Chapter 30
Talia
The final horn is a blast of pure, screaming victory.
The arena erupts. The sound is a solid wall, slamming into me—stomping feet, shrieking fans, the pounding bass of the goal song rattling through metal bleachers. It vibrates in my teeth, thrums under my skin like a second heartbeat.
We won. We beat Blackwood.
For two hours, the scandal didn’t matter. The news trucks parked outside, the reporters camped on the quad, the endless scroll of comments about Alistair Reid’s suspension—it all vanished under the roar of the game.
Clara, Zoe, Genny, and Maya all shoot up around me, a wall of navy and silver. Arms in the air. Fists pumping.
I’m the only one not moving.
I’m on my feet in Section 104, but my hands are fisted at my sides. My heart isn’t celebrating. It’s ricocheting around my ribs, wild and panicked. It missed the “victory” memo and went straight to “emergency.”
It should be just another game. It should be just another win.
But it’s not. Not with him out there.
On the ice, the team floods toward Declan. He’s a fortress in pads—calm, collected, controlled amidst the chaos.
My eyes slide past #13, even though they never really leave him. My gaze is pulled like a magnet to the other side of the ice.
Blackwood’s #19.
Mark Jensen is laughing. He rips his helmet off, shaking dark, sweaty hair out of his eyes. He taps a teammate’s glove with his stick, shrugging off the loss like it’s mildly inconvenient, not devastating. He looks… casual. Loose.
Alive.
He has no idea his entire life is about to tilt.
My stomach roils. Skin goes tight. I feel the edges of the world sharpening, the way it does right before a panic attack—only this time it’s different. The buzzing in my veins isn’t fear.
It’s rage.
“Talia?”
Clara’s voice is close, soft. I feel her hand hover just off my arm. “You don’t have to do this. We can go out the side exit.”
I swallow. Throat dry. Tongue like sand.
“No,” I say. Voice steady. It doesn’t sound like me. “I’m done with the side exits.”
For more than a year, my life has been one endless game of defense. Avoid the rink. Avoid the quad. Avoid the world. Survive.
This isn’t survival. This is choosing the fight.
I’m already moving, body acting before my brain can catch up. Down the steps, one steady foot at a time. Not running. Walking.
I’m vaguely aware of my friends following—Clara, Zoe, Genny, Maya. A small army.
I told them. Last week, after the Alistair story broke, when I saw Blackwood on the schedule. I sat them down and told them exactly why I transferred. Why I flinch at slamming doors. Why Mark Jensen isn't just an opponent.
They didn't just listen. They sharpened their claws.
We hit the concourse. People are flooding toward the exits, laughing, high-fiving. No one sees me. I’m a current moving against the river.
Ahead, a knot of navy jerseys is already peeling away from the main crowd, cutting toward the restricted tunnel area where the teams exit.
Adrian. Gio. Dante. Cole. The Line.
They’re not celebrating. They’re moving with a single purpose, eyes locked ahead, shoulders squared. They’re waiting for us. For him. For me.
“T, breathe,” Zoe murmurs behind me. “In. Out. You stop breathing, I’m slapping you back to life.”
Genny passes me my access badge without a word. It’s already in her hand like she knew I’d come to this decision before I did.
I badge us in.
The tunnel is colder. Quieter. The roar of the arena drops to a dull, distant thunder. The air smells like old ice, rubber, metal, and sweat.
This is where the noise always used to follow me. Into my dreams. Into the dark.
Not today.
We spread out, almost instinctively. Clara at my right shoulder. Zoe just off my left. The guys forming a loose line ahead.
Declan is the last one off the ice.
He glides toward us, mask still on, movements precise. Pads squeak on the rubber mat. He reaches the gate, steps up, steel on metal. He pulls his mask off with one hand, shaking his hair back, eyes already locked on me.
He doesn’t ask if I’m sure. He doesn’t question why I’m here.
He just gives me one short nod.
I’m in your shadow. Say the word.
Behind him, the Blackwood team is filing toward the visitor locker room. They’re loud, cursing about the refs, taking up the whole hallway, blocking the path.
And then I see him.
Mark Jensen turns the corner, helmet tucked under his arm, laughing at something a teammate said. He looks exactly the same.
The smell hits first. Sweat, stale beer, cheap cologne. I taste it in the back of my throat.
He looks up. He sees the wall of Titans jerseys first—Adrian, Gio, Dante. He falters, stepping to the side to go around them.
Then his eyes catch mine.
He freezes.
