Chapter 10
DECLAN
Possessiveness
They're all talking about her, and it's pissing me off.
"I'm just saying that Dr. Chandler smiled at me yesterday," Connor announces to no one in particular. "Like really smiled. That has to mean something, right?"
"It means you're delusional," Tyler shoots back as he lounges against the locker room's wall while taping his stick. "She smiles at everyone. It's called being professional."
"Not the way she smiled at me."
"She looks at you like you're a puppy who won't stop humping her leg."
"That's... that's just mean, man."
I keep my eyes on my skates, lacing them tightly. Every mention of Ivy's name makes possessiveness flare hot in my chest.
She's not theirs to discuss or smile at.
"We should make a bet." Tyler grins, that troublemaker gleam in his dark eyes. "Whoever performs best tonight gets to ask Dr. Chandler out."
Several players laugh. A few nod in agreement. Marcus gives Tyler a murderous glare. Already in his goalie pads, Misha sits in stoic silence, staring at nothing.
"I'm in," Connor eagerly says.
"You're benched for the first period, Hayes," Coach says, standing in the doorway with his arms crossed. "You're in for the bet before you're even in the game."
"I'll make up for it in the second period."
"Gentlemen, Dr. Chandler is here to help us. And she's Marcus's sister," Jake says.
His voice isn't loud, but everyone shuts up anyway. That's what twelve seasons as captain get you. Respect.
"And she deserves better than being treated like a prize in some juvenile bet," he concludes.
"We're just having fun," Tyler protests.
"Have it somewhere else." Jake's dark eyes are serious. "She's off-limits. Clear?"
Murmured agreement ripples through the room. Connor deflates slightly. Tyler shrugs like he doesn't care, but there's a faraway look on his face.
Marcus claps Jake on the shoulder in thanks, then shoots a warning look around the room that lands on me a second too long.
I school my face into a neutral expression.
If he knows what I've been doing—texting his sister for weeks as someone else, kissing her—he'll kill me slowly with his bare hands.
And I won't blame him.
"Alright, listen up," Coach bellows.
The pre-game ritual begins. Coach talks about strategy, line changes. His motivation mostly involves him yelling about how we're better than Harbor City and we'd better prove it.
But I'm not really listening.
Because my phone is burning a hole in my bag, filled with messages from Ivy that I haven't responded to yet. Texts that make me want to fix everything for her while simultaneously hating myself for lying.
It’s driving me insane.
"Hawthorne!" Coach snaps. "Are you with us?"
"Yeah. I'm here."
"Then get your head in the game."
I nod, shoving thoughts of Ivy into a mental box I'll open later. Right now, I have a game to win.
When the game starts, Harbor City comes out aggressively.
Their center, some kid who thinks he's tougher than he is, tries to pick a fight with Marcus in the first thirty seconds. The refs separate them before it escalates, but the energy is charged and hostile.
Perfect.
I play angry hockey best.
Seven minutes in, I steal the puck from their defense man, weave through two players, and snap a wrist shot past their goalie.
Top shelf.
Beautiful.
The goal horn blares. My teammates mob me, slamming into the boards in celebration.
But as I skate back to center ice, my eyes find the stands. Research section, third row.
Ivy stands beside Dr. O'Connell, wearing an oversized Raptors hoodie that swallows her petite frame. She's focused on writing something in her notebook. She didn't see my goal.
A ball of disappointment lands in my stomach. Although I'm a professional athlete playing in front of thousands of people, all I want is for one woman to look up and notice me.
I force my attention back to the game.
By the end of the first period, we're up two-one. I've scored both goals, playing with vicious precision. Every time a Harbor City player gets close to Misha's crease, I clear them out, protecting our goalie with single-minded focus.
The second period starts fast.
Harbor City is throwing everything desperately at us now. Misha is stopping shots with inhuman reflexes. He dives and stretches, reading plays before they happen.
Twelve minutes in, chaos erupts in front of the net.
A Harbor City forward drives hard toward the crease. Misha comes out to challenge. Bodies collide, a tangle of limbs and sticks that can't be stopped.
