Chapter 4 - Declan
DECLAN
Game off the Ice
The puck hits the boards with a crack, but my head’s not in the game.
I’m not seeing ice.
No, I'm seeing brown eyes narrowed in irritation and a mouth that called me disgusting without hesitation.
“Hawthorne!” Coach Petrov bellows from the bench, his voice cutting across the rink. “You planning to join practice? Or should we wait for you to finish whatever daydream you're having?”
A few guys snicker. I shake it off and push harder. Muscle memory takes over as I weave through cones. The physical exertion should clear my head.
Except it doesn’t work.
Because every time I blink, I see her. Petite frame drowning in an oversized cardigan. Straight black hair pulled back in a ponytail. The way her cheeks flushed when she tried not to stare. And those sharp eyes…
She glanced at my naked body from head to toe and looked away, like I was a disappointing science experiment.
It’s the hottest thing that has happened to me in months.
“Dude.” Jake Morrison, our captain, skates up beside me during the water break. “You good?”
“I’m fine, Jax.”
“You missed an open net twice. You're never fine when you miss open nets.” He takes a drink, then gives me a long look. “What's going on?”
“Nothing. Just off today.”
“Right.” He nods slowly. He doesn't push, which is what makes him a good captain. “Get your head back in it, Dec. We've got game film after this.”
He skates off.
I pull my phone from my pocket. It brings back the image of Ivy’s phone sitting on the therapy room bench.
I don’t regret that she doesn’t know I was the one who found it.
Not when she’s texting me back with that sharp mix of intelligence and vulnerability she sure as hell didn’t show in the therapy room. Not when she’s opening up about her research—about her passion for understanding traumatic brain injuries.
My phone buzzes.
I shouldn’t check it. We’re in the middle of practice, and Coach will have my head if he catches me on my phone again.
I check it anyway.
I smile at yet another text from her.
I’m still grinning when Jax skates past, shaking his head.
Practice drags. Every drill feels like it takes twice as long. I skate, pass, shoot, score, but my focus splinters every few minutes. By the time Coach blows the whistle to end practice, sweat slides down my spine and every muscle hums from overcompensation.
“Alright, bring it in! Tomorrow, there’ll be no conditioning drills.
I’ve been too merciful on you.” His accent thickens when he's annoyed, which is most of the time.
He's in his fifties, built like a refrigerator, and has a coaching philosophy of ‘skate until you vomit, then skate more.’ “Be quick. I have an announcement.”
The team gathers around center ice. Connor Hayes, our rookie forward, bounces on his skates. His bright blue eyes glance at me.
“Think this is about the road trip? Or maybe they’re finally installing those new steam showers? I’ve been asking for weeks.”
“Connor, if you don’t stop talking, I’m trading you myself,” Tyler Chen, one of our defense men, says.
“You can’t trade me, Ty. You’re not the GM.”
“I’ll find a way.”
“No, you won't. You don't have the bones to do it. That scar on your eyebrow can't deceive me.”
“Listen up,” Coach says, and the rink quietens. “Starting next week, we’ll participate in research studies for concussion prevention, biomechanics, all the brain stuff. It's a university partnership. You’ll cooperate, and you won’t complain.”
A collective groan rises from the team.
“Do we have to?” Ty asks.
“Yes.”
“But what if...”
“Yes.”
He sighs dramatically with a wry smile. “Worth a shot.”
“The lead researcher is Dr. Ivy Chandler.” Coach checks the notes on his phone.
“She comes highly recommended by Dr. Maya O’Connell at the Metropolitan University.
O’Connell says she has expertise in traumatic brain injury and cognitive assessment.
She'll start conducting baseline testing on you next week.”
My heart kicks into overdrive.
Ivy.
Dr. Ivy Chandler.
She’s the researcher that will be working with the team. With me. Better still, she’ll be here almost every day for months.
“So, treat her with respect and keep it professional,” Coach continues. “You won’t give me headaches. Understood?”
“Define professional,” Misha, the goalie, says.
“Is she hot?” Connor asks.
“Not you too, Connor,” Marcus says. He's been standing beside me all through the announcement with a scowl on his face.
“I haven't even done anything yet!” Connor protests.
“Preemptive strike,” Marcus mutters.
Coach fixes Connor with a glare. He doesn’t blink until the rookie shifts nervously and glances away.
“Is asking if she’s hot relevant, Hayes?”
“I mean… not technically, but…”
“Professional means no hitting on the doctor. Clear?”
“Crystal, Coach.” Connor replies in a low tone, but he’s got that hopeful look in his eyes. The kid falls in love approximately four times a week.
Marcus keeps glaring at him.
“What's up, dude?” I ask Marcus.
