By the time he finishes and I send him off with an ice pack, my hands are still unsteady. And when he glances back at the door before leaving—the quickest look, just for me—I know I’m in trouble.
The rest of the afternoon barrels forward with no time to breathe. Pre-game rush hits hard: guys filing in one after another, last-minute tune-ups before warmups.
Torres swings onto the table, tugging at his skate. “One more ankle wrap, Charlie. Don’t want to mess with the streak.”
“Let’s keep it supported, then,” I say, brisk but warm, layering the tape while he chatters about shot angles and playoff nerves.
Dalton’s next, pointing at the back of his neck. “Locked up again. Can you get it?”
I dig into the knot until he exhales, tension breaking under my thumbs. “Better?” I ask.
“Much,” he admits, already rolling his shoulders easier.
Tyler appears last, wrist half-wrapped but loose. “Can you reinforce this? Need it solid tonight.”
I secure the tape snug and firm, meeting his sharp focus with calm steadiness. “There. You’re good.”
By the time I clear the table and tuck the rolls of tape back into place, the room’s empty. Only the hum of the crowd filters through the walls—a reminder that Game 4 of Round 1 is about to start.
And when I step into the tunnel, my eyes find Declan immediately. Suit sharp, shoulders broad beneath the fabric, crutch tucked neatly under one arm. His dark hair is perfectly in place, that strong jaw clean and set, blue eyes sharp.
Even sidelined, the guys still gravitate toward him. A word here, a steady hand on a shoulder there, and you can see it—the way they straighten, the way they nod.
The medical room feels like its own little bubble once the game starts, the hum of the crowd filtering faint through the walls. The feed plays across the overhead screens, and I catch myself holding my breath every time the Wranglers press in our zone. Staff shuffle in and out—an ice bag here, a tape roll there—but mostly it’s just me, eyes locked on the play.
It’s a grind of a game, all heavy hits and tight corners. By the second intermission it’s tied, 2–2, and I’m wound so tight my jaw aches from clenching. This is the part no one trains you for—not the mechanics, not the taping, not the stretches. The waiting. The helpless watching.
Third period crawls. The Wranglers hammer the net, and I’m half out of my chair, pulse racing. Then Torres breaks out, fearless as ever, and feeds it across to Dalton, who slams it home. The horn rattles the walls. 3–2, Ice Foxes.
The last minute feels like an hour, the Wranglers swarming, but our guys hold the line. When the buzzer finally sounds, the med room lets out a breath as one—staff clapping shoulders, quick cheers before heading out to handle post-game checks.
I’m left standing there, heart still racing.
The series is 3–1 now. One more win, and they move on to Round 2.
I start packing up—wiping down the table, sliding rolls of tape back into their bins—when my phone buzzes against the counter. Declan’s name glows across the screen.
Can’t wait for Sunday.
Heat rushes to my cheeks before I can stop it. My fingers hover over the keys, useless, because all I can do is grin at the damn screen.
I finally tap out the only thing that doesn’t feel like too much:
Me either.
Sunday. Dinner. Declan Tremayne.
I just let myself enjoy it—the buzz in my chest, the ache of wanting, the terrifying, thrilling thought that this thing between us isn’t slowing down.
I don’t know where this is going, only that I want to keep getting closer. Because every time his walls slip, I like the man underneath even more.
Until maybe he doesn’t feel like he has to hold them up around me at all.
Chapter Sixteen
DECLAN
It’s Saturday morning, and I’m still buzzing from the win two nights ago.