For a split second, the whole world compresses into the narrow strip of tunnel between us.
“Talia?” he says.
His voice has the same fake warmth, that buttery layer of concern he’s always used like a prop. It slides over my skin and brings everything back. The lock clicking. His weight against the door.
My body reacts before my brain catches up. I flinch. My back hits the concrete wall with a soft thud. Hands fly up between us, palms out.
“Hey,” Jensen says, smile faltering but still plastered on. He takes a step toward me, confused, one hand lifting. “Whoa. You okay? You look like you just saw a ghost.”
He reaches for me.
“Don’t.”
The word isn’t mine.
It’s Declan’s.
Voice low. Calm. Deadly. It hits the air like a blade.
Jensen’s hand freezes mid-reach.
Declan hasn’t moved much. He’s still standing just inside the gate, helmet dangling from one hand. But his posture has shifted. Even small changes on a frame his size feel seismic.
He is a wall of ice in human form.
“Back up,” Declan says. It’s not a request.
Jensen shifts his weight, flicker of annoyance crossing his face. He glances at the guys, then back at me, rolling his eyes slightly. “Relax, man. We’re friends. Right, Talia?”
He looks at me. Expecting the silence.
“I said no,” I say.
The words tear out of me, slicing through the cold air. Not loud, but sharp.
His jaw works. The easy charm cracks. “I… I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Yeah,” Zoe mutters behind me, voice thick with disgust. “You do.”
I push off the wall. Legs shaking, but moving. I take one step forward. Then another.
“I said no,” I repeat, stronger this time. “I told you to stop. I told you I didn’t want you. I told you to open the door.”
His face drains of color. He looks around, looking for an exit, a witness to co-opt.
“Talia,” he starts, voice lowering, trying to make it intimate. Trying to make it our secret again. “You’re remembering it wrong. We were both drunk, come on. Don’t make a scene.”
“You locked the door,” I say. “You pinned me against it. You put your hands on me when I said no.”
The world narrows down to his face. His eyes. The shallow, rapid rise and fall of his chest.
“You don’t get to talk to me,” I say, voice dropping to a low, controlled hum. “You don’t get to say my name. You don’t get to look at me like you know me.”
I take another step forward, into his space. Heart banging against my ribs, but the terror is braided with something else. A cold, bright thread of certainty.
“And you will never touch anyone like that again.”
Jensen swallows. I see the exact moment the first real fear hits. He looks past me, to Declan, to the line of Titans closing ranks behind him.
He realizes, finally, that he’s not the one with the power in this hallway.
“You’re crazy,” he mutters, forcing a scoff. He spins around, shouldering past his own confused teammate, disappearing into the safety of the locker room.
He runs.
My legs give out.
I don’t hit the floor.
Declan drops his gear. His arms are around me instantly, solid and warm, taking my weight before I can fall.
“Got you,” he murmurs into my hair. “I’ve got you.”
“You did it,” Clara whispers, right beside us. “T, you did it.”
I’m shaking so hard I can barely feel my own skin, but I’m upright. Held up by the man who knows exactly what it costs to stand your ground.
“Talia? What the hell is going on?”
The voice cuts through the tunnel like a whistle.
My father.
Coach Addison is standing at the doorway that leads back to the home locker room. Face flushed from the game, but eyes sharp, locked on me. On us.
“What was that?” he demands, eyes flicking from me, to Declan, to the retreating Blackwood backs. “Who was that?”
Declan doesn’t let go of me. He straightens, pulling me into his side, turning us both to face my father. A massive, silent shield.
My dad’s gaze drops to the space between us. Jaw tightens.
“That was Mark Jensen,” I say, voice steady.
Something in his face changes. A flicker of recognition. “The forward? We tried to get him. Years ago. Why are you—”
“I need to talk to you,” I say.
His eyes search my face. Whatever he sees there makes the coach mask slip.
He looks past me to Declan. To the guys. To my friends.
“Everyone out,” he says, voice low.
The guys start to file out, one by one. Clara squeezes my arm. “We’re right outside.”
Declan hesitates last.
He looks down at me. Ignores my father. Ignores the hallway.
“I’m right here,” he says, voice a rough, quiet promise meant only for me. “I’m not going anywhere. You say the word, I’m back in that room. He doesn't breathe without your permission.”
I nod. “Okay.”
He holds my gaze for one second longer, then steps back into the hall, positioning himself right next to the door frame like a sentry.
I follow my father into his office.
The door shuts behind us with a soft click.
