Chapter 14
Talia
It’s Tuesday night. The box of donuts feels heavy in my hand, the paper sack slick with grease. Beside it, two cups of black coffee and one cup of peppermint tea steam gently against the cold arena air.
I told myself I was here to see my dad—that he’d been working late, and he deserved a visit. A truce offering after the disappointment of missing his game last week. The lie fits, but it feels sharp. The truth is wrapped in the second cup of black coffee, steaming hot in my hand.
The arena hallway is quiet. The main lights are dimmed, casting long shadows that stretch and warp the trophies in the lobby. I walk past the closed double doors of the locker room—hearing the faint, distant hum of the showers inside—and stop outside my dad's office.
The door is shut. I tap lightly with my elbow.
“Come in.” Dad’s voice is muffled by the thick wood. Exhausted.
I shoulder the door open. The office is small, airless, thick with the scent of stale paper and burnt coffee. Dad is behind the desk, hunched over game footage, a dark pullover stretched over his broad shoulders. He looks up and manages a tired smile.
“What’s all this?”
“Truce offering,” I say, placing the box and one of the black coffees on his desk. “And yours.”
I keep the peppermint tea, settling into the chair opposite him, but I set the third cup—the second black coffee—down on the edge of the desk. Unclaimed.
He laughs, a quick, dry sound, then reaches for his cup. “You’re a lifesaver, kid. I’ve been staring at the power play stats for three hours.”
My eyes drift immediately to the door, which I left slightly ajar. A clear escape route.
Then I hear it. A deep, steady rumble that precedes him. The sound of heavy footsteps and gear clanging announces him before he ever appears.
Declan.
My breath catches. It worked.
The door swings open and he steps inside, filling the narrow space completely. He’s fresh from the ice, a black hoodie clinging to his broad shoulders, still damp with exertion. His hands are bare, the bruises on his knuckles faded to a dull, healing yellow.
He stops short when he sees me. His sharp, green eyes lock on mine. Cold. Direct.
He sees the extra coffee cup on the desk. Then his gaze snaps back to me.
“You’re here,” he murmurs. An accusation and a question wrapped into one.
“I brought coffee,” I whisper.
He grabs the extra cup, fingers brushing the paper sack, and pulls a chair up. He sits next to me, turning the small office into a claustrophobic triangle of tension. Our knees are inches apart.
The air thickens. Dad starts talking about line defense, but his words are just a wall of sound. All my attention is on the man beside me—his heat, the clean scent of soap and cold metal cutting through the air.
“So, Reid,” Dad says, leaning back. “You ready for Friday?”
“Yes, Coach. I’m good.”
“Good. You’re wound tight, Declan, but you’re my anchor. That’s what I need to see.” Dad takes a slow sip of coffee. “Talia, are you going to come watch your anchor work this week? Or are you hiding in the library again?”
I swallow. Declan’s head doesn’t move, but I feel his silence shift, focusing on my answer.
“I’ll try to make it.”
Declan lets out a slow, silent breath.
Then, a vibration buzzes against his thigh. Silent. Violent. The skin over his knuckles stands out as his fist tightens around the coffee cup.
He doesn’t look at the screen. It’s his leash—the thing he’s trying to hide.
Dad is talking about the penalty kill, blind to the silent war erupting inches from his elbow.
The phone buzzes again. Persistent. Demanding.
I glance at his pocket. Who calls him like that? Who does he ignore with that kind of tension in his jaw?
Declan’s thumb digs into the power button, pressing it hard until the screen blacks out. The decision is quiet, ruthless, and terrifying.
Dad checks the clock on the wall and sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. “All right. I’m done. My eyes are crossing.” He stands up, grabbing his keys. “Declan, head to the showers. Get out of here. Talia, walk me out?”
“Sure.”
I stand, grabbing my peppermint tea from the desk. Declan rises with me, moving with a fluid, predatory grace that sucks the air from the room.
“Night, Coach,” Declan says.
“Night, Reid. Lock the door behind you.”
Dad walks out first, already checking his phone, his mind shifting to the drive home. He turns left toward the exit.
I follow him into the hallway.
Declan follows me.
Dad is five paces ahead, boots echoing on the concrete. He thinks Declan is turning right, toward the locker room. He assumes the order was followed.
