Chapter 23
Talia
Genny’s apartment isn’t an apartment tonight.
It’s a command center. A battlefield. A pulse of frantic energy wrapped in printer paper and half-empty soda cans.
It’s Sunday night. Saturday passed in a blur of recovery skates and silent texts, but nobody is resting now.
The coffee table has been dragged into the middle of the room, covered in pizza boxes, highlighters, sticky notes, and Genny’s three-monitor Franken-computer rig. Wires snake across the floor like veins.
And we’re all here.
Declan’s people.
My people.
The room feels like a team huddled in the last sixty seconds of overtime.
I drop onto the far end of the couch, pulling my knee up, wrapping my arms around it. Not hiding. Just… containing the energy under my skin. Declan sits beside me, thigh pressed against mine, heavy and warm. He hasn’t let me drift more than a few inches all night.
And I haven’t pushed him away.
His hand rests on his knee, fingers tapping once, twice, then stilling. Every time someone new enters the room—Zoe slamming the door, Gio stumbling in behind her, Dante’s quiet footfalls—his knuckles brush my leg. A silent check-in.
You okay?
Still here?
Still with me?
I hate how much it helps.
I hate how much I’m starting to lean toward him instead of away.
And I really hate that I brought something for him.
The hoodie pocket of my sweatshirt hides the small plastic bag—the novelty goalie mask keychain I bought at the campus bookstore. Stupid. Silly. Totally not me. But the moment I saw it, my brain whispered: he scored a goal on Friday.
I meant to give it to him later. Privately. Where no one could see me soften.
But now—now he’s sitting beside me on Genny’s couch, thigh pressed to mine, choosing me in front of everyone like it costs him nothing.
The warmth in my chest is immediate and molten.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I reach into my pocket.
The little plastic bag crackles softly.
Declan glances at the sound, brows pulling together.
I freeze for half a second—then pull out the keychain.
A tiny white goalie mask.
I swallow, my cheeks burning. “You… scored a goal Friday night,” I say, holding it out with a hand that won’t stay steady. “So. I, um. Saw this and— I got it.”
Declan doesn’t move.
His breath catches—actually catches—like I just handed him something priceless instead of a $4.99 impulse buy.
Slowly, like he’s afraid it’ll vanish, he takes it from my fingers.
“Talia,” he says quietly. Just my name. Like it means something. His thumb brushes the plastic mask with a kind of reverence that makes something deep and fragile inside me tilt. “You got this… for me?” he asks.
The room has gone dead silent. Everyone is watching.
But for once, it doesn’t scare me.
“Yes,” I whisper.
A slow, stunned smile curls his mouth. One I’ve never seen on him before. Soft. Disbelieving. Beautiful.
He clips the keychain onto the zipper of his athletic duffle. Not hiding it. Not pocketing it. Putting it somewhere everyone can see.
Then he nudges my thigh with his—gentle but intentional.
A wordless: I see you. I choose you. Thank you.
Across the room, Gio lets out a low, impressed whistle. “Look at that. Stone Wall Reid has a soft spot.”
“Shut up, Gio,” Declan says, but there’s no heat in it.
Adrian catches Declan’s eye from the kitchen island. He doesn’t say anything, just gives a short, solid chin lift. Approval.
Clara clears her throat, pulling the attention back to the center of the room. “Okay. Everyone.”
The room hushes immediately. This is happening.
Genny adjusts her glasses. “Clara and Adrian filled me in. Our target is Alistair Reid. Our goal is finding everything he’s been hiding and using it to secure the grant, protect Coach Addison’s job, and make it impossible for him to retaliate.”
My stomach tightens.
Dad. His job. His life.
Declan’s thigh presses harder against mine. I’ve got you.
Genny nods at Maya. “You’re the weapon.”
Maya stops pacing. “I need more than rumors. I need a grenade. A contract, an email, a recording. Something that proves blackmail.”
Clara jumps in. “Something that is an NCAA violation.”
“Exactly,” Maya says.
Then Declan speaks.
“I have his passwords.”
Every head swivels to him. He sits forward, forearms braced on his thighs.
“He gave me access years ago. Donor portal, personal accounts. Said he wanted me to ‘learn the family business.’”
Zoe stares. “Your father gave you access to the empire?”
“He never changes them,” Declan says, voice cold. “Because he’s arrogant. He doesn't think I'm smart enough to use them against him. He thinks I’m tame.” Declan’s laugh is short and sharp. “Guess I’m finally proving him wrong.”
