Declan didn’t move at first. He held that position for a full, burning second, eyes still on mine, physically fighting the leash yanking at his neck. Then he straightened slowly, jaw tight, putting space between us that neither of us wanted.
Now, in the dim light of my room, I press my thumb to my lip. Trying to feel the ghost of something that didn’t actually happen.
I wanted it.
That’s the worst part. Or the best.
I wanted his mouth on mine. Wanted to know what it feels like to let that kind of heat touch me and not be afraid. Wanted to see what happens to that careful control if I kissed him first.
You’re the coach’s daughter.
He’s on a short leash.
You’re a complication.
Dad’s warnings stack up with the new ones in my head. The buzz of Declan’s phone in his lap. The way his thumb held the power button down until the screen went black.
I’m on a short leash, he’d said.
He didn’t say who was holding it. He didn’t have to. I saw the tension in his jaw when he ignored that call.
I’m tired of other people’s hands around both our throats.
My phone lies face-down on the nightstand. I check it for the tenth time anyway. Nothing new. Just Clara’s last text from earlier:Study break Sunday? I’ll bring brownies. You bring the trauma.
I huff out a laugh that doesn’t quite land. I start to type.
I almost kissed your favorite goalie outside the locker room.
Delete. My cheeks burn, even alone.
I try again.
You ever want something that definitely qualifies as a bad idea?
Delete.
The truth feels too big to shove into a bubble. Too fragile to send off into the void where it becomes a screenshot, a receipt, a thing that exists outside my control.
I lock the phone and put it back on the nightstand.
Silence presses in again.
I could stay here. Pull the covers over my head and replay the almost-kiss until I fall asleep, heart pounding, hands empty.
Or—
I could do something stupider.
Motion takes over before logic signs off. I swing my legs off the bed and shove my feet into sneakers. My jacket is still hanging on the back of my chair. I shrug into it, fingers fumbling with the zipper.
It’s late. Close to eleven. The air will be cold. Campus will be quiet.
He might not be there.
Except… I know his patterns.
I’ve seen the lights on in the arena at ridiculous hours. I’ve heard Dad grumble about “Reid taking more ice when he should be sleeping.” I caught sight of him once from the parking lot—just a flash of movement in the crease, alone on the glassy sheet, all that restless energy turned into angles and drills.
