The rest of the team is moving down the hallway, a loud river of navy jerseys and laughter, but Declan isn't with them. He has separated himself from the pack. He’s leaning against the concrete wall just inside the tunnel entrance, one leg crossed over the other, arms folded over his chest.
Waiting.
He’s looking straight at me. It’s not a glance or a scan. It’s a direct, unblinking, consuming stare that pins me to the spot. His helmet is off, dark-blonde hair damp and clinging to his forehead, sweat tracking down his temples. His eyes are green—a sharp, unsettling green so dark it’s almost black from this distance.
And there’s something in the way he looks at me—too steady, too hungry—that pries under my ribs. My father represents a control that protects; Declan represents a control that devours.
The concrete smells like damp rubber and disinfectant; a drip ticks somewhere in the rafters. My fingers tighten around the strap of my bag until the canvas bites.
I don’t drop my gaze. I refuse to run. I hold the look like a line I’m drawing across the floor:I’m here.
He pushes off the wall. A slow, predatory movement. He doesn't smile. He doesn't nod. He just lets me see him. Really see him. And what I see terrifies me more than his strength. I see a crack in the perfect armor. A hunger that looks like it hurts.
He looks... wrecked. And he wants me to see it.
A split second stretches into eternity. The roar of the crowd is gone. The world narrows to the ten feet of concrete between us.
A trainer claps him on the shoulder, and the spell shatters. Declan doesn't flinch, but his jaw tightens. He gives a sharp nod, but his eyes stay on me for one more brutal second. Then he turns and disappears into the dark of the tunnel.
I stand there, hand frozen on my bag strap, heart pounding a frantic, painful rhythm against my ribs. It’s one thing to be looked at; I’m used to that. Being seen, though, is another thing entirely.
Whatever he saw… it felt dangerous.
I breathe once, deep enough to sting. Then I turn toward the exit—slow, not running. It’s a small victory, but it’s mine.
Chapter 3
Declan
Thecrowd'sroarswells,drowning out every thought as the final horn blares.
The Titans have won. But the victory feels hollow, a phantom cheer reverberating through thick glass. It doesn’t matter. My job is to work, not to celebrate.
As the team crashes into me, bodies collide like a tempest, shoving me toward the pile-up forming in front of the net. Gloved hands slap my helmet; sticks bang against my pads. I can tolerate this for a few seconds—four, five. Long enough to deflect questions. To prove I’m not a complete asshole. But then I peel away, carving a hard line out of the mess, skating toward the neutral zone.
I don’t join the center-ice show. I don’t loop back for a salute.
My job is done. Now, I need to escape the chaos.
I skate slowly toward the boards near the bench, letting the team surge past me for the handshake line and the initial celebration. I stare down at the ice, breathing hard, granting the current a chance to clear. I cross the blue line, then the red, eyes locked on the mouth of the tunnel.
Exit.A single directive. The only target that matters.
A trainer reaches over the boards to tap my helmet; I duck it, veering closer to the wall, not slowing down.
The air shifts as soon as I leave the sheet—less cold, more concrete and disinfectant. Steel hits rubber. I rip the helmet off, the cage dragging sweat-slick hair from my forehead. The mask dangles from my fingers, heavy and damp. The arena’s roar chases me into the tunnel, bouncing off cinderblock, smearing into one long, distorted note.
I mean to keep moving—left turn, rubber under steel, eight steps to the door. That’s the plan.
But I don’t take the first step.
My body betrays the directive before my brain even registers the threat. I stop dead inside the mouth of the tunnel, halfway in shadow. The rest of the team flows around me like water around rock, but I’m frozen.
I feel it before I see it—a glitch in the system. That prickling sensation between my shoulder blades. The sense of being watched by someone who truly sees.
My gaze drags up, involuntary and heavy. It snags on her.
Talia.
