Chapter 22 DECLAN
DECLAN
When Everything Falls Apart
The puck slams into the boards two feet from where it should have gone.
Coach Petrov's whistle screams across the ice, sharp enough to split my skull. My chest heaves, lungs burning from the hollow ache that's been eating me alive since Friday.
Since Ivy looked at me with devastation in her eyes and said, "We're done."
"Hawthorne!" Coach's accent thickens with rage. "Are you planning to actually play hockey today, or should I put a traffic cone in your position? At least the cone won't actively sabotage us."
A few guys skate past, heads down. Nobody meets my eyes. They've learned that engaging with me lately ends in snapping jaws and thrown equipment.
"Again," Coach barks.
I line up for the drill. The puck comes to me, and I take the shot. It goes wide again.
"What the hell was that?" Tyler yells from across the ice.
I ignore him. Skate harder. Faster. Like I can outrun the image of Ivy's face when she said I abandoned her. The way her voice broke at the words.
She's right. I did.
The thought makes me sick.
Practice drags. Every drill feels like forcing my body through concrete. I miss passes, take stupid penalties during scrimmage. My muscles scream, sweat dripping down my spine. But the exhaustion doesn’t touch the gnawing emptiness in my chest.
When Tyler checks me hard into the boards, I come up swinging, fists connecting with his jaw before anyone can pull us apart.
Coach's whistle shrieks. "Hawthorne! To my office, NOW!"
I follow Coach through the tunnel, past the curious stares of trainers and staff. Blood pumps hot in my ears, my knuckles throbbing. The strong smell of disinfectant assaults my senses the moment I step into his office. He closes the door with a click that sounds like a judge's gavel.
"Sit."
I sit.
He leans against the desk, arms crossed. His thick eyebrows are drawn together in a scowl.
"What's going on with you?"
"Nothing."
"Don't insult my intelligence. You've been playing like garbage for days. You're distracted, reckless, and even taking stupid penalties." His voice drops lower. "Your fight with Tyler today is the third in four days."
"Tyler was trash talking."
"He asked you a question and you lost your mind, Hawthorne." He points at me. "This isn't you. Even when you're cocky, you're smart. Right now, you're neither."
I clench my jaw, staring at the motivational poster behind his head. It’s some quote about champions being made in practice. Ironic.
"Your agent called me this morning."
My eyes snap to his. "Gregory?"
"He said the girl, Dr. Chandler, was a distraction. That you'd be better off without her around, and look how much better you're playing now that she's gone." He studies me carefully. "Except you're not playing better. You're playing worse."
White-hot rage floods my veins. "He said what?"
"Relax. I told him to go to hell." Coach’s expression softens slightly, which is terrifying because the man has two emotions: angry and angrier. "But the fact remains that you've been a mess since the scandal broke."
I want to defend myself, but the words stick in my throat.
"I'm benching you for the next two games."
The words hit like a slap shot to the chest.
"Coach…"
“It’s non-negotiable. You're a liability right now. Get your head straight, or you're staying benched." He straightens, his tone turning dismissive. "We're fighting for a playoff spot. I can't afford to have my top scorer playing like he's never held a stick before."
Humiliation burns through me as I leave his office.
The locker room is empty when I get there, except for Jake, who is pulling on a clean shirt. He looks up when I approach my locker, his brown eyes sharp. I rip off my gear and slam my helmet into the locker.
"You good?"
"Peachy."
"Declan."
I slam my locker shut. The metallic clang reverberates through the room. Jake stands, crossing his arms.
"What the hell is wrong with you?"
I yank my jersey over my head, not meeting his eyes.
"Nothing."
"Bullshit." He’s using his Captain voice. The one that demands honesty whether you want to give it or not. "You've been a train wreck for days. Taking reckless hits, starting fights, missing shots a peewee player wouldn't miss. Coach told me he’ll bench you. So I'll ask again, what's wrong?"
Turning away, I shove my gear into my bag.
"Drop it, Jax."
"No."
"I said drop it."
"And I said no." He steps closer, blocking my path to the showers. "You're screwing up your career. You're screwing up our playoff chances. And you look like you haven't slept in a week. So, talk."