The room is familiar—brown leather couch, team photos. It smells like him.
He stands in front of his desk, arms crossed. “What happened?”
My heart is pounding, but the words don’t feel like shards anymore. They feel like a weight I’m finally ready to set down.
“Junior year,” I say. “That party on Fourth Street. The one everyone went to.”
His face goes still. He remembers. It was the season the program turned around. The season Mark Jensen was the prize recruit.
“Mark Jensen locked the door,” I say. “He put his hands on me. I told him no. I couldn’t get out. He didn’t listen.”
Every muscle in his body goes rigid.
“A friend found us,” I whisper. “He pulled him off me. But I… I couldn’t stay. That’s why I transferred. That’s why I left.”
My father’s face breaks.
“He put his hands on you,” he repeats, voice barely above a whisper.
I nod.
“And I…” He looks around the office, frantic, like he’s waking up in a room he doesn’t recognize. His eyes land on the framed photo of the Titans team from that year—the season he was so desperate to save, the season that made him blind.
With a sudden, violent motion, my father reaches out and slams the photo face-down on the desk.
The glass cracks.
He grips the edge of the desk, knuckles white, head hanging low.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” he roars. The sound is agonized. “Why didn’t you tell me, Talia?”
“Because you wanted him!” I yell back, the truth finally exploding out of me. “He was your star recruit! The program was struggling, and you needed a win. I knew how much he meant to the team. I didn’t want to be the reason you lost him. I didn’t want to be the reason you failed.”
The silence that follows is deafening.
He looks up slowly. He looks wrecked.
“You think…” Voice shakes. “You think I care about a recruit more than you? You think I care about a winning season more than you?”
“You loved this team,” I whisper. “I didn’t want to ruin it.”
“Oh, Talia,” he whispers.
He reaches for me. I walk straight into his chest. The hug is messy. Desperate. Too tight.
“I’m sorry,” he says into my hair, words shredded. “God, Talia, I’m so sorry I wasn’t there. I’m sorry you thought you had to carry it alone to protect my job.”
“It’s okay,” I sob into his shoulder. “I know now. After Alistair… after you fought for me… I knew I could tell you.”
He holds me tighter. The realization that he almost lost me—not just to a transfer, but to silence—shudders through him.
Eventually he pulls back, holding me at arm’s length. His eyes are red, but the guilt has hardened into resolve.
“I’m calling the league,” he says. “I’m calling the Blackwood athletic director. I don’t care if he’s their star player. That kid will never set foot on my ice again.”
“Dad,” I say. “Do it because it’s the truth. Not just because I’m your daughter.”
“I’m doing it because he’s a predator,” he says flatly. “And he’s done.”
He takes a breath, scrubbing a hand over his face. Then he looks at the door.
“Reid,” he says.
My heart stutters.
“He knew,” my father says. It’s not a question.
“He’s the only one who didn’t try to fix me,” I say softly. “He just waited. He’s the only one who made me feel safe.”
My dad looks at me. He sees the truth of it in my face.
“I love him,” I say. “I’m not hiding that anymore.”
He studies me. After a long moment, he exhales, shaking his head with a wry, watery smile.
“You’re stubborn,” he mutters. “Just like me.”
“I learned from the best.”
He huffs a small, broken laugh. “Okay. Let’s get out of here.”
We walk out together.
The Line is right where they said they’d be.
And Declan.
He’s leaning against the wall across from the office door, still half in gear. He straightens the second he sees me, eyes scanning my face, checking for damage.
My dad stops.
“Reid,” he says.
“Coach,” Declan answers. Voice respectful, but he doesn’t back down. He holds my father’s gaze.
My dad looks at him. Really looks at him. He nods once, sharp and acknowledging. A silent truce. A silent thank you.
“Good game, Reid,” my father says gruffly.
Declan’s shoulders drop a fraction of an inch. “Thank you, sir.”
My father turns to me. “You coming home for dinner this week?”
“Yeah,” I say, throat thick. “I am.”
He nods, turns, and walks away down the tunnel, phone already in his hand.
“So,” Zoe says, breaking the silence. “That was… heavy.”
“Are you okay?” Clara asks.
I take stock. The buzzing in my veins is gone. I’m exhausted. I feel like I’ve run a marathon.
Declan steps closer. Doesn’t crowd me. Just reaches out and takes my hand. Palm warm, rough, solid.
“I’m okay,” I say.
I look at him, and he looks at me.
We did this. All of us.
I finally said the words. And the roof didn’t cave in.