CHARLOTTE
Itell myself the session is just another checkmark today.
Range of motion, alignment, quad sets, ice.
Done.
But by the time Declan crutches out, I’m gripping the edge of the treatment table like it’s the only thing keeping me steady, my chest tight, my pulse high.
Because it wasn’t nothing.
For a second, he looked at me like he was going to say something, like he might finally close the space between us.
And then he didn’t. Just left me with that half-formed ‘Thanks’ that landed harder than silence ever could.
His compression sleeve is on the table. I fold it once and tuck it into my bag without thinking.
I go through the motions with the rookies afterward, smiling, cueing form, scribbling notes. But the truth is I’m rattled. He’s the one who drew the line.
I’ve respected it. Kept things professional. But if he’s going to look at me like that and then pretend it doesn’t matter?
That’s not something I can keep swallowing down.
Hours later, I’m pacing the empty training room like a caged animal, still trying to shake it off.
Kristy texts:Just checking in. Call me if you want to talk.
I stare at the screen longer than I should, tempted to call. But this isn’t about distraction or venting.
It’s about facing him.
And the more I think about it, the more it feels like avoidance is the worst thing for both of us. Because if we don’t clear the air now, I won’t be able to do my job without second-guessing every rep, every touch.
I make up my mind.
We’re going to talk.
One way or another.
By the time the rookies clear out, I’ve buried myself in paperwork just to keep from spiraling. Dan pokes his head in with a note from Dr. Patel.
“By the way—Tremayne’s cleared to travel. You’ll want to go over the protocols with him before the team heads out tomorrow.”
Dan says it casually, like it’s just another box to tick. But my pulse stutters anyway. Travel clearance means road games again. Locker rooms, hotels. A step closer to normal for him.
I knew this was coming. The staff’s been planning for him to rejoin the travel roster as soon as Dr. Patel gives the green light. Still, hearing it out loud makes it real. Seattle for Round 2. Shared flights, hotel hallways, bench check-ins. No clinic walls between us this time.
I should feel neutral about it. It’s part of the job.
But travel means after-hours—lobbies, late-night ice, shared elevators.
I nod, add a note, and tell myself I’ll catch him tomorrow. Except later, when I’m cutting back through the hall, I see him, crutchpropped against the wall outside the film room, talking low with Coach McCarthy.
My feet slow before I can stop them, and when the coach claps him on the shoulder and leaves, it’s just him.
I grip the tablet tighter, heart hammering, and before I can overthink it, I cross the hall.
“Declan,” I say, steady as I can. “Got a minute?”
