Chapter 31
Declan
By the time my apartment door clicks shut behind us, the noise of campus feels like it belongs to another planet.
Out there, it’s chaos—statements and headlines and a hundred blown-up versions of my father’s name. In here, it’s just the soft thunk of the deadbolt, the low hum of the heater, and Talia’s hand still caught in mine.
“It’s quiet,” I say.
It comes out rough. Half-laugh, half-confession.
She stands in the entryway, cheeks pink from the cold, my hoodie too big on her frame. She looks smaller than she did in the Union, surrounded by screens and whispers.
She doesn’t look fragile.
Her eyes lift to mine. “Feels like it’s still echoing,” she says quietly. “But… yeah. It’s quiet.”
The university president’s frantic apology call. Coach telling me Alistair’s gone, not just shuffled sideways. Beatrice’s text—You win—deleted before it could finish loading.
The leash is gone.
For the first time in my life, I don’t immediately reach for what comes next—stats, practice schedules, the next opponent. My brain keeps circling one thing.
Her.
“How’s your dad?” I ask. I watched his face in that tunnel. I watched hers.
Her fingers tighten around mine. “Tired,” she says.
“Angry. At himself. At Jensen. At the whole system. But… we talked. Really talked.” Her mouth twitches.
The memory hurts and heals at once. “He already called Blackwood. He left a voicemail for the Commissioner that probably scorched the server. He’s backing you with the board. ”
Relief hits like a delayed body check. I swallow around it.
“You did that,” I say. “You started that.”
Her eyes flick up, sharp. “We started it. All of us.”
I should let go of her hand. Let her sit. Offer water, food, some kind of normal step-down from the day.
I don’t.
I tug her further in instead, until we’re in the center of the living room, the couch at our backs, the city a blur of light through the blinds. The air between us hums—battlefield adrenaline with nowhere to go.
She studies my face, searching for cracks. “You okay?” she asks, soft. It’s the same question I threw at her ten times today.
I huff out a breath. “I don’t know what to do with myself when I’m not holding a grenade.”
“Maybe,” she says, tilting her head, “you’re allowed to just… hold me instead.”
That sentence slides under my ribs and lodges there.
My fingers flex around hers. “Come here, then.”
Not a command. Not really. But she follows like it is.
I tug her closer, until she’s right in front of me, toes bumping my socks. Her head tips back to look up. My stupid heart does that stutter it’s been doing since the first time I saw her in the stands.
“I keep replaying it,” she admits, voice low. “The article. The call. The tunnel. Part of me keeps waiting to wake up and find out none of it stuck. That he still owns everything.”
“He doesn’t,” I say. The only thing I’m certain of. “He doesn’t own the grant. Or the team. Or you. Especially not you.”
Her throat works. She swallows hard. The gloss in her eyes is not panic this time. It looks suspiciously like hope.
“I thought I’d feel more…” She waves her free hand, searching. “Vindictive? Satisfied? But mostly I just feel… done. Like my body finally got the memo that it doesn’t have to grind its teeth at three in the morning anymore.” She exhales slowly. “I don’t know who I am without the panic.”
I let go of her hand just to cup the back of her neck, my thumb brushing the pulse point under her jaw. Grounding her.
“Mine,” I say, before I can stop myself.
Her gaze snaps up, startled.
I should roll it back. Make it a joke. I don’t.
“You’re still you,” I say, smoother now. “You’re just not somebody else’s damage report.”
Her lips tremble. She laughs once, shaky. “You keep saying things that make me want to cry and climb you like a tree at the same time. It’s very confusing.”
“Climb first,” I say. “Cry later.”
She snorts—a real laugh this time—and some of the weight in the room lifts.
We stand there for a moment, hands locked, bodies almost touching. The world outside keeps spinning. The article keeps spreading. The investigation keeps grinding.
None of it feels as real as the way her thumb strokes the side of my hand.
“What do you want right now?” I ask.
It’s not about carefulness. Not anymore. It’s the only question that matters.
Her gaze doesn’t flick away. She considers it—really considers it—like she’s scanning film of herself instead of a game.
“I want…” Her voice comes out small. She clears her throat and tries again. “I want a night that isn’t about him. Or your father. Or the league. Or anything I survived. I want something that’s just ours.” A breath. “I want you.”
Heat punches straight through me.
“Say that again,” I manage.
She rolls her eyes, but her cheeks flush. “I want you, Declan.”
I move.
