Chapter 2
DECLAN
King
I’m still chuckling when the door clicks shut behind her.
Actually—no.
I’m fucking grinning.
I adjust the towel at my hips, making sure it’s secure this time, and shake my head. Jesus. This Ivy woman stormed out looking like she just got hit with a puck she never saw coming.
Fun.
Really fun.
I didn’t mean to be such an ass.
Okay. That’s only half true.
But I’m not usually like that.
I know my reputation. Cocky. Mouthy. The kind of guy people assume enjoys steamrolling others for sport. But most days? I’m decent. Better than decent, according to my siblings. Reliable. Protective. The guy who shows up.
Hell, ask the rookies. I’m the guy who makes sure they don’t drown their first season.
But Ivy?
She walked in with that ramrod spine and those big, scandalized eyes, like she’d never seen a naked man outside an anatomy textbook—and my instincts kicked in.
She was so easy to fluster. A live wire pretending to be steel-reinforced concrete.
One smirk, one step closer, and she short-circuited in the cutest, angriest way imaginable.
The way her eyes betrayed her?
Yeah. That did things to me.
I grin again, replaying it.
The insults. Sharp. Educated. The way she tried to stand taller—what was she, five-two?—like height was a matter of willpower.
Most women don’t look at me like I’m an inconvenience. They look like they’re already negotiating with themselves. Ivy looked like she wanted to throw a textbook at my head and then apologize to the textbook.
I chuckle again as I turn toward the bench, reaching for my water bottle.
That’s when I see it.
A phone.
Black case. Screen dark. Sitting right where Ivy dropped her bag.
Huh.
I step closer, frowning slightly. It must’ve slipped out when she dumped her things. Figures. She was too busy being outraged—and trying not to stare at my dick—to notice.
I pick it up. She’ll be looking for it. I’ll have to give it back.
I’m still staring at it when the door opens again.
“Sorry,” the massage therapist says, cheerful and brisk. “Running a minute late.”
My hand moves on instinct. Quick. Thoughtless. Automatic.
I bend to grab my gym bag like I’m just rearranging my stuff—and in one smooth motion, I slip Ivy’s phone into the side pocket.
Zip.
I’ll figure out what to do about it later.
“You ready?” the therapist asks, snapping on gloves.
“Yeah.” I drop onto the table. “All set.”
She starts working my shoulder, firm and practiced. I stare at the wall, but my mind is already elsewhere—five-foot-two, furious, brilliant, and definitely about to realize she’s lost her phone.
And when she does?
She’ll come looking.
The thought pulls a slow grin across my face. I’m already looking forward to my next encounter with Ivy.
***
After the massage, I go looking for Ivy everywhere. But it’s like the ground swallowed her whole—she’s nowhere to be found.
Disappointed, I head for my car in the parking garage.
Okay. New strategy.
With a sigh, I unlock her phone. I make a point not to snoop—nothing personal—but I open her contacts. One name is marked as an emergency contact.
Sloane.
I tap it.
The phone rings once before someone picks up. “Oh my god, Ivy, did you already meet any hot hockey players?”
I blink. “…Hi,” I say, automatically amused. “This is not Ivy.”
Silence.
Then, without missing a beat: “Wow. Okay. Either you stole her phone, or this just got way more interesting than I expected.”
“I found it,” I say. “I’m calling to return it. You were listed as her emergency contact.”
“Oh.” A pause. Then, brightly, “That’s very nice of you. We can meet up, and I’ll make sure Ivy gets it back before she stages a full-scale meltdown.”
“Sounds perfect.”
We agree to meet at a Starbucks not far from here. I hang up and drive over, parking my very conspicuous sports car a block away. I’m not sure why, but I don’t feel like being recognized today.
And after my initial eagerness to see Ivy again and return her phone personally, doubt creeps in. She might not take too kindly to knowing I was her so-called savior. I wasn’t exactly… gentle with her.
So maybe anonymous is better. For now.
Maybe I’ll get to know her a little first. Prove I’m not a complete ass.
Then—when the timing’s right—I’ll tell her.
Ease her into it.
The thought pulls a smile from me as I head toward our meeting point.
A woman approaches the Starbucks, scanning the sidewalk like she’s on a mission.
She spots me immediately.
Wild, curly hair. Sunglasses pushed into her hair. The kind of confidence that says she doesn’t take any bullshit.
“You must be Phone Guy,” she says, stopping in front of me.
“I’ve been called worse,” I reply, lifting the phone in question.
Her face lights up. “Bless you. Truly. Ivy is probably five minutes away from filing a missing persons report on this thing.”
I hand it over. She flips it in her palm, checking the screen like she’s greeting a long-lost pet.
“So,” she says casually, “where’d you find it?”
