Chapter 22
Declan
The ritual held.
I can feel it in the ice under my blades, in the way the puck looks the size of a beach ball coming off their sticks. The helmet against the glass. Her fingers tracing the bars. It unlocked something in the air, something in me.
The other team pulls their goalie. Desperate. Stupid.
Six attackers swarm the zone. Chaos in a white jersey.
My heartbeat is a war drum, steady and slow in a way it hasn’t been for months. Every nerve in my body is sharp, calibrated, alive.
Puck comes flying in from the point—one-timer, heavy, screaming through traffic.
I kick it away. The pad thuds, solid.
Crowd roars, stomping the bleachers until the vibration travels up my legs.
Another shot. Low, glove side.
I trap it. Freeze play.
They reset. The faceoff is to my right.
My guys block two shots in rapid succession—meat and bone throwing itself in front of rubber. Then a rebound lands dead in front of me.
The other team is pinched too deep. Their net is gaping at the other end of the rink, two hundred feet of open ice away.
I see it—the lane.
The empty net.
The moment.
I don’t think. I just take the chance.
I set the puck, flick my wrist, and send it spinning down the center of the ice. It glides clean, perfect, insultingly slow.
The entire arena holds its breath.
The silence is sudden and absolute. Five thousand people freeze, eyes tracking the black disc sliding across white ice.
I watch it.
Past the blue line.
Past the red line.
Bisecting the circles.
It feels like it takes an hour. Time stretches, elastic and thin.
Then—
It hits the empty net. Goal.
The sound that erupts almost knocks me backwards.
Chants. Screams. The physical force of the arena losing its mind at once. The horn blares, shaking the glass, shaking my bones.
The boys slam into me, a pile of navy jerseys crashing against my chest and back.
“GOALIE GOAL!” Cole screams, shaking my facemask. “ARE YOU KIDDING ME?”
The scoreboard flashes—Titans now first in the division.
I let myself look at the student section. Through the celebration, through the chaos, I find her.
Talia.
She’s standing right where I left her, hands pressed over her mouth, eyes wide and shining. She’s not looking at the scoreboard. She’s looking at me.
I don’t smile—not fully—but I tip my helmet a fraction. A salute.
Yours.
Her expression softens, something glowing in her face like I just hung the moon instead of putting a piece of rubber in a net.
Maybe I did.
Steam hits me the second I step off the ice. My jersey sticks to my skin; my pads feel twice as heavy, weighted down by sweat and victory. I tug my helmet off, shaking out damp hair, lungs burning with the good kind of fire.
Then I see her.
She’s waiting at the mouth of the tunnel, hugging her coat tight to her chest, tucked against the wall to stay out of the path of the team.
My feet slow.
The noise of the arena fades into a dull hum.
“Talia,” I say, barely louder than a breath.
She steps toward me before she can stop herself. Her eyes are huge, darting over my face. She isn't looking at the history-maker. She isn't looking at the stats. She's looking at me. Checking for cracks.
“You scored,” she breathes, the words punching out of her in a laugh of disbelief. “Declan, you actually scored.”
“I did.”
“A goalie goal,” she says, shaking her head, a smile breaking free that lights up the dark tunnel. “Do you have any idea how rare that is?”
“I’ve heard the stats.”
She laughs again, and the sound snaps the last thread of my restraint. I pull her into me.
My gear is bulky, damp, hard plastic and leather, but she doesn’t flinch. She steps right into the space between my pads, her hands finding the front of my chest protector. She smells like peppermint and vanilla, a sweet, comforting scent that is exactly what I need right now.
I press a kiss to the top of her head.
Soft. Quick. Too much for a public tunnel, but I don’t care who sees.
“You’re my good luck charm,” I murmur into her hair.
Her breath catches. I feel the tremor of it against my chest.
“The helmet,” she whispers.
“The helmet,” I confirm.
I force myself to step back slowly, my fingers dragging down her arm, memorizing the friction of her coat before I let go.
“See you after,” I say.
Her nod is tiny. Shaken.
I walk away before I do something that ruins both of us right here on the rubber mats.
Chaos. Absolute chaos inside.