The crack of impact echoes through the arena. Misha goes down hard, his head snapping back against the ice despite his helmet. The ref's whistle screams. Players back away slowly.
Misha isn't moving.
"Medic!" Jake yells, already skating toward our goalie.
My stomach drops.
People in the arena hold their breath as the team doctor and two medics rush onto the ice, followed by Ivy. A research jacket has replaced the oversized hoodie. She drops to her knees beside Misha, already pulling out equipment.
"Misha." Her voice is calm and authoritative. "Can you hear me?"
He groans, trying to sit up.
"Don't move yet," she says, checking his pupils with a penlight. "Follow the light with just your eyes, not your head."
From the bench, I watch her work.
She asks questions in clear, simple language, testing his balance and checking for signs of destruction. This is the Dr. Ivy Chandler who is going to change how teams handle brain injuries. This is the woman I can’t stop thinking about.
And she's breathtaking.
"Can you stand?" she asks Misha.
"Da." His Russian accent is thick, but he's coherent.
The medics help him to his feet slowly. They skate toward the tunnel together. As they pass the bench, her eyes meet mine for half a second.
Something passes between us. Recognition. Maybe concern.
"Damn," Marcus mutters beside me. "That looked bad."
"She's got him," I hear myself say.
"Yeah." He glances at me with an unreadable expression. "She's good at what she does."
"The best," I say with feeling.
His eyes narrow, but the ref signals for play to resume, and the moment passes.
Our backup goalie takes over. Harbor City capitalizes late, tying it up before the horn. We head into the third period knotted at two–two.
The third is a grind. Shot for shot. Hit for hit. Nobody gives an inch.
Regulation ends tied.
Overtime is sudden death.
Three minutes in, I draw two defenders and dish the puck to Jake just as the lane opens.
He buries it.
The horn blasts. The crowd detonates.
Game over.
The locker room is electric—players shouting, replaying the goal, pounding sticks against the floor. I should be riding the high. Two goals, an assist, and the play that sealed the win.
But my mind is focused on how Ivy was completely in her element, doing exactly what she was meant to do.
I don’t know why she’s gotten so far under my skin. She’s beautiful, sure—but that’s not it. I’ve met plenty of beautiful women, and none of them affect me the way Ivy does.
Maybe it’s the unpredictability. I never know how she’s going to respond to me.
Yeah. That must be it, I tell myself.
Once I figure out the mystery that is Ivy Chandler, this restlessness will finally stop.
"Drinks?" Marcus says, standing near my elbow. He grins. "We earned it."
"Yeah. Sure."
We end up at Riley's, a sports bar two blocks from the arena that's become the team's unofficial hangout. The place is packed with celebrating fans, but we snag a corner booth.
Marcus orders whiskey. I get the same.
"Hell of a game," he says, raising his glass.
"You played well, too."
"Not as well as you." He sips from his drink. "What's gotten into you lately? You've been playing like you're possessed."
"I've been focused."
"Focused." One eyebrow lifts. "Is that what we're calling it?"
"What else should we call it?"
"I don't know. Maybe you're trying to impress someone?"
My heart beats faster. "Who would I want to impress?"
"That's what I'm trying to figure out." He leans back, his casual posture belying the sharpness in his eyes. "You've been different. Distracted but laser-focused. Happy but stressed. It's weird."
I smile but say nothing. We drink in comfortable silence for a while, the bar noise filling the gaps. I relax, taking my drink slowly.
"Ivy's involved with someone."
I nearly choke on my whiskey. "What?"
"Some guy named King. They text constantly. Late-night messages, inside jokes, the whole thing."
My blood turns to ice.
“How do you know?” The question comes out sharper than I intend.
“I saw her phone and confronted her about it.” His hands curl into fists on the table. “She got defensive—said it’s none of my business. Dec, this guy knows everything about her. Her schedule. Her favorite food…”
He exhales hard.
Guilt crashes through me.