My hands curl into fists at my sides. The anger simmering beneath my skin begs for a target, but Jake's steady gaze doesn't flinch.
"It's Ivy," I finally say, the words tasting like ash.
"Yeah, I figured."
He leans against the lockers, waiting.
"She broke up with me on Friday. She said I abandoned her when she needed me most." I run a hand through my damp hair, the admission dragging itself out of me. "And she's right. I did."
Jake's eyebrows rise. "You didn't call her or text her?"
I stare at the lockers.
"Gregory had my phones for days. By the time I got them back, my siblings convinced me that contacting her would prove the ethics complaint about my influencing her research right and make everything worse." My voice drops. "So I stayed away. And she thinks I chose my career over her."
"Did you?"
The question hits like a blade between the ribs. Anger rises within me.
"What?" My voice is sharp.
His eyes narrow. "Did you choose your career over her?"
"No. I was trying to protect her. I was building a case against Gregory, gathering evidence…"
"While she was drowning alone," he says, shaking his head. "Dec, I get what you were trying to do but she didn't know that. She just knew you disappeared."
"I know, and I hate myself for it." The words come out broken. "But what was I supposed to do? Show up and make everything worse?"
"You were supposed to fight for her." His tone gentles. "You should have stood beside her and told the world to go to hell. Instead, you hid."
The truth of it crushes me.
"I texted her as King after Gregory returned my phones," I admit quietly. "I couldn't text her as myself, but I couldn't just leave her completely alone. So I used the King number."
Jake stares at me. "You what? King what?"
I explain the King situation, then say, "I had to do something because she was devastated."
"So you lied to her more?" His voice rises. "Damn it, Declan. You’re pretending to be someone else while she thinks you abandoned her?"
"It's the only way she'll talk to me."
"It's manipulation." He shakes his head. "You're lying to her face while comforting her behind a screen. How is that better than just telling her the truth?"
"Because the truth will destroy what little I have left with her." My voice cracks. "As King, she trusts me and opens up. She tells me things she'd never tell Declan now. If I confess, I lose even that."
"You don't have anything, Dec. You have a lie." He exhales slowly. "Look, I don't know what the right move is here. But I know this; you need to tell her the truth now before this gets worse."
"It can't get worse."
"It can always get worse." He grips my shoulder. "Stop being a coward and tell her everything. All of it. Then let her decide if you're worth forgiving."
He walks out, leaving me alone in the locker room. I pull out my phones from my bag and open the messages. Under Declan's number, our last conversation still shows her unanswered calls and texts from the days Gregory had my phones. Then her final message after our confrontation:
Ivy:
Don't contact me again.
But on the King’s phone, her last thread of messages came this morning:
Ivy:
I don't know what to do anymore. Everything I worked for is gone. I feel like I'm drowning.
King:
You're not drowning. You're surviving, darling. And you're stronger than you think.
Ivy:
I don't feel strong. I feel broken.
King:
Broken things can be repaired. You're not beyond fixing, Ivy.
Ivy:
What if I am?
My thumbs hover over the keyboard now. I start typing.
King:
You're not. I promise you're not.
Then I delete it and attempt to start again as the truth, as Declan pretending to be King.
King:
Ivy.
I can’t type anything else.
Because the second I send this text, she'll know. And the tiny, selfish part of me that's desperate to stay connected to her even through a lie can't let go. I lock the phone and shove it back into my pocket.
Jake's right. I'm a coward.
***
The penthouse is dark when I get home. I drop my bag by the door and head straight for the liquor cabinet, not bothering to turn on the lights. The whiskey burns going down, but it doesn't numb the ache.
I pour another glass. Then another.
By the time the door opens and Riley's voice calls out to me, I've taken so many drinks, I’m beginning to believe the city lights hold answers.
"Declan?"
I don't turn around. The light comes on. A headache flares, and I rub my temples. Riley crosses the room, Rowan trailing behind her.
"Dec, you look like hell," she says softly.
"Thanks."
"When was the last time you slept?"
"I don't know. Monday?"
"It's Thursday."
"Then Monday."
Rowan sits in the armchair across from me, his green eyes scanning my face.