My hand leaves hers so I can cup her face, palms framing her jaw, thumbs skimming the soft skin under her cheekbones. She leans into it like she’s been waiting.
“One last check,” I murmur. Because even now, even with every cell in my body screaming, I need this part clear. “If I kiss you and don’t stop, if I take you to bed and forget what time is… that’s what you want?”
Her eyes flare, dark. “Yes,” she says. No hesitation. “I’m not breakable. Not tonight. I know where we are. I know who you are. I know what I’m asking.”
There’s nothing careful about what happens next.
I kiss her, and all the noise I’ve been holding back slams into the space between us.
She surges up on her toes to meet me, fingers fisting in the front of my shirt like she’s afraid I’ll change my mind. I have never been less likely to walk away from anything.
Her mouth opens for me, hot and sure, and everything in me that’s been clenched for months just… gives. I turn her until the backs of her knees hit the couch and we tumble down together, all elbows and laughter and the kind of clumsy that only happens when you want something too much.
She ends up straddling my lap, one knee on either side of my thighs, my hoodie riding up to bare an inch of skin at her waist. My hands find that skin like they’ve got their own GPS.
“Talia,” I say against her mouth.
“Mm?” she hums, trailing kisses along my jaw, fingers sliding under my shirt, nails scraping lightly over my stomach. My cock jumps, desire surging through my veins at the sharp, electric feeling.
“I love you.”
The words drop into the space between us with no fanfare, no build-up. Just there. Heavy and clean and obvious.
Her body stills.
For a second, panic flares—sharp, bright, stupid. I almost take it back. Almost call it a slip, a heat-of-the-moment thing.
Then she leans back enough to see my face.
Her eyes are wide. Not scared. Not angry. Just… stunned. Like I handed her something she didn’t realize she’d been reaching for.
“You…” She swallows. Tries again. “Say it again.”
“I love you,” I repeat, steadier this time. “I love you when you’re yelling at me in a rink. I love you when you’re shaking and doing it anyway. I love you when you’re looking at me like I’m worth more than a grant on a spreadsheet.”
Her breath leaves her in a shudder.
“I thought—” She laughs, wet and incredulous. “I thought if I ever heard those words again, they’d feel like a trap. Or like pressure. But they don’t. They just feel…” She trails off, searching. “True,” she finishes finally.
I brace myself for the out. For the I’m not ready, or the we can take it slow, or any variation of not yet.
Instead, she reaches for my face with both hands, fingers framing my cheeks, eyes burning.
“I love you too,” she says, voice shaking but unflinching. “I think I started somewhere between the quad and the first time you made me laugh in that awful student lounge. I’ve been trying to not drown in it ever since.”
Something in my chest just… breaks. Or heals. It’s the same sensation—too big for a ribcage.
“Good,” I say, and it comes out wrecked. “Because I’m not going anywhere.”
“Then shut up,” she whispers, leaning in. “And prove it.”
I do.
I kiss her hard, swallowing the sound she makes, hands sliding from her waist to her hips to pull her flush against me. The friction is electric, denim on denim, heat on heat. I need to feel skin. I need to erase every barrier between us until there’s nothing left but this.
We stumble up from the couch, lips never breaking contact, hands grappling with clothes.
I pull her shirt over her head and toss it somewhere I’ll never be able to find it later.
She tugs mine off with a determination that makes me laugh into her mouth.
We make it to the bedroom by feel more than sight, bumping into the wall once and dissolving into ridiculous, giddy giggles that feel like a pressure valve finally letting off steam.
In my room, the shadows feel familiar instead of threatening. I catch a glimpse of my gear bag in the corner, the white goalie mask keychain she bought me catching a sliver of streetlight. A claim. A mark.
I smile against her throat.
The bed creaks under our combined weight.
She falls back onto the mattress, hair fanned around her, cheeks flushed, eyes huge and trusting.
I take a moment to simply look at her, beautiful and bare.
Her breasts rise and fall with her soft breathing, full and perfectly rounded.
The curve of her waist is graceful, pulling my eyes down to the soft, dark curls nestled between her thighs.
Her legs stretch out, long and elegant, a work of art I can't wait to explore again.
“Hi,” I say, because my brain is short-circuiting and that’s apparently all I’ve got.
She snorts, a breathless, beautiful sound. “Hi.”
I drag a hand down my face. “You’re going to kill me.”
“Not if you get over here,” she says. “You promised ‘not going anywhere,’ remember?”
I climb over her, caging her in with my arms. She wraps her legs around my waist like it’s the most natural thing she’s ever done.