24. DECLAN
DECLAN
The Price of Truth
The text to King arrives while I'm in the weight room, mid-rep on the bench press.
Ivy:
I know who you are, Declan.
The bar crashes back onto the rack with a metallic clang that echoes through the empty space. My phone screen blurs as I stare at those words that detonate everything I've been building toward.
Ivy knows I'm King.
I grab the phone, fumbling to call her. It rings four times.
Voicemail.
"Ivy, please. Let me explain. Just…" My voice cracks. "Please pick up."
I hang up and immediately text back with fingers that won't cooperate.
King:
Please let me explain. Meet me anywhere. I'll come to you.
The message shows delivered. Then read.
Three dots appear.
Disappear.
Nothing.
I send another text:
King:
I'm sorry. I know I don't deserve it, but please just hear me out.
Read. No response.
King:
Ivy, please.
No response again. Just deafening silence.
I call again. Voicemail.
The weight room suddenly feels too small, the air too thick. My chest constricts like someone's wrapped steel bands around my ribs and is tightening them slowly.
I've lost Ivy.
The realization hits like a body check I didn't see coming. I've finally, completely, irrevocably lost her. I slump onto the bench, head in my hands, the cold metal of the phone pressed against my forehead. Every text I sent as King scrolls through my memory.
Jake was right. I'm a monumental idiot.
"Hawthorne."
Gregory's voice cuts through the weight room like a blade. I don't look up.
"Go away."
"We need to talk."
His footsteps echo across the concrete floor, expensive Italian leather on industrial flooring. The sound alone makes me want to punch him.
I finally raise my head, taking in his perfectly pressed charcoal gray suit with that calculating expression he wears when he thinks he's won.
"I said go away," I spit.
"Coach told me you've been cleared to play. Your benching is over." He adjusts his Rolex, a casual gesture that screams power. "I pulled some strings with Senator Ashford and called in a favor. You're starting in Friday's game."
"I don't want your favors."
"Too bad, you already have them." He steps closer, the scent of his cologne suffocating me. "But like everything in life, Declan, there's a price."
My brows furrow. "What price?"
"Next week, there's a charity gala with big donors and media coverage." His smile is all teeth, no warmth. "You'll attend with Evangeline. At the end of the evening, you'll announce your engagement."
The words take a moment to process. "My what?"
"Your engagement to Evangeline. It's already been arranged with Senator Ashford.
" He says it like he's discussing a business transaction, which I suppose to him it is.
"The senator gets positive publicity for his daughter dating a reformed hockey star.
You get a beautiful woman who boosts your career.
Evangeline gets her father's approval. Everyone wins. "
Bitter laughter erupts from my mouth. “No, Senator Ashford gets positive publicity for his daughter dating a reformed hockey star. You maintain your investment in my career. Evangeline gets her father's approval. All of you win. I don’t.”
"You'll do fine. Evangeline is beautiful, well-connected, and perfect for your image. The marriage doesn't even have to be real, just public enough to matter."
Searing anger fills my chest.
"No!"
His smile doesn't falter. "Excuse me?"
"I said no." I stand, using my height advantage. "I'm not engaging in some fake relationship for your benefit. I'm done with your manipulations, Gregory. Your schemes no longer work on me.”
His face tightens. “You’re under contract.”
One eyebrow arches. “Am I under contract or am I under destruction from you? Besides, I'm not renewing my contract. You can't make me."
"Can't I?" He reaches into his black leather, monogrammed suitcase and pulls out a folder. "I've already filed a lawsuit for breach of contract. We have a binding agreement, which you're trying to walk away from before it expires."
"Sue me then. I'll counter-sue for the eight million you stole."
"Stole?" His laugh is sharp, humorless. "That's a strong accusation especially when I have documentation showing every transaction was approved by your financial team. My compensation structure was always outlined in our contracts. Performance bonuses. Management fees. Advisory costs. They’re all legal. "
I might not know how he stole them, but I’m sure Patricia Ammon is gathering evidence against him. I don’t let him have the last word.
"You stole them. Stop pretending."
Ignoring me, he opens the folder, revealing pages of legal documents.
"I've prepared affidavits from three witnesses, financial advisors I hired on your behalf, stating that you were regularly briefed on all account activities.”
The more he talks, the more obvious it is he’s guilty. Who prepares a witness defense against fraud before he’s accused unless he’s guilty and covering his tracks?
“There’s also evidence of your irrational spending,” he continues. “Being reckless with money. That’s the kind of liability no team wants."
My jaw tightens. "You're threatening to destroy my reputation."
"I'm protecting mine. There's a difference, which you’ve failed to learn in nine years.
" His gray eyes gleam with malicious satisfaction.
"You have until Monday to decide. Announce the engagement, play nice with Senator Ashford, and I'll make all of this go away.
Or fight me, and I'll bury you in legal fees while your career crumbles. Your choice."
He walks out, leaving me standing in the weight room with the bitter taste of powerlessness coating my tongue.
***
Practice that night becomes a disaster that’s been waiting to happen.
I skate onto the ice with every muscle in my body coiled tight, ready to snap. The cold air bites at my face, but it does nothing to cool the heat building under my skin.
"Easy, Dec," Jake warns during warm ups, skating alongside me as his brown eyes assess me. "You're wound up."
"I'm fine."
"You're not fine. You look like you want to put someone through the glass."
I don't respond. Just line up for the next drill.
Coach calls for a full-contact scrimmage. Marcus is on the opposite line, and I see the way his jaw tightens when we make eye contact. He still hasn't forgiven me for Ivy, even after our talk.
The puck drops. Tyler Chen has possession. I'm on him immediately, stick checking harder than necessary. He curses, fighting me off.
"Back off, Hawthorne!"
I don't back off.
Connor tries to intercept on the next play. I use my body to shield the puck, my elbow catching his ribs harder than it should. The rookie goes down with a grunt.
The whistle blows.
"Hawthorne, ease up!" Coach yells from the bench.
I skate harder instead, chasing every loose puck like my life depends on it. The physical exertion should clear my head, burn off the toxic mix of anger and heartbreak churning in my gut.
It doesn't.
Because every time I close my eyes, I see Ivy's face. The way she looked at me in that hallway devastated, betrayed, broken. The sound of her voice when she said we were done.
The memory of her body against mine. Her laugh. The way she'd bite her lip when she wanted me. How she felt in my arms, soft and perfect and mine.
Except she was never really mine. Not when I built everything on lies.
Marcus has the puck now. I go after him, faster and more aggressive. He sees me coming and tries to dodge, but I'm already committed to the hit.
We collide hard into the boards.
The impact reverberates through my entire body. My shoulder takes the brunt of it. But my head snaps to the side, helmet cracking against the glass.
For a second, everything goes white.
Then I'm on the ice, the cold seeping through my gear. Sound becomes muffled, like I'm underwater. Someone's shouting, but I can't make out the words.
"Dec! Declan!"
Hands grip my arms, hauling me upright. My legs don't quite cooperate.
"Get him to medical," Coach orders. "Now."
The next few minutes are hazy as someone puts me on a stretcher and takes me to the medical room saturated with the smell of antiseptic. I stare at the wall, welcoming the pain. I'm sitting on the examination table, still staring, when Dr. Logan walks in with his tablet.
"How are you feeling?"
"Fine."
"You took a hard hit. I need to run a concussion protocol." He taps something on his screen. "I'm going to have someone come in to do the assessment."
"I said I'm fine."
"And I said we're doing the assessment." His tone brooks no argument as he steps out.
The door opens several minutes later and Ivy walks in.
My breath catches.
She's wearing dark jeans that fit her curves and a fitted burgundy sweater that shows off her figure in a way her old oversized cardigans never did. Her straight black hair is down, falling past her shoulders. She looks different. Stronger somehow.
And completely closed off to me.
"Dr. Logan asked me to do your assessment." Her voice is professional, detached. "I'm only here because he insisted."
"Ivy…"
"Look at my finger," she says, holding up her index finger and moving it slowly from the left to the right.
I follow it, my throat tight.
"Do you know where you are?"
"The Raptors facility."
"What day is it?"
"Twenty-eight."
"Do you remember what happened?"
"I hit the boards with Marcus."
She makes notes without looking at me. "Any nausea?"
"No."
"Dizziness?"
"No."
"Headache?"
"Yes."
She pulls out a penlight and steps closer. Close enough that I catch the faint scent of her perfume that activates memories of both of us together.
I want to reach out and touch her. To pull her into my arms. I want to bury my face in her hair and beg her to forgive me.
Instead, I sit still while she shines the light in my eyes, her expression clinical and distant.
She steps back. "Your pupils are reactive, and you have no signs of concussion. You're cleared."
"Ivy, please, let me explain about Gregory. He manipulated everything; the video and the ethics complaint."
"It doesn't matter anymore." Her voice is flat.
"It matters. He stole my phones so I couldn't contact you. He destroyed your research to control me…"
"And why are you telling me this?" she asks, finally looks at me. The emptiness in her eyes guts me. "So I'll feel sorry for you or understand why you lied to me for weeks?"
"No. I'm telling you because I love you, Ivy." The words come out raw, desperate. "I've loved you through every text as King, every kiss, every moment we had. I know I screwed up and hurt you, but what I feel is real."
She's quiet for a long moment. Hope flickers in my chest. Maybe she’ll understand and let me back into her life. But when she turns her gaze to me, her eyes are cold.
"You don't know what love is, Declan. Love requires honesty. Trust. Respect. You gave me none of those things. You watched me fall for King while pursuing me as yourself. You let me tear myself apart choosing between two men who were the same person."
The hope extinguishes, deflating like a popped balloon.
"I never wanted that to happen."
"You never wanted to lose control. That's what this was about.
You couldn't handle that I might reject Declan, so you became King.
You played both sides so you'd win no matter what I chose.
But the only thing you won was proving that all you know how to do is lie to me, to yourself, and to everyone. "
She moves toward the door, her back straight, shoulders squared.
"Ivy—"
"You're cleared for play. Try not to take any more stupid hits."
She walks out, the door closing behind her with a click.
I sit on the examination table in the empty room, the antiseptic smell burning my nostrils.
My phone is in my hand, but there's no one to call. No words that will fix this.
I've lost Ivy.
And this time, I don't think there's any coming back.