26. DECLAN
DECLAN
Not Giving Up
The envelope lands on my kitchen counter like a grenade.
Patricia’s face is schooled into the kind of careful neutrality that tells me exactly how bad this is going to be. Her sharp eyes glance at me then the envelope.
"Open it."
My hands are steady as I break the seal. Years of high-pressure situations have trained me not to show weakness, even when everything inside is screaming. The letterhead makes my stomach drop:
“Stallworth v. Hawthorne. Breach of Contract. Damages: $15,000,000.”
"Fifteen million? He's suing me for fifteen million dollars."
"Keep reading."
I scan the document. Breach of fiduciary duty, willful destruction of professional relationship, financial fraud…Wait!
I look up. "He's accusing me of fraud?"
Patricia nods, her expression grim. "He's claiming you deliberately concealed income to avoid paying him his contractual percentage. There are bank statements, emails, text messages. They’re all fabricated, of course, but convincing enough to cause problems."
"This is insane. He stole from me for nine years."
"I know. But Gregory's smart. He's framing this as you being the thief, him being the victim." She pulls out her tablet, pulling up what looks like financial documents. "He's got a paper trail that makes you look guilty. We can fight it and win eventually, but the optics..."
"The optics are terrible." I finish for her. "Millionaire athlete accused of financial crimes during playoffs. Even if I'm innocent, the damage is done."
"Exactly." She closes the tablet. "If this goes public, every endorsement deal you have will evaporate overnight. The team might suspend you during the investigation. Your reputation…"
"Will be destroyed," I finish for her. "That's the point. Gregory knew I was about to expose him, so he struck first."
My phone buzzes. Riley's name flashes on the screen, followed immediately by Rowan's. They've been calling non-stop since Patricia arrived. I've been ignoring them because I can't face their worries yet.
I can't face the fear that I'm about to lose everything.
Patricia stands, smoothing her skirt. "Think carefully about your next move. Gregory's given you an out. Drop your allegations against him, continue with the Evangeline arrangement, and he'll withdraw the lawsuit. You can salvage your career."
"What if I fight?"
"Legal bills in the hundreds of thousands. Years of litigation. Your name dragged through every media outlet. And there's no guarantee we’ll win before your career is over." She pauses at the door. "I've seen this before, Declan. Sometimes the cost of being right is too high."
The door closes behind her.
I stare at Gregory's signature at the bottom of the lawsuit. Nine years of manipulation condensed into legal threats. He's always been three steps ahead in the negative direction, always making sure I knew who held the power.
And like an idiot, I let him.
Just like I let him destroy things with Ivy.
My phone buzzes again. This time I answer.
"Finally!" Riley's voice is frantic. "We've been trying to reach you for hours. Rowan found something on the financial forums. Gregory's lawyer is known for these exact tactics. Apparently, he specializes in preemptive strikes against…"
"Riley, Gregory is suing me for fifteen million. He's accusing me of fraud."
Silence.
Then: "Damn."
"Patricia says fighting will destroy my career. The optics alone will be horrible."
"Screw the optics. You're innocent. We’ll prove it."
That's Rowan, his voice sharp through the phone. Riley must have put me on speaker.
"With what? He's been covering his tracks for years. Rowan, you know how thorough he is."
"Then we find something he missed. There's always something." But he sounds less certain than usual.
"What if there isn't?" My voice lowers in defeat. "What if he's finally beaten me?"
"Don't you dare give up." Riley's voice cracks. "We've survived worse than this. We survived losing Mom and Dad. We survived you raising us while building your career."
"This is different. It could destroy everything I've sacrificed for." I grip the counter hard. "And for what? So I can try to win back a woman who doesn’t want me?"
"Is that what this is about?" Riley asks quietly. "Ivy?"
I close my eyes. My last encounter with her plays on repeat: Ivy's face and the devastating finality in her voice when she told me we were done.
"She blocked my numbers. She wants nothing to do with me."
"Because you lied to her while letting Gregory control your life," Rowan says bluntly.
"I know that."
"If you know that, why are you doing the same thing? You’re letting Gregory win by protecting your image instead of fighting for what's real."
The words hit like a slap. "That's not fair."
"Dec, I love you. We both do,” he says voice softening.
“But you've been letting Gregory dictate your life since you were nineteen. At first it was cool because we were teenagers and you needed to put a roof over our head and keep us together while building your career. But now, we’re adults, Dec.
Yet you're so afraid of losing your career that you're willing to lose everything else that matters. "
"My career is what keeps you in school. It's what paid for Mom and Dad's funeral."
"We don't care about the money." Riley's voice is fierce, angry. "We care about you. And watching you destroy yourself to protect some image that isn't even real is killing us."
I open my mouth to argue, but nothing comes out.
Because she's right.
Everything I've done has been about maintaining an image. The playboy persona Gregory crafted. The charity appearances. The staged relationships. Even the way I separated King from Declan with Ivy was about showing different versions of myself instead of being whole.
And it cost me the only woman I've ever loved.
"I have to go," I say. "We've got a game tonight."
"Declan…"
I hang up.
***
The locker room is too quiet.
We're tying 1-1 in the playoff series. The energy should be electric, everyone focused and ready to fight. Instead, it feels like a funeral because everyone knows I'm the reason we might lose.
I pull on my jersey, the fabric rough against my skin. My hands lace my skates. Around me, guys go through their pre-game rituals but nobody's talking to me. They’ve not looked at me directly since I arrived.
Jake skates over during warm-ups, his dark eyes serious.
"You good?"
"I'm fine."
"You haven't been fine in weeks. You need to leave all the baggage off the ice. The team needs you."
"I know."
He tilts his head. "I've watched you disappear this season, Dec. You're here, but you're not here. And tonight, we need all of you."
I want to tell him about Gregory, how everything is falling apart and I don't know how to stop it. But the words stick in my throat.
Instead, I just nod, leave the locker room, and go to the rink.
The game is a disaster from the first drop of the puck.
My timing is off. My passes miss their targets. I'm half a second too slow on every play, my mind somewhere else while my body goes through the motions. In the second period, Tyler sets me up for an open net, the kind of shot I could make in my sleep.
I miss. The puck hits the post and bounces away.
The crowd groans. My teammates' frustration is palpable.
By the third period, we're down by two. Coach benches me with five minutes left, and I can't even argue. I watch from the sidelines as the team fights desperately to stay alive. Misha makes save after impossible save. Ty and Connor throw their bodies into every defensive play.
But it's not enough.
The buzzer sounds. Overtime. And I'm still on the bench.
We lose three minutes into OT from a defensive breakdown that might not have happened if I'd been on the ice. It definitely wouldn't have happened if my head had been in the game.
The locker room afterward is silent. Guys strip off their gear, faces blank. The season isn't over yet. We’re down 1-2 and still have at least two more chances. But it feels like a wake.
I sit in my stall in full gear, unable to move.
"Hawthorne." Coach's voice cuts through the silence. "I want you in my office, now."
The walk feels like a death march. I close the door behind me, and Coach Petrov leans against his desk, arms crossed. His weathered face is unreadable.
"You want to tell me what's going on?"
"I had an off night."
"You've had an off month." He studies me. "This isn't about hockey. The Dr. Chandler thing is eating you alive from the inside, and it's destroying this team."
"I'm sorry."
"Sorry doesn't win games." He sighs, some of the anger draining away. "You're one of the best players I've coached, but you're playing like a ghost of yourself. If you can't get your head straight by the next game, I'm scratching you. We need players who are present, not bodies taking up ice time."
The words should sting. Instead, they just feel inevitable.
I return to the locker room. Most of the guys have already left. Jake is sitting quietly. When he sees me, he stands.
"Everyone," he calls out. "Hold up."
The few remaining players stop, turning to face him. Word must spread fast because guys who were halfway out the door file back in. Within minutes, the whole team is assembled.
Jake doesn't raise his voice.
"We've all lost games," he begins. "That's part of this sport and part of life. You lose, you learn, you come back stronger." He pauses, his gaze sweeping the room before landing on me. "But when you lose yourself, that's when it's really over because you've got nothing left to fight with."
The room is so quiet I can hear my own heartbeat.
"I've watched the team suffer this season because one of our best players has become a shell," Jake continues, his gaze landing on me.
"Whatever's happening in your life, you need to decide what matters more—protecting your image or fighting for your truth.
Because right now, you're doing neither. You're just vanishing."
The words hit me like lightning.