Chapter 7 - Ivy
IVY
Nothing to See
The cognitive testing equipment hums softly in the assessment room, and I'm already regretting the choice to schedule Declan Hawthorne last.
"Next," I call out, cross-checking my tablet.
The testing started well enough. Professional. Controlled. Exactly how I needed it to be. Yesterday, I tested some players.
Today, Jake Morrison was the first. At six-foot-two, he had the presence of a team captain.
His warm brown eyes and shaved head made him look more like a philosophy professor than a hockey player.
There was a faded tan line on his ring finger where a wedding band used to sit, and he wore a watch that looked like a family heirloom.
"Dr. Chandler." He shook my hand firmly. "I appreciate what you're doing here. My nephew had a concussion last year playing high school football. Scary stuff."
I relaxed slightly. "That's exactly why this research matters. Early detection can change outcomes."
The baseline test went smoothly. Jake treated each protocol with the seriousness of a game-day drill.
Misha Volkov came next, the team's Russian goalie. With ice-blue eyes and blonde hair, he had the kind of stoic expression that made me wonder if he was plotting world domination. A small Orthodox cross tattoo peeked from beneath his shirt collar.
"You are a doctor?" he asked in a thick accent.
"Yes. PhD in biomechanics."
He nodded once then proceeded through every test in silence. The man was unnervingly focused, with sharp reflexes.
Tyler Chen followed. At five foot eleven, he looked compact but powerful. His undercut hairstyle and the scar cutting through his left eyebrow gave him a perpetually skeptical look. He leaned against the exam table.
"So, Doc, if I fail these tests, do I get out of conditioning drills?"
"No."
He winked. That was weird.
"You're Marcus's sister, right? He's been territorial about you being here."
My jaw tightened. "I'm here as a researcher, not as anyone's sister."
"Relax. I'm just saying the guy threatened to break Connor's face if he even looked at you wrong."
"Connor?"
"Hayes. Our rookie forward. He's got a crush on anything with a pulse."
Connor Hayes came in next, and I immediately understood Tyler's warning. Sandy brown hair fell across his forehead in an effortlessly messy way, and bright blue eyes lit up his boy-next-door face.
"Hi. Dr. Chandler, right?" he said, grinning. "I'm Connor. This is so cool. I mean, not cool that we're studying brain injuries. That's terrible. But cool that you're here to help prevent them. Do you need a research assistant? I took a psychology class in college."
"That's... not necessary. But thank you."
His grin widened, revealing dimples. "If you ever need someone to grab coffee or explain hockey rules or..."
"Hayes." Marcus's voice cut through the room like a blade. The door opened to reveal my brother standing by the doorway. He crossed his arms, gesturing with his head. "Be quick and move along."
Connor deflated slightly but maintained his smile. "Right. Yes. Moving along."
The testing proceeds without incident, though Connor keeps shooting me hopeful puppy-dog looks that make me want to pat his head and tell him to focus.
Now, hours later, I’m exhausted. My feet hurt. There’s one player left—and I really, really don’t want to face him.
Because ever since that kiss—ever since I let myself feel what it was like to want him back—I’ve been avoiding Declan Hawthorne like the plague.
I kissed him. I didn’t plan to. I didn’t even want to want him. But the second his mouth touched mine, something cracked open that I’ve spent years reinforcing with logic, restraint, and rules.
So I ran.
I told myself it was responsible. That I was protecting my career, my relationship with Marcus, my carefully constructed sense of self. All of that is true.
But there’s another reason I haven’t looked Declan in the eye since.
I don’t trust myself not to step closer.
Not to remember how his hand felt at my jaw. How easily my body responded. How terrifyingly right it felt to stop thinking and just feel.
Declan is dangerous because he makes me curious about the version of myself I’ve spent my life keeping locked down.
Around him, I stop being the responsible sister. The brilliant researcher. The woman who always makes the correct choice.
Around him, I want.
And wanting him feels like standing on the edge of something irreversible.
I straighten my shoulders, inhale, and tap the screen again.
Professional. Controlled.
Just data. Just another athlete.
I repeat it like a mantra—right up until I hear his footsteps in the hallway and my pulse betrays me anyway.
Declan strides into the room.
Gray athletic shorts. A sleeveless black compression shirt clinging to every muscle I’m trying not to notice. Dark brown hair messy. And those piercing green eyes locking onto mine immediately.