Genny types rapidly. “It’s a start, but the donor portal won’t show the real dirt.”
“Hadden & Croft,” Dante says quietly from the window. He doesn’t even turn. He just speaks into the room like he knows the weight of the name will hit the floor like a blade.
Maya’s eyes sharpen instantly. Cole nods.
“What is that?” Zoe asks.
“Alistair’s firm,” Dante says. “My grandfather sat on the bench with the senior partner. My family has been in the legal world for three generations—I know where they bury the bodies. That firm is where Alistair keeps the things he doesn't want the IRS to see.”
“This is where everything gets buried,” Maya agrees.
Genny pushes her glasses up. “If I can get into a terminal in his Athletics office, I can tunnel into the firm’s system without tripping alarms.”
My breath catches. The Athletics building. Dad’s hallway.
“So we need a distraction,” I say aloud.
Everything stops. Everyone looks at me.
My cheeks go hot but I hold their eyes.
“I grew up in that building. I know every hallway. I can get someone into the donor wing without questions—if we create the right kind of chaos.”
Zoe grins like a wolf. “Me and Gio.”
“Obviously it’s us,” Gio says proudly.
“Children,” Dante murmurs, but his mouth twitches.
Clara crosses her arms. “I’ll run interference. No one ignores a compliance threat.”
Adrian adds, “I’ll pull any assistant coaches into another hallway.”
Cole straightens. “I’ll come with Maya. I know their tactics.”
Genny nods. “Okay. We need a point person inside the donor hallway. Someone they won’t question.”
I swallow. “I can do that. I can walk Genny down with a meltdown about scheduling conflicts. No one will blink.”
Everyone looks at me—at once—but this time it’s not pressure. It’s respect.
Declan’s hand finds mine. He doesn’t lace our fingers. He just shifts so the back of his hand brushes mine.
Heat pools low in my stomach. I lean a little closer.
Zoe grins. “Look at her. Captain of the Chaos Crew.”
Even Maya gives a crisp nod. “It works.”
Then Declan stands.
The whole room locks onto him like gravity. He looks at each of them—his team, my team—and says:
“He thinks he can threaten our families and we’ll just fold.” A pause. The temperature of the room drops. “He has no idea who he picked a fight with.”
A shiver runs through the room.
I reach out without thinking—my fingers brushing his. Just a touch. Soft. Deliberate. His breath stops. His hand turns, catching mine fully. I hold on.
By the time Genny calls a halt, my brain is buzzing—half adrenaline, half exhaustion.
I stand to grab my bag, ready to walk back to my dorm alone, but the second I shift my weight, Declan is there. One big hand wrapped gently around my elbow.
“Come on,” he murmurs. “I’ll drive you.”
I don’t argue. I don’t want to.
Outside, the air is cool and sharp. He opens the passenger door for me and waits until I’m buckled before circling to the driver’s side.
He drives with one hand on the wheel, the other resting on his thigh. The silence feels different tonight. Not heavy. Not awkward. Just… charged. A live wire humming between the seats.
Finally, halfway to my dorm, I speak.
“Is this really happening?” I whisper. “All of us going after your dad?”
His jaw tightens. “Yeah. It’s happening.”
I watch him out of the corner of my eye. The strong line of his profile. The bruise on his cheekbone from Friday’s game is darkening now. He looks like he was carved out of dusk and trouble.
And yet—my body feels safe with him.
He turns into the parking lot behind my dorm and pulls into an empty space, leaving the engine running. He doesn’t move to open his door. He just sits there. Waiting. Letting me decide.
I take a breath that feels like stepping off a cliff.
“There’s something I should tell you.”
His head snaps toward me instantly. Eyes sharp. Focused.
The reaction alone almost makes me stop—like old fear remembering how to coil in my lungs. But I push through it.
“My ex,” I say quietly. “At my old school.”
Every muscle in his body goes still.
“He…” I start, and my voice fails. Tears prick my eyes. “He never hit me. Not… technically. But he would hit walls, throw things when he got angry, jealous, possessive. He scared me.”
Declan doesn’t speak, but he turns fully toward me, his whole body listening.
“One night at a party, I told him I was done. That I wanted out.” My hands twist in my lap, knuckles white. “He didn’t like that. He pushed me into a spare bedroom and locked the door.”
The memory washes over me—the click of the lock, the smell of stale beer, the sudden, suffocating lack of air.
“He held me down,” I whisper. “He pinned my wrists. He was… heavy. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t breathe. He was trying to… to force me.”
Declan makes a sound low in his throat—a rough, strangled noise of pure rage.