“Nothing.” His expression becomes carefully neutral.
Coach dismisses us, and I head toward the locker room. My towel snaps against my legs as I peel off my jersey. Sweat stings the cut on my forearm from last night’s scrimmage. I shower and am toweling off when my phone buzzes in the locker.
It’s another text from her.
Ivy:
Just finished setting up my office at the facility. It’s smaller than a broom closet. But it has a window. So, I’m calling it a win.
My mouth curves into a smile. I type back quickly.
King:
At least, it has a window. What’s the view?
Ivy:
A dumpster and half a parking lot. Truly inspiring. How was your day?
King:
Productive. I thought about you a lot.
There’s a pause. Her typing bubbles appear, then disappear, then reappear. She’s overthinking it. My smile widens.
“You’re doing it again with the face,” Jax says, toweling off beside me.
“What face?”
“The ‘I’m texting a girl and pretending I’m not’ face.” He pulls out a clean shirt, shaking his head. “Ask her out already.”
“It’s complicated.”
“It always is with you.” He grabs his bag. “Complicated usually means you care. Just don’t screw it up this time.”
He leaves, and I wonder if Jax is right. If I care.
By the time I get to the film room, all I think is the woman I’ve been texting is about to become a permanent fixture in my life. And she still has no idea I’m the guy from the therapy room.
This is either the best opportunity I’ve ever had or the biggest mistake I’m about to make.
***
My penthouse smells like something died, when I walk in hours later. The shrill sound of the smoke alarm echoes through the house.
Somewhere inside, Rowan is saying, “No, there’s no fire in the house. It’s just my sister cooking.”
He’s stopping the fire service from coming over.
“Riley!” I drop my keys on the counter and follow the smoke to the kitchen, where my baby sister has declared war on the stove. “What are you doing?”
“Cooking.” She beams at me through a cloud of smoke, her t-shirt and cutoff jeans shorts covered in what I hope is flour. “Or attempting to. Turns out recipes are more like guidelines than actual rules.”
“You burned my kitchen.”
“I’m cooking for you.” She waves a wooden spoon at me. “When was the last time you ate real food? And don’t say protein shake.”
“Yesterday.”
“Liar.” she says, shaking her head. “Have you ever used this stove? It needs the exercise.”
“What did I say about invading my kitchen?”
“You said don’t.” Her lips stretch into a grin. “Which is why I’m doing it.”
Rowan, her twin, walks out from my bedroom, looking annoyed in his work clothes. His hands are behind his back. I eye him.
“What did you take from my room?”
“I told Riley to order takeout,” he says, ignoring my question.
“And I told him that our brother needs actual nutrition,” Riley counters. She throws a grape at him. It misses and rolls under the stove. She pokes at something charred beyond recognition. “You can’t survive on supplements and takeout forever, Dec.”
“I’m your older brother. I figured out survival before you.”
She turns those sharp green eyes on me, the same shade as mine and Rowan’s.
“Did you, though?” She pauses. “You look different.”
“Different how?”
“Happy. Like you’re thinking about something.” Her face lights up. “Or someone. Oh my gosh, is it a woman? Please tell me it’s a woman.”
“It’s not…”
“Your love life has been dry. Until now?”
“My love life is fine.”
“Your love life is nonexistent,” Rowan corrects, leaning against the wall. “When was your last actual date?”
“Define actual.”
“A date where you knew her last name and weren’t just there for a hookup.”
I flip him off.
My phone buzzes. Riley gasps when I check it immediately.
“Who are you texting right now?” she asks.
Rowan brings out a bulging trash bag from behind his back. “I raided your room.”
I glance at the full bag and shrug.
He turns to Riley, eyes widening. “He didn’t say anything.”
“It’s someone,” she announces triumphantly. “Rowan, he’s got a girl.”
“I don’t have a girl.”
“Then why are you smiling at your phone like it just proposed?”
I flip her off. She laughs as I read the message.
Ivy:
Okay, I need your opinion on something. Completely hypothetical.
If you had to spend several months working closely with someone who saw you in a deeply embarrassing situation, would you A) pretend it never happened B) address it immediately and move on or C) fake your own death and move to Argentina?
I bite back a laugh.
She is absolutely talking about seeing me naked.
King:
Argentina’s tempting. Good food. Fresh start. But first—define deeply embarrassing.
Ivy:
Nice try. Not telling.
King:
Worth a shot. Then I vote option D. Make a joke. Act like you’re not bothered—even if you are.
Ivy:
That requires confidence I don’t currently possess.
King:
Confidence is mostly performance anyway. Half the time, people are just bluffing and hoping no one calls them on it.
Ivy:
You make it sound very doable.
King: