Watching.
Waiting.
Like he did the other night.
Like he always does.
Chapter 14
Talia
It’sTuesdaynight.Thebox of donuts feels heavy in my hand, the paper sack slick with grease. Beside it, two cups of black coffee and one cup of peppermint tea steam gently against the cold arena air.
I told myself I was here to see my dad—that he’d been working late, and he deserved a visit. A truce offering after the disappointment of missing his game last week. The lie fits, but it feels sharp. The truth is wrapped in the second cup of black coffee, steaming hot in my hand.
The arena hallway is quiet. The main lights are dimmed, casting long shadows that stretch and warp the trophies in the lobby. I walk past the closed double doors of the locker room—hearing the faint, distant hum of the showers inside—and stop outside my dad's office.
The door is shut. I tap lightly with my elbow.
“Come in.” Dad’s voice is muffled by the thick wood. Exhausted.
I shoulder the door open. The office is small, airless, thick with the scent of stale paper and burnt coffee. Dad is behind the desk, hunched over game footage, a dark pullover stretched over his broad shoulders. He looks up and manages a tired smile.
“What’s all this?”
“Truce offering,” I say, placing the box and one of the black coffees on his desk. “And yours.”
I keep the peppermint tea, settling into the chair opposite him, but I set the third cup—the second black coffee—down on the edge of the desk. Unclaimed.
He laughs, a quick, dry sound, then reaches for his cup. “You’re a lifesaver, kid. I’ve been staring at the power play stats for three hours.”
My eyes drift immediately to the door, which I left slightly ajar. A clear escape route.
Then I hear it. A deep, steady rumble that precedes him. The sound of heavy footsteps and gear clanging announces him before he ever appears.
Declan.
My breath catches. It worked.
The door swings open and he steps inside, filling the narrow space completely. He’s fresh from the ice, a black hoodie clinging to his broad shoulders, still damp with exertion. His hands are bare, the bruises on his knuckles faded to a dull, healing yellow.
He stops short when he sees me. His sharp, green eyes lock on mine. Cold. Direct.
He sees the extra coffee cup on the desk. Then his gaze snaps back to me.
“You’re here,” he murmurs. An accusation and a question wrapped into one.
“I brought coffee,” I whisper.
He grabs the extra cup, fingers brushing the paper sack, and pulls a chair up. He sits next to me, turning the small office into a claustrophobic triangle of tension. Our knees are inches apart.
The air thickens. Dad starts talking about line defense, but his words are just a wall of sound. All my attention is on the man beside me—his heat, the clean scent of soap and cold metal cutting through the air.
“So, Reid,” Dad says, leaning back. “You ready for Friday?”
“Yes, Coach. I’m good.”
“Good. You’re wound tight, Declan, but you’re my anchor. That’s what I need to see.” Dad takes a slow sip of coffee. “Talia, are you going to come watch your anchor work this week? Or are you hiding in the library again?”