The tattoo sleeve on his right arm is fully visible now.
Intricate designs of hockey imagery flow from wrist to shoulder.
I catch glimpses of skate blades, a puck breaking ice, and what might be initials in the pattern.
I can already pinpoint where the designs connect to the large tattoo on his chest that flows down to his tight abs.
An image of a naked Declan appears in my mind. It pans down from his chest to his abs and down below.
The room feels suddenly smaller, the air thicker. I swallow.
"Dr. Chandler." His voice is pure gravel. “Saved the best for the last?”
"Saved the most difficult for when I have the most patience." I gesture to the chair. "Sit."
"Bossy. I like it."
My teeth grind together. "This is a professional assessment, Mr. Hawthorne."
"Declan," he corrects.
"We're not friends."
"Not yet." He drops into the chair, sprawling like he's settling in for a casual chat rather than a medical assessment. "But give it time."
I pull up the first protocol on my tablet, refusing to let him see how his presence affects me.
"We'll start with a reaction time assessment. You'll press the button as quickly as possible when the light flashes. Simple."
"Sounds boring."
"It's science, not entertainment."
The first light flashes. Declan doesn't move.
I wait. The light flashes again.
Still nothing.
"Mr. Hawthorne, you need to press the button."
"Do I?
He examines his fingernails with exaggerated interest. My patience, already worn thin from a full day of testing, frays further.
"This is a baseline assessment. It's important for your safety."
"Is it?" He looks up, pinning me with an intense gaze. "Or is it just an excuse to spend time with me?"
Heat crawls up my neck. "That's the most absurd thing I've ever heard."
"Then why are you blushing?"
"I'm not..." I press my lips together, refusing to engage. "The light will flash again. Please, press the button when it does."
He does, but his reaction time is deliberately slow. Impossibly slow. I've tested enough athletes to know what normal looks like. This isn't it.
"Again."
This time, he waits a full three seconds before responding.
"Mr. Hawthorne..."
"Declan."
"You're deliberately sabotaging this assessment."
"Prove it." His smirk is infuriating.
I set the tablet down forcefully. "Why are you doing this?"
"Doing what?"
"Acting like a child."
"Maybe I just have slow reflexes." He shrugs, amusement dancing in his eyes. "It's tragic, really. It might affect my career."
"Your career is based on having some of the fastest reflexes in professional hockey. Try again."
We repeat the test. He fails spectacularly, his reaction times getting progressively worse.
By the time we move to the memory assessment, where he claims he can't remember a simple sequence of four numbers I showed him five seconds ago, my professionalism is hanging by a thread.
"This is ridiculous."
"What is?"
"You." I gesture at him and the equipment. "You're playing games."
"I'm taking your test."
"You're mocking my test."
"Maybe your test is mockable."
The anger I've been keeping at bay flares.
"These assessments could save lives by detecting early signs of traumatic brain injury that end careers. That cause permanent damage. And you're treating it like a joke."
He nods respectfully.
"There she is," he murmurs.
"What?"
"The woman who walked into that therapy room and called me disgusting without flinching. The one that's not afraid to fight back." He stands, towering over me. "I was starting to think you've hidden her away."
My breath catches. The unwelcome scent of his woodsy cologne sharpens, threatening to make my head swim.
“I’m doing my job.”
“No,” he says calmly, leaning back against the exam table, that maddening smirk firmly in place. “You’re pretending. Pretending you didn’t feel anything. Pretending you’re not thinking about our kiss. Pretending I don’t affect you the same way you affect me.”
My heart stutters. The memory of Declan’s mouth on mine floods back. I lick my lips—then catch myself and stop.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Then why are you looking at me like you’re trying to decide whether to slap me or kiss me?”
I bite my lower lip and look away. “That’s not what I’m doing.”
“Ivy.” His voice drops, just slightly. “You’re a terrible liar—and I can prove it. You bite your bottom lip when you’re nervous. Your voice goes up when you’re flustered. And right now? You’re gripping that table like it’s a life preserver.”
I force my grip to loosen, hating that he's right.
"You're projecting."
"Am I?"
He pushes off the table, closing the distance between us until there’s barely any air left to breathe. I inhale. Exhale. It does absolutely nothing to slow my pulse.
“Tell you what,” he says quietly. “Let’s make a bet.”
“I don’t gamble,” I mutter, though my voice gives me away—thin, unsteady.