My thumb hovers over her name longer than it should before I set the phone down.
The room’s quiet except for the low hum of the heater and the dull ache behind my kneecap. It’s better than it was. Everything is.
Still, I can’t shake the pull in my chest. The one that has nothing to do with hockey.
I turn off the light and stretch my leg out carefully, watching the city’s reflection in the window.
Tomorrow’s Game 2.
And another morning that starts with her.
Chapter Twenty-Three
CHARLOTTE
We lose Game 2, and Seattle celebrates like they’ve been holding their breath since puck drop.
Down here by the visitors’ tunnel, I plant myself at the treatment table and finish the post-game inventory sheet, pretending the knot in my stomach is from standing too long.
We took Game 1. We dropped Game 2. Round 2 is tied 1–1.
Not the end of the world. Still, it sits heavy in my chest.
Declan’s voice carries from the hall—low, steady, the kind he uses when he’s switching from disappointment to leadership.He’s talking Tyler through the bad bounce that cost them the third period, every word measured.
Professional. Composed. Completely unshaken.
And that’s exactly what gets me.
It’s the first game since the talk that started with “We can keep this private, right?”and ended with a kiss that still lives somewhere under my skin. Every time I see him now, my body remembers before my brain catches up.
He appears in my peripheral vision a moment later, still in his team jacket, sleeves pushed to his elbows, his limp controlled enough most people wouldn’t notice it.
Captain first, patient second.
“Everything okay in here?” he murmurs, and goosebumps spread down my arms before I can respond.
“Just ice and heartbreak,” I answer. The corner of his mouth twitches—barely—but I catch it.
He glances toward the tunnel, where players are filing out in clusters. “We’ll bounce back.”
“I know,” I answer softly. His eyes flick to mine for half a second, just long enough for my pulse to misbehave.
I clear my throat and nod toward the empty cart. “Take it easy on the flight home. Elevate if you can.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he says, mock-serious, and starts to turn away.
That should be the end of it.
But before he reaches the doors, he stops—then turns and walks back.
As he does, something flutters low in my stomach.
He studies me for a second, the corners of his mouth softening just enough to undo every bit of my composure.
Then, he murmurs quietly, “Dinner tomorrow?”
It takes a beat for the words to register, and my mouth curves before my brain catches up. “You sure you won’t cancel on me this time?”