"You can't keep doing this."
"Doing what?"
"Destroying yourself." Riley perches on the arm of the couch, her skirt pooling around her legs. "We've been watching you spiral for days, and it's killing us."
"I'm fine." I take another shot of whiskey.
Rowan takes away the bottle.
"You're not fine!" Riley’s voice cracks, tears filling her eyes. "You haven't eaten or slept. You're drinking alone in the dark. This isn't fine."
I set the glass down. "I'm handling it."
Rowan sighs.
"No, you're falling apart. And we get it. You love her. But this isn't going to fix anything," he says, gesturing at me.
"I don't know what else to do," I say weakly.
Riley slides off the couch arm and sits beside me, taking my hands in hers. Her fingers are cold, delicate.
“Talk to Ivy. She might forgive you.”
“I’m already talking to her—”
Their faces perk up.
“—as King.”
Rowan looks away.
Riley’s face falls. “You need to stop hiding behind King, Dec."
"She'll hate me."
"Or she might see that you're human."
I wish I could believe that. But once relationships turn bad, they get worse and irredeemable, especially when Gregory is involved. I’ve had enough experience to know.
"You've spent years taking care of us," she continues, her voice breaking. "You carried us through grief and trauma and every hard thing. So let’s take care of you now. Let’s help you fix this."
I pull her into a hug, and she clings to me like she's fourteen again and terrified of losing me. Rowan joins us, his hand gripping my shoulder. For a moment, we're just three kids who lost their parents and learned to survive together.
"I don't know if I can," I admit.
"You can," Rowan says firmly. "You're Declan Hawthorne. You don't quit."
Afterward, they insist on a home-cooked meal. While I take my bath, they prepare steak, mashed potatoes, vegetables, and sauce. I don’t know how many months Riley has been practicing with this recipe, but the food is delicious, making the pain bearable.
We end up talking into the night and sleeping in my room the way we used to huddle on the bed the first few weeks after we realized we no longer had parents.
By the time I go to the Raptor’s facility the next morning, I know that I’ll survive this new hell.
The next few days pass in a blur. Benched from games, I show up to practice and go through the motions. Coach watches me with barely concealed frustration. The guys give me space.
Except Marcus.
On Wednesday, he finds me in the weight room after practice, when most of the team has cleared out. I'm running through reps mechanically, pushing my body past its limits because physical pain is better than the alternative.
"Declan."
I ignore him, focusing on the bar above me.
"We need to talk."
"Not now."
He crosses his arms. "Yes, now."
I finish the rep and sit up, sweat dripping down my spine. Marcus glares, his brown eyes searching mine with intensity.
"Ivy called me crying. She said you abandoned her."
"I was trying to protect her. If I'd contacted her, it would have proven the ethics complaint right."
"Did you tell her that?"
"She wouldn't listen."
"Did you try?" He steps closer, fists clenching. "You made that choice without her."
I slump against the weight bench.
"I love her," My voice breaks, fists curling and uncurling. "I'm in love with your sister, and I don't know how to fix what I broke."
He pauses, then studies me for a long moment.
"Do you actually love her, or is this about winning?"
Rage flares within me. "You think I'd put myself through this for my ego?"
He scoffs. "Is it real?"
"It's real." I pause, gathering my thoughts. "She's the first person who has ever made me want to be better. I love her so much it's killing me."
He cocks his head to the side.
"Then prove it,” he says before walking out.
Pulling out my phone, I open the messages to the King number and read Ivy's last text from this morning.
Ivy:
I miss feeling like myself. Like I matter.
King:
You matter more than you know. You matter to me, and your research matters.
Now, I start typing the truth:
King:
Ivy, there's something I need to tell you. Something I should have told you from the beginning. King isn't who you think he is. I'm not who you think I am. I've been lying to you since the day we met, and you deserve to know why. Let’s meet up so I can explain.
My thumb hovers over the screen, but I can’t press send.
Not like this.
I have to make sure Ivy doesn’t leave when I tell her.
Tomorrow, I’ll plan something romantic that will capture Ivy’s heart. I’ll spend the next week supporting her, wooing her.
Then, I’ll tell her everything.