I don’t tell him that he knows because I’m him.
"Maybe they're in a relationship," I manage.
"That's what worries me. She hasn't met him. They've only texted, and she doesn't even know what he looks like." He grits his teeth. "What kind of guy does that? A stalker."
"What are you going to do?" I ask even though I don't want to know the answer.
His eyes harden. "I want to find out who he is and have a talk with him to make sure his intentions are good. And if they're not..."
He doesn't finish the sentence. Doesn't need to.
My best friend is planning to protect Ivy from King. From me.
It's ironic and saddening at the same time.
"You'll find him eventually," I say.
"Damn right I will." He finishes his whiskey. "And when I do, King better hope his intentions are pure because if he hurts my sister, I'll end him."
When we finish with our drinks, it's night. Marcus says goodbye and leaves. I'm heading to my car when Gregory walks toward me in the parking garage.
"Impressive game," he says, though his gray eyes hold no warmth. "Your two goals were very flashy."
"What do you want?"
"We need to discuss the distraction problem we're having."
"What problem?"
"Dr. Chandler." He says her name like it tastes bad. "Her presence is affecting team performance. Tonight's injury to the goalie..."
"Misha took a hit. It happens in hockey."
"It happens more when players are thinking about other things or other people instead of the game."
Warning bells scream in my head.
"What are you implying?"
"I'm stating facts. Before she arrived, the team had a solid record. Since then, we've had injuries, a losing streak, and..." His gaze pins me. "...players getting into fights because they're distracted."
"That has nothing to do with Ivy."
"Dr. Chandler," he corrects. "When a young, attractive woman is suddenly present in a male-dominated environment, it's a recipe for disaster."
Rage burns in my chest. "She's a brilliant researcher..."
"She's a liability. And if she continues to be a problem, I'll recommend the team terminate the research partnership."
Fury courses through my veins. I barely stop myself from charging at him.
"You can't do that."
"I can do a lot of things, Declan. Including reminding you of the behavioral standards you agreed to uphold in your contract." He steps closer, voice dropping. "Stop whatever you're doing with Marcus Chandler's sister."
My fists clench. "Or what?"
"Or I'll make sure everyone knows exactly what kind of man you really are." The threat hangs in the air between us. "Don't ruin a good thing by chasing someone off limits."
He walks away before I can respond.
I pull out my phone with shaking hands, opening my messages with Ivy. She sent two new texts while I was at the bar with Marcus.
Ivy:
Thank you for listening earlier. You make everything easier.
Ivy:
Are you awake? I need to chat with you right now. Today was a lot.
I quickly type a reply.
King:
I'm here. Tell me everything.
She responds immediately.
Ivy:
Where do I even start?
King:
The beginning. I've got all night.
She tells me how her day went.
When I get back to my penthouse, I reply to all her texts while lying on my king-sized bed alone. It's all the carefully loving words King says, while Declan hates himself more with every text.
My phone buzzes with another message.
Ivy:
I wish I could meet you. Actually see you. Is that crazy?
My heart stutters. Because I want nothing more than to take Ivy on a date. To make her feel the way King makes her feel—cherished, seen, beautiful.
And that’s when the truth finally lands.
This isn’t just curiosity. It’s not her unpredictability, not the thrill of the chase like I’ve been telling myself.
It’s her. I’ve truly fallen for her.
And yet, a date is impossible. Completely out of the question.
King:
Not crazy.
Ivy:
So... can we see each other?
King:
Sure.
Ivy:
When?
King:
Soon.
I know my reply sounds flat. And judging by the pause that follows, she thinks so too. I can’t blame her.
Ivy:
Soon?
King:
Yeah, I'm pretty sure we'll see each other soon.
It's both a lie and the truth. Because she sees me every day, and we'll see each other tomorrow. But she won't be meeting King, the man she's falling for. She'll be meeting Declan, the man she's running from.
Even if both men are the same person, I can't let Ivy know or she'll never speak to me again.
I have to keep her, make her mine, no matter what.
Even if it means losing myself in the process.