Cole tackles me the second I walk through the doors. “HE SCORES! HE SCORES!”
Gio smacks my helmet out of my hand, catching it before it hits the floor. “Look at him. Look at this psycho SMILING.”
I shove him, but he’s not wrong—I am smiling, stupid and wide and real.
Dante yells something in Italian I’m pretty sure translates to “about damn time.”
Adrian grips the back of my neck, forehead resting against mine for a second. “Proud of you, man. That was history.”
I breathe it in. The noise. The brotherhood. The high.
Gio swings his shirt around his head. “Elm House tonight! Non-negotiable! We are drinking until we forget our own names!”
I shake my head, turning toward my stall. “I’m not—”
Adrian interrupts, grinning. “You’re coming. If Talia comes.”
My stomach drops and jumps at the same time.
He pulls out his phone.
“No,” I growl, reaching for it.
“Too late,” he says, dodging me, thumbs flying. “Already texting Clara. It’s happening.”
Idiots. All of them.
But I don’t stop him.
I leave the locker room clean, dressed, hair damp, adrenaline still humming under my skin. I’m ready to see her—hoping she waited, even though I don’t deserve that kind of loyalty yet.
I step out the back exit, the secure one reserved for players and staff.
And hit a wall.
My father is waiting.
Alistair Reid stands like a blade—sharp suit, expensive coat, expression carved out of cold marble. He’s leaning against the black sedan that pulled right up to the loading dock. He used his academic board credentials to get past security; the pass is still clipped to his lapel.
He invaded the one space that was supposed to be locked.
Beatrice is at his side, immaculate in fur, smiling too tightly.
Perfect.
Of course.
“Declan,” my father says. No congratulations. Just business.
“Did you see the game?” I ask, knowing the answer.
“I saw the display,” he corrects, his lip curling slightly. “And I saw who you saluted.”
My jaw clenches.
“Did you get my message about the consequences?” he continues smoothly.
“I did.”
“And?”
“And I’m not bending for you.”
His nostrils flare. A crack in the facade. “Then the trust fund is frozen. Indefinitely. I’ve already instructed legal to tie it up in litigation until you’re forty if I have to. You won't see a dime of your mother's money.”
I almost laugh.
The trust. My mother’s money. The only thing in the Reid empire that wasn’t built on debt and leverage. She left it to me to escape them, not to fund them.
“Great,” I say, stepping closer. “Freeze it. Burn it. I don’t need it.”
His eyes widen, just a fraction. He expected panic. He expected me to fold for the cash because that’s what he would do. He doesn’t understand that the money isn’t my escape route anymore.
Beatrice steps forward, her composure fracturing, voice cracking.
“You’re ruining everything for me!”
I turn my gaze on her—flat, cold, done.
“Didn’t you know?”
I tilt my head, letting the cruelty land.
“My father needs your money because he ran the family accounts into the ground. And your father needs our name because he’s desperate for legitimacy.” I look between them. “It’s a transaction. I’m just the receipt. And I’m done being passed around.”
Her face blanches white. The truth hits her like physical violence. She didn't know.
Alistair steps between us, hand raising like he might strike me.
“Watch yourself, son.”
“No,” I say quietly, towering over him. “Watch me.”
I shoulder past them.
My hands shake.
Not from fear—from fury.
And from the desperate, clawing need to be anywhere else. To be with her.
The second I walk inside Elm House, it feels like a pressure cooker—music pounding, bodies everywhere, the floor vibrating with victory energy.
But I see her instantly.
Talia stands near the foyer with Clara, Zoe, Maya, and Genny. She’s laughing at something Zoe said, head tilted back, throat bare and soft in the dim light. She looks… light.
Then Rylan appears.
He weaves out of the kitchen, eyes glassy, shirt unbuttoned. He shouldn’t be here. He’s scratched. He’s exiled. He crashed the party.
He spots her.
He leans toward her, too close, too familiar, invading the circle.
My vision tunnels. The noise drops away.
Before I can cross the room, Dante steps between them like a shadow peeled off the wall. He doesn’t touch Rylan—he just looks at him. Dark. Lethal. Silent.
