Kristy tops off our glasses, chatting about something from work, but I’m only half there. My mind keeps slipping back to him—his clipped answers, the way he wouldn’t look at me, the way his “fine” rang so false I can still hear it hours later.
By the time I head home, the ache hasn’t lifted. Back at my duplex, the quiet feels too loud. I flip on the TV, drop onto the couch with a blanket tugged around me, and tell myself I’m just watching hockey. Just doing what half of Denver is doing tonight.
But the truth is, I keep thinking about him. How he must be watching it now too, hating how he’s not there.
The commentators won’t let him disappear, though. “The Foxes still without their captain, Declan Tremayne, rehabbing that knee in Denver,” one says during the first intermission. “But Tyler Reed’s stepping up in a big way.”
I sink deeper into the couch, arms wrapped around the blanket. Of course they’re right. Tylerhasstepped up. But every mention of Declan’s absence twists inside me, because I know exactly how much it kills him not to be there.
The second period’s a grind. The Wranglers hammer shot after shot, but Torres lays out for a block that rattles the boards. Dalton breaks free on a rush, his slapshot ringing off the post so loud it makes me flinch even from here.
The commentators are eating it up—talking grit, heart, resilience. Talking about the teamrallying without their captain.
By the third, it’s tied 2–2 and I can’t stay seated. I’m pacing my small living room, the blanket trailing behind me like a cape, muttering under my breath every time the Wranglers gain the zone. My stomach’s in knots, but I don’t know if it’s the score or the thought of him watching too, jaw clenched, wishing he could change everything from a couch in Denver.
Then—relief. Torres picks off a pass in the neutral zone, fearless as ever, feeding it across to Dalton. He buries it, the horn nearly blowing out my speakers. 3–2, Foxes. I clap a hand over my mouth, laughing breathlessly like it somehow matters that I’m celebrating alone.
The last minute drags, every second an eternity, but the boys hold. The buzzer finally sounds and the announcer’s shouting over the roar of the crowd: “The Ice Foxes are headed to Round 2!”
I collapse back onto the couch, heart hammering, tears pricking behind my eyes. Relief. Pride. I immediately grab my phone to text Declan.
Congrats, Captain. Round 2. Proud of you guys.
Because even though I type the words, my thumb hovers useless over send. His last message flashes in my head like a warning.
Not a good idea right now.
With a shaky inhale and a sharp ache, I delete the text and set my phone face down.
Boundaries, I remind myself. All business. Neutral. Safe.
But my chest doesn’t feel safe at all. It feels hollow.
The team knows exactly where they’re headed.
I wish I could say the same for me and Declan.
Chapter Eighteen
DECLAN
Morning light spills across the kitchen table, glinting off Sophie’s cereal bowl. She’s tapping her spoon against the rim, humming a tune from the school musical while she watches me like she’s waiting for something.
I take a sip of coffee, bracing for whatever’s coming.
“You see Charlotte today, right?” she asks, casual, like it’s no big deal. “She’s nice.”
The words land heavier than they should.
Because sheisnice. She’s patient when I’m short, steady when I’m restless. She listens in a way I didn’t realize I needed. Sophietrusts her—lights up around her—and I can’t pretend I don’t notice how rare that is.
And for a second, I let myself imagine what it would be like if things were different. If Charlie was more than a physical therapist strapping ice to my knee and counting reps. If she was here with us, part of this life.
The thought knots in my chest. Because I can’t have that. Not without risking her job. Not without putting Sophie in the middle of something that could fall apart the way it did with Vanessa.
I clear my throat, force my gaze back to my coffee.
“Yeah. PT this morning.”
