“Good shift. Keep it going.”
He’s not skating, but he’s leading every inch of it.
By the second period, it’s tied 2–2. I hand out water, ice a wrist, replace a snapped lace between shifts. Every second’s a blur. Then, with three minutes left, Dalton snags a loose puck and fires, bar down.
The bench explodes. Helmets slam together, sticks rattle against the boards, the roar swallowing everything. I catch Declan’s grin—wide, unguarded—and it hits me how much he’s been waiting for this.
When the final buzzer sounds, the Ice Foxes win 3–2.
The team piles out to swarm the goalie, gloves raised, energy spilling across the ice. I stand back, chest full, smiling before I realize it.
Declan stays at the bench, letting them have the moment, eyes scanning the chaos with that quiet captain calm.
When he looks my way, the grin’s still there, softer now, private.
I should look away before someone notices, but I don’t. Not yet.
For one heartbeat in the noise, it’s just us.
His gaze holds mine, and it feels like a promise we’re not allowed to say out loud.
Chapter Twenty-Two
DECLAN
The first thing I feel when I wake is the echo of last night’s win. The crowd, the bench, the glass shaking after Dalton’s goal.
I can still feel it buzzing under my skin.
The guys pulled it off. They took Game 1 of Round 2 on the road.
Fast. Confident. Hungry.
I couldn’t be prouder. Or more restless.
I scroll through the flood of group texts: clips, chirps, inside jokes. Torres sent a picture of the lucky tape roll like it’s a trophy.Reed captioned it“Foxes hunt early.”Even Coach dropped a rare thumbs-up emoji.
Then I see Sophie’s text pop up.
Dad! I saw you on TV! You looked serious but happy :)
I smile before I can stop myself.
She’s right, though. I was both.
Proud as hell watching the team come together, but restless too. Sitting there in a warmup jacket while they fought for every puck? It’s not how I’m wired. I’m built for being out there, not observing from the sidelines.
The hotel gym smells like sweat, rubber mats, and fresh coffee drifting in from the lobby. A couple of guys are already on the bikes, joking through recovery rides. The playoff energy’s still buzzing, even in the quiet.
I claim a corner mat and start the morning circuit Charlotte laid out: controlled movements, stability drills, low resistance band work. My knee feels solid. Stiff, but strong.
“Morning, Captain.”
Her voice carries softly over the hum of treadmills. She’s got her kit bag slung over one shoulder, hair tied up, sleeves pushedto her elbows. Professional. Calm. Like those kisses yesterday never happened.
“Hey,” I say, keeping my tone even.
She sets down her gear and moves through the warmup beside me. No hesitation. Just work. It shouldn’t surprise me how steady she is, but it does.
