Me:Champagne.
Kristy:I’m already too excited and too impatient. We’re making plans the second you’re back.
I can’t stop smiling. My fingers hover over the call button, then fall away. Some things deserve to be said face-to-face, and “he told me he loves me” is definitely one of those things.
By the time I arrive at the airport, I’m back in team mode: lanyard on, bag packed, feelings carefully zipped up.
When we land in Vegas, the sun’s sharp and blinding, reflecting off the tarmac. The guys peel off through the private terminal, sunglasses already on, half-joking, half-wired. They’re buzzing with that travel-day mix of exhaustion and adrenaline. The series is tied 1–1, and Game 3’s tomorrow night.
You can sense the urgency under the laughter.
“Look at the captain actually smiling,” Torres says, grinning.
Reed laughs. “Must’ve slept great or something.”
Declan just shakes his head, the hint of a smile still playing at his mouth. “Big game week. Try it sometime.”
The banter continues, and I do my best not to smile.
I shoulder my bag and fall into step with the medical crew. Declan’s a few paces ahead, walking steady despite the brace, no limp now. A small knot of reporters waits behind a rope line outside the private terminal.
“Tremayne! How’s the leg feeling?”
He doesn’t break stride. “One day at a time,” he says, calm, even, practiced.
I catch the faint set of his jaw, the way he hides the stiffness when he pivots to grab his duffel. It takes everything in me not to walk over and help.
When the buses pull up to the hotel, the team’s already in game-day mode: headphones in, conversations low, everyone moving on autopilot. Inside the lobby, it’s controlled chaos: media staff checking room lists, security guiding fans back from the rope line, and a couple of kids asking for autographs near the fountain.
He disappears into the elevator with the players, and I pretend to check my messages like I’m not still watching him go.
A few hours later, the rink hits me like it always does: sharp and cold at ice level. Optional skate is fast and light. Vic and I post at the boards, tracking mobility and anything that looks off after travel. Declan’s there in sweats, leaning on the glass and watching every rep.
During a reset, guys drift to the bench for water, and Declan catches my eye across the ice. Just a heartbeat of recognition, then I look back down at my tablet, pretending to adjust a note. My pulse betrays me anyway.
As we finish up and head back to the hotel, the sun’s slipping behind the skyline, Vegas glowing neon again. Team dinner runs long, loud with inside jokes and playoff nerves. When I finally get to my room, I’m kicking off my shoes when my phone buzzes.
Declan:Made it through the day without anyone clocking us. You good?
Me:Barely. You?
Declan:Counting down the days.
I stare at the screen for a second, smiling before I can stop it.
Counting down to clearance. To not hiding. To whatever comes next.
Outside, Vegas hums like it never sleeps. Inside, it’s just quiet enough for me to hear my own heart still racing from last night.
Tomorrow’s Game 3. The stakes are high, and the lines between professional and personal have never felt thinner.
And somewhere between the arena lights and the hotel quiet, I realize…
Loving him is easy.
I hope hiding it for another week will be too.
Chapter Thirty-Four
