Chapter 20
Declan
I wake up with the kind of ache that’s half soreness, half… something else.
It’s the morning after a shutout, but that isn’t what’s humming under my skin. It’s quieter than adrenaline. Warmer. It slides under my ribs when I breathe.
Talia.
I lie there for a minute, letting the feeling settle—muscles stiff from the game, knuckles throbbing from the tape I ripped off last night, back cracked from the shitty mattress. But none of it lands the way it usually does.
My phone is still in my hand. The screen shows her last message from late last night.
In.
She didn’t reply to my apology. She didn’t absolve me. But she didn’t block me, either. She didn’t shut the door I fully deserved shut. She kept the tether tied.
I’d take silence over absence any day.
I drag myself upright, scrub a hand down my face, and head for the shower. Hot water loosens every bruise from yesterday, steams the small bathroom, fogs the mirror, softens the sound of my own breathing.
Every few minutes, my mind loops back to her. Her voice at the library, tired but edged. Her shoulders dropping for half a second beside me in class. Her flinch on the path—not from me, but near me.
I get dressed slowly. Hoodie over a plain black shirt, jeans, jacket. I don’t consciously choose the hoodie she once held onto in the players' box, but I also don’t stop myself.
I’m grabbing my keys when my phone buzzes.
Talia?
No.
Coach Addison.
Coach: Join Talia and me for brunch. 10:30. West Main Diner.
I stare at the screen like it’s in another language.
He’s never invited me anywhere personal. Never outside of practice, games, film, or his office with the crappy fluorescent lighting. The idea of “brunch” with him feels… off.
Or dangerous.
Or maybe just important.
My stomach tightens.
Does Talia know I’m coming?
Or is this Coach forcing two gravitational objects into the same orbit to see what happens?
Either way—
Me: Yes, sir.
I grab my jacket, lock the door, and head out. The drive across town is crisp, quiet. Frost laces the grass along the edges of the road. The heater in my truck works on its own schedule, so I shiver through the first few minutes until it finally decides to cooperate.
I should be assuming this is about the grant. About Alistair. About the reason the Chronicle photo didn’t run. About the leash he keeps trying to pull me back on.
But the truth is simpler and far more pathetic:
I want to see her.
Even if it hurts.
Even if she barely looks at me.
Even if she’s holding herself together with every bit of strength she has left.
I want to see her.
I pull into the diner’s lot at the same moment a small rideshare car rolls to a stop by the curb. Talia steps out. She freezes when she sees me. Her fingers hover at the strap of her bag.
Oh.
She didn’t know I’d be here.
“Talia,” I say, voice low.
“You’re…” She blinks, sleep still heavy in her eyes. “You’re here.”
“Coach texted,” I answer.
She swallows, her throat working. “He didn’t tell me that.”
It hits sharper than I want it to, but I shove it down. “We can go in.”
She nods but doesn’t move at first. Then she does—a step toward the diner doors, hair shifting over her shoulder. I follow, keeping just enough distance not to crowd her, though every part of me wants to reach for her wrist, her bag, anything.
Coach Addison is already at a corner booth, hands wrapped around a mug of coffee. He looks up as soon as we approach, eyebrows lifting.
“You two got here at the same time,” he says, like that alone means something.
Maybe it does.
Talia slides into the booth. I take the seat beside her. Not across. Not diagonally. Right next to her.
Her thigh just barely brushes mine.
My heart slams so hard it feels stupid.
I shift like I’m making room, but my leg doesn’t move far. And she… doesn’t move away. She leans into the heat, just a fraction, seeking the contact even while she’s angry.
Small. Insignificant. Monumental.
“Good game last night,” she says softly, staring at the table. “I didn’t see your texts until this morning.”
My throat tightens. This morning.
She didn’t see them because she was asleep.
She slept.
After everything—the stalking, the fight, the fear—she went back to her room, sent me one word, and felt safe enough to close her eyes.
“Yeah,” I manage, the realization hitting me harder than the pucks. “It was— It felt good.”
“What did you mean?” she asks. “About it being my fault?”
Oh.
I breathe once, steadying myself. This is the moment. The one where I tell her the truth for once instead of letting it rot inside me.
“You steady me,” I say. “I played like that because—”
“Alright,” Coach says, clearing his throat—not rude, just interrupting at the worst possible time. “We need to talk.”
Talia straightens.
I go still.
Whatever I was about to say evaporates.
Coach looks tired—real, bone-deep tired. He folds his hands on the table.
