If I send it… I’m inviting the storm back in.
I think of his hand on my wrist in the lecture hall.You’re good.
I think of the suit.
I think of the candy.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I type.
In.
I hit send.
The bubble disappears.
He’s on the ice. Or in the locker room. He won’t see it until after the game.
I slide the phone onto my nightstand.
My stomach is full of sugar and resentment. My chest is full of something I refuse to name.
I crawl into bed, pulling the covers up to my chin.
Declan Reid is a problem I can’t solve.
But tonight, sending that word feels like the first breath I’ve taken all week.
Chapter 19
Declan
I’mhalfwaythroughmyritual when everything tilts.
Left skate laced. Right skate open. Tape wrapped clean over my knuckles, white bands over bruised skin. Headphones on, no music playing—just the muffled roar of the away rink bleeding through the foam, a low ocean of noise on the other side of the concrete wall.
Breathe.
Cross, pull, cinch.
The away locker room is smaller than ours. Lower ceiling. Harsher light. It smells like someone tried to bleach the failure out of it and didn’t quite manage. The boys are loud—half-dressed, chirping, stick blades knocking the floor. My stall is the eye of it; everything else just swirls around.
I keep my head down and focus on the pattern.
Left pad. Right pad. Velcro tight.
Glove on the bench. Blocker beside it.
Helmet on the hook, catching the fluorescent glare.
It’s the one place my brain shuts the fuck up—usually. Tonight, it keeps flickering.
Talia, on the library path, eyes wild, voice shaking.
Talia, in the dark, telling me I don’t get to stalk her walks home while I let someone else kiss me like I belong to them.
Talia, saying “I’m trying to live” like it’s a declaration of war.
I press my thumb hard into the roll of tape until the cardboard creaks. Breathe. Reset.
