Chapter 13
IVY
Not What I Thought
The dress feels wrong.
I've changed three times in the past hour, and nothing looks right. They’re either too formal or too casual.
The current dress on my body looks too desperate.
Sloane badgered me to wear it, saying it’s my gateway to get another searing kiss from Declan.
The kiss I’ve been thinking about the past week.
But that’s not what this is about. Declan and I are just going for dinner on our first practice date. I might want to feel his lips on mine every time I see him, but tonight is about learning to become relaxed on a date with a man.
Or at least, that’s what I keep trying to tell myself.
My phone buzzes on the bathroom counter. Sloane has sent approximately seventeen texts in the past two hours, each more enthusiastic than the last. The final one reads.
Sloane:
If you don't send me a pic of this outfit in the next five minutes, I'm coming over there.
I snap a quick photo of the fitted cardigan over my simple, too-tight black dress that hits just above my knee, hair loose around my shoulders instead of pulled back. I send it before I can overthink.
Her response is immediate:
Sloane:
FINALLY showing some leg. You look gorgeous. He's going to lose his mind.
Ivy:
Thank you.
Sloane:
Don’t wear the cardigan.
Ivy:
No.
Sloane:
You’ll look better without it.
Ivy:
It’s already too exposed.
Sloane:
Ok. Just do you. Have fun, use protection, don't do anything I wouldn't do (which leaves you a LOT of options).
Heat floods my cheeks even though I'm alone. This isn't that kind of date. Declan said dinner. We’re talking and getting to know each other beyond stolen kisses and charged moments at the facility.
It’s the practice dating arrangement.
Except I’m not sure if I should call this dinner practice when we’ve already kissed and I’m feeling all jittery.
The intercom buzzes at exactly seven o'clock.
"It's me," Declan’s voice crackles through the speaker.
I buzz him up, then spend the next thirty seconds checking my reflection, smoothing my dress, wondering if I should have worn the maxi-dress hanging in my wardrobe.
The knock is soft. I open the door, and whatever words I'd prepared dissolve.
Declan stands in my hallway wearing dark jeans and a charcoal sweater that makes his green eyes even more intense. His dark hair is slightly damp, and the stubble on his jaw is carefully maintained. He looks effortlessly beautiful, making my stomach flip.
But it's the expression on his face that steals my breath. The way his eyes widen slightly when he sees me, tracking from my loose hair down to my heeled boots and back up. The slow smile that spreads across his face.
"You look beautiful."
"You clean up pretty well yourself," I reply.
"I try." He extends his hand. "Ready?"
I take it, his palm warm and slightly rough against mine, and let him lead me to the elevator.
The drive to the restaurant is quiet, with Declan stealing occasional glances at me.
The small restaurant is tucked away at the corner of a quiet street.
We walk in to an intimate setting with soft lighting and tables spaced far enough apart for actual conversation.
No crowd of fans. No paparazzi lurking outside to take unsolicited photos.
Just us.
I breathe a sigh of relief.
The hostess leads us to a corner table, and Declan pulls out my chair before I can do it myself. The gesture is old-fashioned, sweet, and completely at odds with the cocky player who smirked at me naked in that therapy room.
"Wine?" he asks, scanning the menu.
"Red, if you're having some."
He orders a bottle of something I've never heard of. When the waiter pours, the wine smells like dark cherries and something earthy I can't quite name. I take a sip. It's smooth, complex, completely outside my usual box-wine budget.
"This is amazing," I say.
"Riley's boyfriend is a sommelier. He's been trying to educate me." Declan's smile is self-deprecating. "I usually just drink whatever's coldest."
"That's basically my entire wine philosophy."
"Then we're both frauds." He raises his glass. "To fraudulent wine appreciation."
I laugh and clink my glass against his. The sound is soft, intimate in a way that makes my pulse quicken.
I decide to try out the special for the night, while he orders some steak and vegetables. When the waiter leaves, I sway to the low music vibrating through the room.
"Tell me about your childhood," he says, leaning back in his chair. "Who were you before you were Dr. Ivy Chandler, revolutionary researcher."
The question catches me off guard. I didn’t expect Declan to care enough and ask that type of question. I thought he’d ask about my research, degree, or relationship to Marcus. Nobody asks about the girl I was before all of that.