“Your father pulled the grant,” he says, looking directly at me. “Said unless I discourage your… involvement with Talia, the funding won’t be restored.”
Talia’s breath catches like she’s been hit.
She blurts, too quickly: “We’re not together.”
The sentence slices through me with more precision than any slap.
Coach watches both of us carefully. “That’s what I told him. But Alistair insisted that Declan is… choosing you.”
“What?” she says, shocked. “How does he even know? Why does he even care? Declan is engaged.”
My stomach twists. Hard.
“Beatrice,” Coach says bluntly. “She saw you two in the hallway on Tuesday. She saw the way he looked at you at the gala. The Reids have eyes everywhere, Talia. You know that.”
Talia pales.
“Talia—” I start.
She doesn’t look at me. She’s staring at her father, horror dawning.
Coach lifts a hand. “There’s more. The Chronicle photo. The one they planned to run after the gala? Declan had it pulled.”
Talia’s head snaps toward me.
Her eyes cut straight through me.
I hold her stare, drowning in the weight of her confusion. Her hurt. And the quiet, fragile hope she’s trying to bury.
She whispers, “You did what?”
“I killed it,” I say, my voice low. “I called the desk at 2 A.M. and told them not to run it.”
Her lips part. She’s realizing it.
I didn’t just stand there. I didn’t just take it. While she was walking home alone, thinking I belonged to them, I was burning down the evidence.
“Why?” she asks, voice shaking.
“Because I didn’t want to see it,” I say. “And I didn’t want you to see it.”
The server appears, bright smile, pad in hand, oblivious to the wreckage at table four.
“Coffee for everyone?”
No one speaks.
The silence is suffocating.
“Yes,” Coach finally says. “Black.”
I don’t look away from Talia.
Not once.
Brunch is awkward. Painful. Heavy with unsaid things.
Coach does most of the talking—once the food comes, once Talia stops staring at her omelet like it’s a moral dilemma.
He keeps his tone steady, professional, but there’s strain under it.
“I’m not going to be bullied,” he says. “Not by your father, Declan. Not by anyone. But the man has influence. On donors. On university committees. On people who don’t understand hockey but understand money.”
Talia sets her fork down carefully. Her hands are trembling.
“You have nothing to do with this,” she says to him, her voice fierce. “I won’t let you become a pawn in anything between Declan and Alistair Reid.”
“Talia—”
“No,” she says. “You worked too hard for this program. I’m not letting… whatever this is… cost you your job.”
Her voice breaks, just a little. Enough to tell me she’s trying not to fall apart in public.
She stands a minute later.
“I need to go,” she says quietly. “I have to prep for study hall later.”
She doesn’t look at me.
She leaves.
And the booth feels like a grave.
Coach waits until she’s out the door before he speaks again.
“I never thought I’d have to say any of this,” he mutters. “I’m a coach. Not a damn politician.”
I exhale, hands clasped under the table.
He studies me.
Thinks.
Then sighs.
“I don’t know what’s happening between you two,” he says, voice low. “I’m not asking. I don’t want to know.”
I nod once.
“But I do know this,” he continues, leaning back. “Her shoulders weren’t up around her ears one single time during that meal.”
My chest tightens painfully.
He isn’t wrong.
When she’s scared, stressed, overwhelmed—she curls inward like she’s protecting vital organs.
During brunch, despite the news, despite the grant, despite sitting next to the guy who stalked her—she didn’t. She leaned toward me.
“She trusts you,” he says. “Even when she’s angry. Even when she’s confused. That matters.”
I swallow hard.
“But,” he adds, tone sharpening, “Alistair Reid plays with people like poker chips. If you two keep this up, the fallout won’t hit only you. It’ll hit her. It’ll hit this team. Hell, it’ll hit me.”
I meet his eyes. “I know.”
He nods once, gets up, leaves a generous tip, and walks toward the door.
Before he exits, he turns back.
“Whatever you decide… don’t make my daughter collateral damage.” Then he leaves.
I step outside into the cold. The air bites my cheeks. My breath ghosts out in a fog. The sky is colorless.
Talia is nowhere in sight. Just the faint trace of her shampoo on the breeze. I stand there a long moment, staring down the street she disappeared down.
Then a single, sharp thought slices through everything else: I’m done letting my father choose my life. I’m done letting fear set the terms. I belong to her—whether she wants me or not yet. And I’m going to prove it. In every way that counts. In the light, not the dark. Starting now.