“Who let you in?” Dante asks, voice low enough to cut under the bass.
Rylan goes chalk white.
Two Elm House pledges swarm instantly, muttering about “blacklists” and “get him out.”
Rylan stumbles out the front door, looking over his shoulder, bitter and drunk.
Dante claps my shoulder as he passes me, heading for the keg. “Handled.”
I move straight to Talia.
“You okay?”
She nods quickly. Too quickly. Her eyes search mine, reading the tension I carried in from the parking lot.
“Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine. Dante got him.”
I don’t believe she’s fine. But I step aside, letting Clara hook her arm through Talia’s and pull her deeper into the house, away from the door.
The team claims the biggest couch in the room—L-shaped, sagging heavily on one end. Dante takes the corner. Cole sprawls across half the middle. Gio flings himself onto the far cushion.
I take the end seat, the armrest. Lowest traffic, best sightline to the door.
Talia hovers nearby. She moves to sit on the arm of the couch next to me.
Zoe appears out of nowhere, holding a red cup, dancing backward as someone bumps into her. The room is packed, bodies colliding.
“Whoops!” Zoe laughs, staggering slightly.
She knocks into Talia. Not hard, but enough.
Talia loses her balance. She stumbles back—
And lands square in my lap.
She freezes.
So do I.
The contact is electric, igniting every nerve ending in my body. Her soft curves mold against my hard angles, a perfect juxtaposition that sends my pulse racing. The intoxicating scent of peppermint and vanilla wraps around me, pulling me deeper into this moment.
“I—I’ll move,” she whispers, her hands pressing against my chest as if to create distance.
But before I can think, my hand finds her hip, fingers digging into the denim of her jeans, anchoring her in place.
“Stay.” The word rumbles from my chest, reverberating against her back, demanding her presence.
She freezes, the world around us blurring as time slows.
The music fades into a distant thud, while my heart hammers against my throat, pulsing in rhythm with the warmth radiating from her body.
She shifts slightly, seeking comfort, her bottom brushing against my thighs, igniting a heat that spirals down my spine—raw and jagged.
I lean closer, lips grazing the shell of her ear, my breath hitching. “Please, stop doing that.”
A shiver runs through her, and she stills—then shifts again, testing the boundaries of this charged space between us.
My breath breaks on a curse. “Fuck.”
I reach up with my free hand, gripping her other hip, pulling her closer until we’re flush against each other, feeling the undeniable hardness of me pressed against her softness.
I’m not grinding, not crude; I refuse to ruin this fragile intimacy, but it’s becoming nearly impossible to contain the desire surging through me.
Her sharp inhale pierces the tension, and her fingers dig into my thigh for balance, clinging to me as if I’m her lifeline. The heat in my gaze is molten, a silent promise that hangs heavy between us. Can’t you feel that? It’s yours.
Around us, the conversation morphs into a war room, voices rising and falling like waves. Clara, Adrian, Zoe, Maya, Genny, Dante, Cole, and Gio are deep in strategy, plotting a coordinated strike against my father.
“He relies on the booster gala for quarter-four funding,” Genny types, her focus razor-sharp.
“I can pull the donor list,” Maya adds, eyes glinting with determination. “See who actually has liquidity.”
But I can’t hear them—not with Talia’s warmth enveloping me, her body a soothing weight in my lap. The heat radiating from her skin seeps into my clothes, melding us together, while her heartbeat thrums against my chest, a steady reminder of her presence.
She relaxes against me, inch by inch, melting into my side, her head tipping back to rest on my shoulder—a gesture of trust that knocks the wind out of me.
Just when I think I might lose myself, she shifts again, barely—a whisper of friction that sends pleasure coursing through me. My grip tightens on her hips, possessive and bruising, as I bury my face in her neck, inhaling her scent.
“You undo me,” I murmur, low enough for only her to hear, the words heavy with longing.
In this charged silence, the world outside fades away, leaving just the two of us suspended in this moment, aching for something we both know we shouldn’t want—but can’t resist.
And she stays.
Soft.
Warm.
Pressed against me like she finally understands the truth:
I would burn down everything—my father, the money, the legacy—to earn her back.
And I’m just getting started.