When the horn sounds to end morning skate, I glance once more through the glass. Declan’s still out there, slow circles under the rink lights. Controlled. Alone.
And even from here, I can tell it’s killing him not to be in the fight.
By the time the puck drops that night, the building feels electric.
The bass from the pregame track vibrates through the stands, fans already on their feet, the sound of skates and sticks filling the air.
Conference Final: Ice Foxes versus Vegas Infernos.
I’m posted at the bench gate, just inside the tunnel, headset snug. A monitor in the nearby medical room shows a live feed from the bench and ice, so I can keep an eye on both. Vic’s planted at the end of the bench, eyes sharp.
Vegas plays heavy, just like everyone warned — fast transitions, relentless forecheck, bodies everywhere. The first ten minutes are chaos.
By the end of the first, it’s tied 1–1.
Declan leans against the boards at the far end of the bench, headset off but eyes glued to the ice, jaw set, arms folded.
Even without a stick in his hands, he reads the ice like he’s still captain out there. I catch him leaning toward Coach between whistles, voice low but calm — steadying the room the way he always has.
Second period: Vegas crashes the crease, draws a penalty. The penalty kill looks shaky, but our goalie stands on his head. Declan’s knuckles tighten on the railing with every blocked shot.
Third period. Two minutes left. Tied again.
The crowd’s on its feet. I hear my own heartbeat louder than the horn when Torres catches a rebound off the end boards and buries it with eleven seconds to go. The arena explodes — sound, motion, absolute chaos.
The bench empties. Helmets off, gloves in the air, everyone shouting. Declan’s grinning at last, clapping shoulders, yelling something I can’t hear over the noise.
The Ice Foxes take Game 1 of the Conference Final.
By the time I get home, my pulse still hasn’t settled.
The adrenaline makes everything feel too quiet. I drop my keys on the counter and my phone buzzes before I can even kick off my shoes.
Declan:Big one. Sophie’s buzzing but nervous about her musical on Friday.
I smile as I text him back:Tell her that’s normal. Big performances mean big nerves. I’ll be there for her musical cheering her and Maya on. Promise.
Declan:Wouldn’t expect anything else, Doc.
The nickname makes me laugh.
I set my phone down, the game still echoing in my chest.
The Foxes are up one-nothing in the series.
Declan’s close.
And so am I, in more ways than I should be.
It’s later in the week, and the high is gone. Vegas stole Game 2 last night in overtime, and the facility’s been tight ever since.
Sophie and Maya’s musical is Friday night. We fly out Saturday morning for Vegas, and Game 3 is Sunday night. Declan’s been pushing harder in PT, like he’s trying to outwork time itself.
I don’t blame him. Soon, he’ll be cleared to play again.
And we won’t have to hide our relationship anymore.
I’m halfway through updating treatment notes when my phone lights up on the counter.
