Only I’m not. I’m a thirty-four-year-old captain making out with my best friend’s sister in the damn training room, with staff walking the halls and anyone free to walk in at any moment.
And yet, I can’t stop wanting her.
We can’t keep pretending this is nothing. Friday night made that clear. Today only proves it.
We’re going to have to talk. Soon. Before it gets messier.
The words almost slip out—come to dinner with me.
I bite them back. Wrong place, wrong time. Hell, maybe wrong altogether.
But with her hand still on my chest and her eyes locked on mine, the only thing I know for sure is that I don’t want to stop.
There’s a knock at the door. A moment later, the door cracks open again. Dalton leans in, fresh from the locker room in shorts and a team tee, tugging at the tape on his shoulder.
“Sorry, morning skate shredded this tape job. Can you give me a quick redo before I head out?”
Charlie steps back smoothly, already reaching for fresh tape. “Sure. We just finished up. Come on in.”
Dalton’s gaze flicks to me as he crosses the room. “Good to have you on the bench tonight, Cap. Doesn’t feel the same without you.”
I nod. “Wouldn’t miss it. Just need the docs to clear me for travel, then I’ll be back on the road.”
“Any chance we’ll see you back in the lineup soon?”
“Five, maybe six weeks if everything holds. That’s the target.”
He nods once, firm. “Good. We’re ready to have you back.”
He settles onto the table, and Charlie reaches for the tape.
I take that as my cue to head out, crutch under one arm, pulse still running hot from what just happened. The hall’s buzzing—guys coming off the ice, staff darting in and out. Coach McCarthy flags me down before I can escape.
“Docs say you’re right on schedule,” he says, voice low but firm. “Bench presence tonight, then we’ll reassess travel. Don’t rush it, Tremayne. The boys need you steady, not stubborn.”
I nod. “Understood.”
He claps my shoulder once, satisfied, and moves on.
By the time I reach my truck, my phone’s already lighting up—my agent, Eric, flashing on the screen. I debate ignoring it, then swipe anyway, immediately regretting it.
“Declan, glad I caught you,” he says, voice too smooth. “Look, while you’re sidelined, there’s a ton of opportunity here. Motivational appearances, podcasts, maybe a profile piece about resilience. Brands love a comeback story.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “I’m not interested.”
He sighs. “Just think about it, okay? You don’t want to fade from the conversation. Tyler’s hot right now, and the media’s already shifting focus.”
That lands sharper than I want it to. “I said no.”
He exhales. “I get that, but you’re thirty-four. This is the kind of pivot that sets you up long-term: next contract, endorsements, options. Visibility matters.”
“I think what matters is how I play, not how I sell it,” I snap.
I hang up before I say something worse, jaw tight, stomach twisting.
When I finally sit in my truck, I grip the wheel hard enough that my knuckles ache.
I already know what he’s talking about. I try to ignore it, but I’ve read the headlines. I’ve heard the sports commentators. I’ve seen the chatter online.