“I found it when I was passing by the Raptors facility,” I answer vaguely.
Sloane tucks the phone into her bag, then looks up at me again, eyes sharp with intent. “She’s going to want to thank you.”
“That’s not necessary.”
“Oh, it absolutely is,” she says. “She’ll insist. Probably bake something unnecessarily complicated.”
I smile despite myself.
“So,” Sloane continues, already pulling out her own phone, “what’s your number?”
I hesitate.
This wasn’t the plan.
But then I picture Ivy—flustered, furious, trying very hard not to look at me—and something twists in my chest. She will never see me as anybody else than the cocky ice hockey player.
This could actually be kind of perfect.
“Yeah,” I say finally. “Okay.”
I give her my number. She types it in, nodding approvingly.
“And your name?” she asks. “So Ivy knows who her savior is.”
I pause.
My real name is out of the question. She would shut down immediately.
But another name comes easily. A nickname from my high school years that nobody uses anymore.
“Tell her,” I say, “it was King.”
Sloane’s eyebrows shoot up. “King?”
“Yeah.”
She pockets her phone. “Alright, King. I’ll let her know.”
She gives me a salute and heads toward the Starbucks door.
I watch her go, then turn toward my car, a strange sense of anticipation settling in.
***
I’m sprawled on the leather sectional in my living room, the city lights blurred through the panoramic windows.
The volume on the TV is low; some game recap I’m only half-watching.
I’m wound down for the evening, the muscle soreness from today’s grueling practice finally easing into a manageable thrum. A cold beer sweats in my hand.
My phone buzzes and I nearly jump from the couch to reach for it.
Unknown:
Hi, this is Ivy. My friend said you found my phone. Thank you so much for returning it. I really appreciate it.
A smile pulls at my mouth before I can stop it.
I type, delete, type again. Don’t overdo it. Don’t be a dick. You already had your fun today.
King:
The pleasure was all mine. I couldn't leave a damsel in distress phoneless. That would be unchivalrous.
Ivy:
Unchivalrous? Did you time travel from the eighteenth century?
Okay, maybe I overshot with the effort of being a normal, nice person.
King:
Maybe. Or maybe I appreciate the art of good manners.
Ivy:
Well, thank you. Again. Really. I owe you one.
King:
You’re welcome. Again. Glad it made it back to you in one piece.
Three dots appear. Vanish. Reappear.
Ivy:
I actually have no idea how I could have lost it in front of the Raptors building? I’ve just started working there, so that’s why I was there. At first I thought I must have lost inside, but apparently not.
This would be the point where the conversation sizzles out. The thank you have been said and each one goes back to their own lives. But I don’t want that. I want to learn more about her. Talk to her. So I type.
King:
You work for the Raptors? That’s exciting.
The dots appear instantly this time. No hesitation.
Ivy:
Exciting is… one word for it. Terrifying might be another. I only had my first day there today. I’m doing research there. So very unglamorous.
I smile at my phone.
King:
Somehow I doubt that. Research how?
Ivy:
Biomechanics. Concussion patterns. Injury prevention. So unless you find spreadsheets and brain scans glamorous, I’m afraid you’ll be disappointed.
King:
I don’t know. A woman who can explain how the human brain breaks and fixes itself sounds pretty impressive to me.
There’s a pause. Longer this time.
I picture her rereading that, suspicious of compliments like they might explode.
Ivy:
That’s… nice of you to say. Most people’s eyes glaze over around the word biomechanics.
King:
Their loss. Sounds like you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.
Another pause. Then—
Ivy:
You’re very good at this.
King:
At what?
Ivy:
Making people feel less like impostors.
I lean back against the couch, phone warm in my hand.
King:
Maybe I’ve had practice.
Ivy:
Doing what? Returning lost phones or rescuing stressed-out scientists?
King:
A bit of both.
She sends a laughing emoji.
Ivy:
Serious question, though. I get the feeling you’re used to taking care of other people. Do you have kids?
I stare at the screen for a second.
Kids.
That almost makes me laugh.
King:
No kids. But I have two younger siblings, and I was basically their caregiver before they were adults. I had to grow up fast.
A beat. Then another.
Ivy:
Oh. I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.
King:
You didn’t. It’s just… part of the deal.
Ivy:
Still. That’s a lot for one person.
King:
It was. Still is sometimes.
I stare at the screen longer than necessary.
Ivy:
For what it’s worth… I think your siblings are lucky to have you.
King:
Thanks, Ivy.
She sends a small heart emoji. I know she is not being flirty. We hardly know each other and she isn’t the type. She is just being kind.
I set the phone down and stare up at the ceiling, my chest tight in a way I don’t quite recognize.
And the thought hits me hard and uninvited—
Ivy is way too good for me.