"I was the kid who corrected her teachers' math," I say slowly.
"The one who finished tests in half the time and spent the rest of class reading ahead.
My parents were thrilled at first that they had a gifted daughter.
But then Marcus started hockey, and suddenly I was the smart one while he was the star. "
His expression shifts, something akin to understanding flickering in his eyes.
"That must have been hard."
"It was confusing. I kept achieving straight A's, graduated early from high school, and even had a fully-funded scholarship to college.
But it never felt like enough. Marcus would score a goal and my parents would throw a party.
I'd publish a paper and get a 'that's nice, honey' over dinner.
" I take another sip of wine, surprised at how easily the words flow.
"I think that's why I chose biomechanics.
If I couldn't be the athlete, I could be the person who understood athletes better than anyone else. "
"Revenge through science," Declan says, but his tone is gentle. "I can respect that."
"It sounds petty when you say it out loud."
"It sounds human. We all have reasons for the paths we choose. Yours just happens to involve proving you're brilliant to people who should have noticed it all along."
The validation makes my lips stretch into a smile. I blink back sudden heat in my eyes.
"What about you?" I ask. "What made you fall in love with hockey?"
His smile turns distant. "My dad played college hockey.
He never went pro but loved it. He used to take me to the rink when I was four years old.
I couldn't even skate properly, but he pushed me around the ice and I felt free, like nothing else mattered except the cold air and the sound of skates and my dad laughing. "
"That’s beautiful.”
“It was. Until he died.” His jaw tightens. “After that, hockey wasn’t about joy anymore. It was about survival. About making enough money to take care of my brother and sister. About becoming Declan Hawthorne, NHL star—instead of just Declan, who missed his parents.”
His voice roughens on the last words. I surprise myself by reaching across the table, covering his hand with mine. Maybe there’s more to him than the bad-boy persona. Maybe something kind and loyal, carefully hidden beneath it.
My heart seems to agree, thumping hard in my chest.
Declan’s fingers curl immediately, lacing through mine.
“That must have been terrifying,” I say softly.
“It was the loneliest thing I’ve ever experienced,” he says. “Everyone saw the prodigy. The rookie making millions. No one saw the nineteen-year-old kid crying himself to sleep, wondering if he was ruining his siblings’ lives.”
My throat tightens. “I don’t think you ruined anything. You should be kinder to yourself.” I squeeze his hand gently. “Talk to yourself the way you would to a close friend. If someone you loved went through what you did, would you tell them they screwed everything up?”
“I guess not.” His grip tightens, his intense eyes locking onto mine.
The food arrives, interrupting the moment. But the connection doesn't break. We eat and talk about everything and nothing: his favorite books (surprisingly literary for a hockey player), my cooking skills, the worst injuries we've each witnessed, our mutual hatred of small talk at parties.
The conversation flows like we've known each other for years instead of weeks.
After dinner, Declan pays and we step out into the cold night. The river is a few blocks away. Without discussing it, we start walking in that direction.
The temperature has dropped. My cardigan is completely inadequate, and I'm shivering within minutes. Before I can say anything, Declan shrugs out of his jacket and drapes it over my shoulders.
"You'll freeze," I protest.
"This is nothing. All this muscle keeps me warm." His smile is soft, and the jacket smells like him. Woodsmoke and cedar and his unique scent.
We walk along the river path, our breath forming clouds in the cold air. The water reflects city lights in wavering patterns. Other couples pass us, wrapped in their own private worlds.
"Can I ask you something?" His voice breaks the comfortable silence.
"Sure."
"What's your dream? Not the professional one everyone knows about. The thing you want that has nothing to do with proving anything to anyone."
I think about it as we walk.
"I want to matter," I say finally. "Not as Marcus's sister or Dr. Chandler the researcher. Just as Ivy. I want to do work that changes lives, yes, but I also want... to be seen for who I am instead of who people expect me to be."
"You are seen."
I glance at him.
"I see you." He stops walking, turning to face me fully. "You’re the brilliant woman who's changing how we understand brain injuries. The woman who blushes when she's nervous but stands her ground anyway. I see all of it, Ivy."
My heart hammers against my ribs. "What about you? What's your secret dream?"
A vulnerable expression flashes on his face before he schools it.