goalie. It’s a father looking at the live wire he explicitly warned me about.
His jaw tightens. The silence stretches, thin and brittle.
Declan doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t step away from me, either. He stands his ground, chin lifted, meeting my father’s gaze with a terrifying calm.
Dad’s eyes narrow. He doesn’t say a word to Declan. Not a hello. Not a warning. The omission is louder than a shout.
He turns his gaze back to me.
“Text me when you get back to your dorm,” he says. It’s an order.
I swallow. “I will.”
“Don’t stay late.”
He gives Declan one last hard, warning stare—a look that says I see you breaking the rules—before he brushes past us, keys jingling in his hand.
We’re left standing at the door.
My heart is hammering against my ribs. I feel like we just got away with something, and also like we’ve just started a war.
Declan’s hand brushes the small of my back—hovering, not touching—guiding me forward.
“Ready?” he murmurs.
“Yeah,” I breathe.
He reaches the door first and pulls it open.
Noise slams into me—voices, music, clattering plates. My shoulders tense automatically, breath catching in my chest.
But then Declan steps close enough that his body heat cuts through the chaos. The instinct to flinch… pauses. My lungs unlock by a millimeter.
He waits until I step in.
Like he’s taking the first hit of the noise for me.
People notice.
Adrian is the first. He straightens at the high-top where he’s sitting with Clara. His eyes flick from me to Declan, then back again. His eyebrows go up—genuine surprise.
Clara’s mouth drops open. “Oh… oh my God.”
Genny twists around in her booth. Zoe grabs her straw like she’s preparing an interrogation.
Maya freezes with a fry halfway to her mouth.
At the pool table, Dante pauses mid-shot. Cole turns slowly, leaning back against the wall.
“Reid?” Gio says, voice carrying over the music. “You’re actually here?”
The shock in the room is palpable. Declan Reid does not do wing night. Declan Reid does not do crowds.
We approach the table.
We’re left standing at the edge of the group.
Adrian gestures to the open seat beside Clara. “Come on.”
But Declan doesn’t sit there.
He drops into the chair between me and the aisle, a natural barrier. Protective without announcing it.
My heart stutters.
Clara leans in, voice low. “Talia. This is a development.”
“It’s nothing,” I whisper.
Clara glances at Declan, then back. “It is absolutely something.”
Across the table, Adrian coughs, badly hiding a smirk.
Declan pretends not to hear any of it, but his jaw tics once like he definitely does.
A waitress appears a second later, dropping a basket of wings in front of Gio. “What can I get you two?” she asks, looking between me and Declan.
I hesitate. The menu is a blur of grease and options, and the noise level is spiking again.
“Water,” Declan says before I can speak. His voice is low, cutting through the din. “And the curly fries.”
I blink at him. “I didn’t say I wanted fries.”
He turns his head, meeting my gaze. His eyes are calm, steady. “You didn’t eat at break. I heard your stomach growl during the second hour.”
My face flames.
He noticed. He noticed I didn’t eat, he noticed what I usually order, and he ordered for me not to control me, but because he knew I was overwhelmed.
“Okay,” I murmur. “Thanks.”
“You got it,” the waitress says, eyeing him with a little too much interest before walking away.
Zoe leans across the table, propping her chin in her hand. “Curly fries? That’s love language right there.”
“Shut up, Zoe,” Declan says without heat.
“He knows her fry preference,” Zoe whispers loudly to Genny. “Write that down.”
We settle in. Noise rises and falls around us, but it feels far away—like there’s glass between me and the rest of the room. Not isolating. Just… buffered.
At one point, Declan pushes the ketchup toward me without looking.
At another, my knee brushes his.
We both freeze.
Neither of us moves away.
Clara sees it. Maya sees it. Adrian definitely sees it.
The air between us turns molten, quiet, charged.
By the time we leave, the group is buzzing with energy.
Clara and Adrian walk ahead. Genny and Maya fall behind them. Dante and Cole argue playfully about pool shots. Gio taps the door frame twice before exiting—some goalie superstition he absorbed from Declan–Zoe rolling her eyes at him as she follows.
And me?
I walk beside Declan.
Not touching.
Not speaking.
But completely aware of him.
And he is completely aware of me.
The cold air outside is sharp, but I barely feel it. I’m too focused on the warmth radiating from him, the way his stride matches mine without thought, the silent rhythm we seem to fall into automatically.
Clara glances back.
She sees everything.
She nudges Zoe.
Zoe smirks.
Adrian walks near us for a second, slow enough to catch the vibe. He says nothing, but he gives Declan a barely-there nod.
And Declan?
He keeps pace with me like it’s instinct.
Like being beside me is the only place his body knows how to be now.
We stop at the point where the paths split—one toward my dorm, one toward the players’ apartments.
Declan looks at me.
I look at him.
Something heavy and unsaid stretches between us—warm, dangerous, close enough to touch.
A breath away from something else entirely.
Clara’s voice carries from ahead. “Talia! C’mon!”
I swallow. “See you tomorrow?”
He nods once. “Yeah.”
His voice is low. Controlled. But warmed at the edges.
I turn toward the dorms, pulse hot in my throat.
I don’t look back until I reach the door.
He’s still there.
Watching.
Waiting.
Like he did the other night.
Like he always does.