Declan doesn’t turn right.
As soon as Dad rounds the corner toward the lobby, a hand clamps onto my upper arm. Gentle, but firm. Declan pulls me into the blind spot of the hallway wall, just outside the pool of light from the office door.
He kicks the office door shut with his boot. Click.
Then he leans back against the frame, closing his eyes for a split second.
“There’s going to be hell to pay for this,” he mutters, low and rough.
I frown, watching him. “For what?”
His eyes snap open, locking onto mine. “For being here. For testing the leash.”
He pushes off the doorframe. He lifts the peppermint tea cup from my hand, setting it silently on the floor by the wall.
Then, he cages me.
Bare arms slam against the cinderblock on either side of my head. He leans in until his chest is inches from mine, blocking out the hallway light. The faint scent of soap is scalding.
“You should know who you’re inviting into your orbit, Addison,” he rasps, voice a low, dangerous vibration. “I’m on a short leash. And you know who’s holding it.”
“I know,” I whisper, tilting my chin up. “But you just deleted a phone call, didn't you?”
His jaw flexes. A shadow passes over his eyes—dark, resentful, trapped. I don’t know who was on the other end of that line, but ignoring them cost him something. And he did it anyway.
His breath brushes my cheek, warm and threaded with frustration, restraint, want. His eyes drop to my mouth—a slow, deliberate drag that freezes every thought in my head. The space between us shrinks down to a single question: Will he? Will I let him?
He dips closer. One forearm slides lower on the wall as if he’s fighting the drag of momentum pulling him into me. My fingers twitch at my sides. The air tastes sharp. My pulse is a drum against my ribs.
His nose skims mine. A whisper of contact. A promise. A threat. The kind of almost that burns more than any kiss could.
I feel his self-control shake.
And mine… frays.
Clang.
Metal shrieks against metal. The heavy door to the locker room flies open.
I jump, heart rocketing into my throat.
Adrian and Gio stumble out into the hallway, sweating, laughing, practice bags heavy on their shoulders.
They freeze.
Adrian’s eyes go wide, taking in the scene: Declan pinning me to the cinderblock wall. The heavy silence. The intense proximity.
“Whoa,” Gio mutters, stopping dead.
Adrian doesn't laugh. His gaze snaps to Declan, sharp and alarmed. He looks from Declan’s rigid posture to me, pressed against the wall, and his expression hardens into a warning. Are you insane?
Declan doesn't move. He holds his position for one agonizing second—his anger and his want a physical force pressing against me—then slowly, reluctantly, he straightens. The leash yanks tight.
He turns to Adrian, face a mask of frustration. “We’re busy, Hale. Give us a minute.”
Adrian doesn't move immediately. He looks at Declan like he’s trying to communicate telepathically: Coach just left. He’s in the parking lot. You are playing with a loaded gun.
“Reid,” Adrian says, voice low. A warning shot.
“I said give us a minute.”
Adrian exhales, a sharp sound of annoyance and loyalty warring. He grabs Gio’s arm and steers him toward the exit. “Let’s go. We didn't see anything.”
“But—” Gio starts.
“Walk,” Adrian orders.
The exit door swings shut behind them. Silence follows, but it’s different now—charged, broken open, pulsing with all the things we almost did.
My breath comes shallow. His does too.
“Declan…” I whisper, voice unsteady.
His eyes lock on mine, still molten at the edges. Still wanting. Still holding back with visible effort.
“Go,” he says quietly. Not pushing me away, but giving me space he clearly doesn’t want to give. “Your dad is waiting. Go. Before I forget why I shouldn’t.”
I nod, but I don’t move right away. I grab my tea from the floor, hand shaking. Something inside me is still leaning toward him, still reaching for the heat he tried to smother.
When I finally step out from the wall, his gaze follows the movement like he feels it across his skin. We stand there for another suspended second—too far apart now, but not far enough for safety.
“I’ll… see you Friday,” I manage.
His throat works. “Yeah.”
I walk down the hallway. My pulse still pounds where his breath touched my skin. I don’t look back until I reach the exit door.
He’s still there.
Still watching.
Still holding himself together by threads.
And the worst part—the truth I can’t outrun—is that I’m not afraid of that darkness in him.
I’m intrigued by it.
Even when I know I should be terrified.