“I can fix it,” I chirped, refilled a cup, and tried again with a grin. Declan blocked me with his stick, frown locked in. “Off the bench, Charlie. This isn’t a playground.”
I shake my head and bring my focus back to the wall-mounted screen as the feed zooms in on him. He taps his stick twice; his shoulders settle as if the ice belongs to him. His edgework is ruthless—no wasted motion. I catch myself following the broad, muscular line of his back, admiring how his stride has that quiet authority you can feel through glass.
Nerves flare up in my chest at the thought of facing him now.
David describes him as controlled and disciplined, but I can’t help but wonder…
Has he changed, or is he still the same grump?
It’s early April, six games left in the regular season, and if they keep this up they’ll lock a Playoff spot.
I’m restocking scissors when the whistle knives through the speakers. I look up at the wall-mounted screen just as Declan chips a puck past their defenseman and takes a hard finish through the ribs. His left skate stays planted while the rest of him turns. His knee buckles the wrong way.
My stomach drops.
“Oh no,” I whisper, heart lurching. “That’s not good. Come on, Declan...”
He guts out another few seconds of dead-eyed efficiency, dumps the puck, and takes a change. On the bench, he folds over his left knee, shoulders rigid.
My radio crackles. “Charlotte, stand by. Tremayne, left knee. We’re bringing him back to the training room. Have a hinge ready.”
I grab an adjustable hinged knee brace, bumping the drawer shut with my hip. My badge taps my chest like it’s saying,You asked for this—so show them you’re ready.
“I’m on it,” I answer.
Growing up, he was all scowls, grumpiness, and rules—and I’m about to find out if anything’s changed.
I set the hinged knee brace on the counter and pull the curtain on the nearest table. Ice bin within reach.
Footsteps slap concrete in the tunnel. The training room door swings open.
Vic pushes through the doorway, Declan’s arm slung across his shoulders. Declan keeps most of his weight off his left leg; his steps are short and careful. That guarded walk pings my PT radar immediately.
“In here,” I say, steady, gesturing to the table. I grab the brace from the counter and set it beside the towels, where it lands with a soft click.
Vic braces the table as Declan lowers himself, careful with his left side. Up close, he’s bigger than I remember—broad shoulders, solid chest, the kind of strength you don’t need to announce.
Stubble shadows his jaw, dark hair damp from the ice, sweat beading at his temple. There’s a small scar by his right brow I don’t remember.
His blue eyes sweep the room and land on me. His jaw tightens; he draws a slow, measured breath.
Does he recognize me?
My pulse won’t settle. It’s ridiculous.
Great. I clock “hot” on day one. Fantastic professionalism, Charlotte.
I remind myself I’ve seen plenty of injured knees and plenty of famous faces and switch to work mode.
“Charlotte Blake,” I say, snapping on gloves. “New physical therapist for the Ice Foxes.”
His gaze stays on my face. He blinks once, twice. Then his eyes narrow.
“Charlie?”
That’s the nickname he gave me growing up. He’d call me that at Dad’s rink, voice flat, and I’d chirp back even when he didn’t smile.
“Hi, Declan.”
