Something tugs tight in my chest. I want to tell her. I want to say his name out loud. But it terrifies me.
It’s too soon. Too risky. So I swallow it back.
“Noted,” I murmur, forcing a smile.
But inside, I’m buzzing. Because she’s right. I am glowing.
Declan Tremayne asked me out.
It’s been two days and I still can’t stop grinning like a schoolgirl.
Kristy keeps watching me like she’s waiting for me to slip. I dodge every question, sip my drink, and laugh it off, but inside? I’m bursting.
When Kristy hugs me goodbye, she whispers that she hasn’t seen me this happy in years. I pretend to roll my eyes, but the truth is, I can’t stop smiling all the way home.
As I get ready for bed, her words echo the entire time: Don’t overthink it. You deserve happiness. I fall asleep with a smile still tugging at my lips.
The next morning, the buzz of last night’s drinks with Kristy hasn’t worn off. If anything, it’s worse.
Because this isn’t just anyone I’m seeing.
This is Declan Tremayne. My brother’s best friend. My patient. The man who was in my bed less than a week ago.
And now here I am, stepping into the training room like I can just flip a switch and be his physical therapist again.
He looks up when I walk in, and the faintest grin tugs at his mouth. The kind of grin that says he remembers every second of that night too. It rattles me, makes my pulse stumble.
I grip my tablet tighter, aiming for clinical. “Morning. Ready?”
He smirks. “Always. Unless this is one of your merciless days.”
I laugh as I steady his knee, guiding his foot into alignment. His hand brushes mine as he shifts—casual, nothing. But my brain betrays me anyway, remembering the way those same handspinned me to my sheets, strong and certain, like he’d never let go.
Every bit of contact feels amplified: my hand steadying his knee, his shoulder brushing mine as he shifts. Too much, too charged. I keep having to yank myself back into professional mode.
Then the door opens. Vic sticks his head in, already reaching for a roll of tape from the supply shelf. “Sorry. Just grabbing this. Don’t mind me.”
I step back like distance will erase the heat between us. Declan doesn’t say a word, just schools his expression blank until the door shuts again. My pulse won’t settle.
Pretending this is just PT is getting harder by the minute.
Declan’s phone starts buzzing, and he exhales impatiently when he sees who’s calling, sending it to voicemail.
He shakes his head. “My agent’s been on me nonstop. Wants me doing podcasts, appearances, ‘comeback story’ crap while I’m sidelined. Like I’ve got the energy for that.”
The bitterness in his tone makes me glance up from my tablet. “Do you?”
He huffs out a humorless laugh. “Hell no. I don’t care about telling the world I’m still relevant. I care about getting back onthe ice.” His jaw flexes. “He acts like visibility matters more than actually playing.”
It hits me then—he’s not chasing image, not really. What drives him is showing up. For his team, for Sophie. Maybe even for me.
I hesitate, then say softly, “Your agent’s thinking about headlines. But the people who matter? They’ll remember how you show up, not how many interviews you do.”
Declan’s gaze lingers on me, unreadable, and for a second it feels like he’s weighing more than just my words.
I clear my throat, checking my notes. “Okay, last set. Let’s get it done.”
He obeys, but the corner of his mouth curves like he knows exactly what he’s doing to me.