“Is he here?” Declan demands, the words sharp and immediate. “Is he on this campus?”
“No,” I say, looking up. “He’s gone. I transferred. He stayed.”
The tension in Declan’s shoulders doesn’t drop, but the murderous light in his eyes shifts from immediate threat to cold, retro-active fury.
“I screamed,” I get out. “Someone heard me. But for a minute… I was a thing. Just a thing he thought he owned.”
Declan reaches out, hand hovering near my face, trembling slightly.
“Talia,” he says, low and rough.
He brushes the tear from my cheek with his thumb. The touch is so gentle it makes me want to sob.
“I’m telling you because… sometimes when you get angry, even when it’s not at me—my body remembers being trapped. It remembers his hands.”
He closes his eyes like the words hit him like a punch.
“I would never—”
“I know,” I whisper. “I know you wouldn’t. But my body doesn’t always know.”
He exhales shakily and drops his head back against the seat. Then—slowly—he shifts, turning to face me fully. His eyes are wet. Wrecked.
“Thank you,” he murmurs. “For trusting me with that.”
He lets the silence settle. Not to fill it, not to rush it. Just sits there, present, warm, steady.
“You’re not him,” I say softly.
His throat works. His hand curls into a fist so tight the tendons stand out.
“My father,” he says finally. “He’s the one you should be afraid of.”
The air shifts.
“What do you mean?”
He swallows hard, eyes fixed on the dashboard like he can’t bear to look at me while he says it.
“It wasn’t an accident,” he says. “My mother.”
My stomach drops. “Declan—”
“She was sick,” he says, voice flat, hollow. “Cancer. For two years. And the whole time… he didn’t care about her. He cared about the inconvenience. He controlled her doctors, her visitors, her medicine. He made her small.”
He looks at his hands.
“He locked her down until she didn't have a voice left. Even at the end, it was about his image. His control. He squeezed the life out of her long before the sickness did.”
The grief in his voice is a blade. One he’s held alone for years.
“And the trust fund?” I ask gently.
His laugh is broken. “That was hers. It’s the only thing she managed to keep from him. It’s locked until I’m twenty-five or graduate. He’s been using the threat of it as a leash for years. He only cares about control. Funding. Power. He’s not losing any of it without blood.”
I reach for him before I can overthink it.
My hand slides over his fist. Slow. Soft. A choice.
He freezes. Not because he’s scared—because he’s shocked. Like he never expected me to touch him first.
“Talia,” he whispers.
“You’re nothing like him,” I say quietly. “Nothing.”
His fist uncurls under my touch, palm opening, fingers brushing mine like he’s memorizing the moment.
The air between us changes. The grief is still there, but something else rises to meet it.
Heat. Need.
He leans in a fraction.
Just a fraction. And that’s all it takes for something inside me to break open.
I lift my hand and cup his jaw—slow, reverent.
He inhales sharply, eyes darkening like a storm rolling in.
“You make me feel safe,” I whisper.
That’s all it takes.
He moves—not fast, not greedy, just sure—closing the distance between us. His forehead touches mine. His hand slides to the back of my neck, fingers threading gently into my hair.
My breath stutters.
His does too.
We sit there for a long second, just breathing the same air, the weight of the confessions settling around us like dust.
Then I tilt my chin just an inch.
An invitation. A yes.
And Declan kisses me.
His mouth crushes mine, hot and desperate. A low groan vibrates in his chest. I open for him, and his tongue sweeps inside, tasting me, claiming me.
Heat pools low in my stomach, heavy and aching.
My fingers curl into his hoodie, pulling him closer. His other hand settles on my hip, fingers digging in, pulling me until I’m straining against the console.
When he finally pulls away, he rests his forehead against mine again, breathing hard, voice wrecked. His eyes are blown wide, dark with a hunger that matches my own.
“Talia,” he whispers. “Tell me what you want.”
I don’t hesitate.
My hand slides from his jaw to his neck, feeling the pulse hammering there. I pull my hand back and reach into my pocket.
I pull out my key card.
I hold it up between us. The plastic gleams in the dashboard lights.
“I have a single,” I say, voice shaking but sure. “My dad pulled strings so I wouldn’t have a roommate.”
Declan stares at the key like it’s a weapon and a lifeline all at once.
“I want you to walk me up,” I say softly. “And I don’t want you to leave yet.”
A tremor runs through him. He takes the card from my fingers, his touch grazing mine, electric and possessive.
“Yes,” he murmurs against my mouth. “Anything.”