Declan’s mouth ticks. “Relax. I’m out. Go coach.”
“Good.” David taps his shoulder pad once and disappears back to the room.
I fasten the last strap and step back. “Team Services will have a car for you after the game. No driving on this. In the morning, a driver will pick you up at 7:15 for your MRI. I’ll meet you there to handle intake and make sure Dr. Patel gets the images right away.”
His gaze flicks to my name badge like it might be wrong, then back to my face. He gives one short nod.
“Good.” I strip my gloves. “I’ll check your wrap in half an hour.”
He grunts. “Save it for someone who needs hand-holding.”
His phone buzzes on the table, Sophie’s name flashing across the screen.
Declan’s twelve-year-old daughter. David’s mentioned her off and on. She’s Maya’s best friend—David’s daughter—and the center of Declan’s universe.
I angle toward the door. “Do you want a minute? I can give you some space.”
He nods, already answering.
Right before I step out, I hear his voice soften—“Hey, sweetheart”—and something in my chest shifts, inconvenient and impossible to ignore.
Out in the tunnel, the temperature drops. The crowd swells through the vents. The organ pops a five-note sting, a radio crackles somewhere, and skate guards tick across the rubber mat. It smells like Zamboni soap and tape adhesive, but none of it can distract me from the questions spinning through my head about what working with him will be like.
Grump confirmed. Still unfairly hot. Deeply inconvenient.
A few months in a room with Declan Tremayne?
That’s either a rehab plan… or a dare.
Luckily, I don’t mind a challenge.
Chapter Two
DECLAN
The sun’s not even up yet, and I’m already pissed.
I should be at morning skate, not babysitting a busted knee in my kitchen.
The brace squeaks when I shift. It’s too tight behind my knee, but I don’t loosen it. That’d feel like giving in.
My knee throbs—dull and deep, like it’s warning me not to trust it. I hate that it’s right.
I drink my coffee standing, same as always. It’s black, bitter, strong enough to chew.
The mug’s hot in my hand, and that’s something I can rely on.
The house is quiet. Too quiet. No Sophie singing in the bathroom. No cereal box thudding onto the counter. No soft footsteps, no slammed drawers, no half-dressed dashes out the door.
My phone buzzes. It’s Erin—David’s wife and Maya’s mom—checking in. Maya and Sophie are best friends, practically sisters.
Her text flashes on the screen:All good here. About to take Sophie and Maya to school.
I tap out a quick reply.
Thanks. Appreciate it.
Just below it is Sophie’s response to the message I’d sent earlier:Love you more ????
