He smirks faintly. “And Declan? How’s that going?”
For a second I’m sure David can see straight through me.
But then I answer, keeping my expression easy.
“Good. He’s doing the work, even if he pretends not to like it.”
David huffs a quiet laugh. “Sounds about right.” He pauses. “He trusts you more than he lets on, you know.”
That one lands deeper than it should, so I just nod, keeping my tone light. “Then we’re making progress.”
He tilts his head, studying me. “You look good. Settled. I’m proud of you, Char.”
The words hit soft, unexpected. “Thanks,” I say quietly.
He chuckles. “I know Dad is too. He called after we clinched a spot in Round 2 back in Denver—was so pumped he could barely sit still. Said he’s still taking credit for your work ethic.”
“Oh, he does,” I say, grinning. “He’ll probably claim he taught Declan how to captain, too.”
“He’s not entirely wrong.”
David’s smile flickers, softens. “Yeah. Mom would’ve been so proud too.”
The air stills for a second—quiet, but warm.
He clears his throat and nods. “Alright. I’ve got meetings. You good here?”
“Always.”
“Of course you are,” he says, chuckling as he heads down the hall.
When he’s gone, I exhale, easing the tension in my shoulders.
Stick to the plan. Be normal. Be careful.
By the time afternoon hits, the arena hums with that low, electric tension that comes before a playoff game.
Dalton winces through the massage gun on his shoulder, asking if I’m trying to kill him. Reed groans through mobility drills, claiming he’s falling apart at thirty. Torres insists I use the same roll of tape from the last win, saying it’s bad luck to switch now.
I move through the motions on autopilot—wrap, stretch, check range—hoping no one notices I’m smiling more than usual.
By the time the team hits the ice for warmups, the arena’s alive. Lights sweeping across the boards, fans pounding the glass, music thudding low through the concrete. The visiting bench buzzes with a focused kind of energy, sharp but steady.
I stand near the tunnel with Vic and Dan, the familiar mix of tape, sweat, and adrenaline in the air. My job is simple: stay ready. Anything from a skate lace to a muscle cramp can become an emergency in seconds.
Declan’s already on the bench in his warmup jacket, crutch propped beside him. He leans toward Reed, says something low that makes the younger captain nod, focused. The sight lifts my heart — him back in his natural place, commanding without trying, calm in the chaos.
McCarthy claps his shoulder as the players file past, and for a second, Declan’s grin flashes—quick, genuine. The kind I rarely see, and it sends warmth curling through me.
I jot quick notes on the lineup board and move through the pre-game routine: tightening wrist tape, checking tape jobs, or tossing over a spare towel. The music’s pounding now, the kind of bass that vibrates through your shoes. The puck drops in fifteen.
Declan catches my eye from the bench. It’s subtle, just a small nod, like a silentwe’re good. I nod back, heart thudding harder than it should.
When the game starts, I fall into the rhythm I know best. Adrenaline hums through the bench: line changes, stick taps, coaches barking quick calls. I keep my focus on movement — track skates, posture, anything off.
The Ice Foxes come out sharp. Reed scores first. It’s a clean rebound he buries from the crease, and the bench erupts.
Declan’s voice cuts through the noise, steady and low.
