But I don’t. Not yet.
“Nothing,” I say lightly. “Just… I’ll dive into it later with you, I promise.”
There’s a pause, then her voice softens. “Fine. Keep your secrets. For now. But you know I’ll drag it out of you eventually.”
I smile despite myself. She’s not wrong.
And for once, I’m glad she lets me go, because I’m still not sure what any of it means.
My mind drifts back to Declan.
We still haven’t talked about the kiss.
But something shifted today.
Chapter Ten
DECLAN
Sophie’s singing upstairs as she gets ready for school, her voice carrying clear and strong down the hall. She doesn’t even try to keep it down. It fills the house, confident in a way I never was at twelve.
A few days ago, she was curled up in bed, pale and miserable, and I hadn’t had a clue how to help. Then Charlie showed up with her calm steadiness and somehow made the whole thing easier. Normal.
I don’t know what I’d have done without her. Charlie made it all feel… manageable. Which should be a good thing.
But it rattles me more than I want to admit.
Last night, when she was standing in my doorway, I almost asked if she wanted to grab dinner sometime. The words were right there, hovering at the back of my throat—stupid and reckless.
What the hell was I thinking?
She’s David’s sister. She’s my physical therapist. And yet, some part of me doesn’t care.
Vanessa finally called—late, of course, after Sophie was already through the worst of it. But Sophie lit up, chattering away on speakerphone while her mom rattled off a few answers about cramps and calendars and all the rest. It wasn’t nothing. Sophie needed that. Still, I couldn’t help noticing how different her face looked two mornings ago when Charlotte sat beside her bed, steady and calm, turning a crisis into something manageable.
Since then, Sophie’s been lighter. Steadier. I should feel relief. And I do—but it’s tangled with something else I can’t shake. The way Charlotte looked at me in the doorway when she left. The weight of the moment that hung there between us. We haven’t talked about it. Not a word.
And maybe that’s for the best.
Tonight is the last game of the regular season. Win, and the Ice Foxes grab the Wild Card. Lose, and we’re done. My stomach knots just thinking about it. Playoffs are what we grind all year for, what I’ve bled for my entire career. And for the first time in more than a decade, I won’t be out there when the puck drops.
The rink hums with the kind of electricity you can’t fake. Last game of the season, stakes sharp enough to cut.
I move through the locker room in street clothes, brace strapped tight under my joggers, crutches clicking against the tile. It feels wrong not to be pulling on pads, but I still make the rounds—clapping shoulders, meeting eyes, steadying nerves. That’s my job now.
One of the rookies fumbles with his tape, too jittery to get it right. I take the roll, tear off a strip, and hand it back without a word. He exhales, nods, and the rest of the room seems to settle a notch—like if the captain isn’t panicked, maybe they don’t need to be either.
Tyler’s loud, rallying the guys, cracking jokes that break tension before it can strangle anyone. The younger players lean into it, feeding off his energy. It’s good for them, for the team. Necessary.
Afterwards, Coach clears his throat, his eyes flickering to me.
“Declan, any words?”
I plant my crutches, let the noise die down as every head turns to me.
“This is it,” I say, voice low but carrying. “Win tonight, and we punch our ticket to the Playoffs. Every shift, every puck—you’ve earned the right to be here. Don’t let it slip. Sixty minutes. That’s all it takes. Now finish it.”
No yelling. No theatrics. Just steady conviction.
