Then I grin. “You realize how fast we got caught?”
She groans. “Don’t remind me.”
“Guess there’s truth to what they say about best-laid plans.”
She smirks, shaking her head. “We didn’t even make it a week.”
“Rookie numbers,” I say.
Her laugh fills the space, warm and real. “Alright, Captain. Let’s get to work.”
By the time the sun’s down, the building hums long before puck drop—crowd on its feet, towels spinning, the kind of noise that crawls up through your chest.
Round 2, Game 4. Home ice. One win away from taking control of the series.
I take my place behind the bench, brace snug over my slacks, crutch tucked out of sight. From here, everything feels alive—sweat, ice spray, the thud of gloves against boards. Tyler’s pacing like a caged animal. Dalton’s calm as ever—forearm on the dasher, chewing his mouthguard, eyes steady on the ice.
Charlotte’s easy to spot down the tunnel—hair pinned back, tablet in hand, headset tilted just right. She moves like she belongs here now. Every time she leans toward Vic to pass along a note or check a player, she’s focused and unshakable. The rest of the staff reads her cues without a word.
Seattle comes out hard, but the Foxes settle fast. Mid-second, Torres drives the crease and shoves one past their goalie. Crowdexplodes. Then Reed buries another on the power play, glove raised, grin wide enough to light the whole bench.
I grip the railing, pulse hammering. My body still reacts like I’m the one out there, but this—being in it, feeling the team’s heartbeat this close—it’s enough to quiet the part of me that still aches to skate.
The final horn blows—4-2, Ice Foxes—and the place detonates. Towels, shouting, the metallic clang of sticks on the boards. I can barely hear myself think, and I don’t need to.
Down the tunnel, Charlotte’s laughing as she dodges a spray of water from the guys heading off the ice. She glances toward the bench and just for a heartbeat, our eyes meet. One nod.
We’re good.
In the locker room, steam and music and chaos swallow everything. I hang back by the doorway, listening to them yell over each other, voices hoarse, joy unfiltered. Dalton’s got Torres in a headlock, McCarthy’s trying not to smile.
Someone’s blasting music through a speaker, the beat rattling the walls, a jersey spinning overhead like a flag.
For the first time in weeks, everything feels balanced again—Sophie, Charlie, the team.
By the time I get home, the noise of the win still hums faintly in my chest. The house is dark. Erin picked Sophie up earlier for a sleepover with Maya so I could pack for the trip. Her backpack’s still by the door, a stray scrunchie looped around one strap.
I drop my gear bag beside the couch and sink down carefully, knee stretched out, ice pack balanced where it always ends up. The brace is tight but holding. We’re up three-one in the series. One more and we close it out.
The highlight reel flickers silently on the muted TV—Torres’s goal, the guys piling in, towels flying from the stands. Pride hits first, sharp and clean, followed by something quieter. Gratitude, maybe. The team found its rhythm again. Sophie’s smiling again. Charlotte’s still here, steady through all of it.
My phone buzzes once on the counter with a text from Charlotte:
See you tomorrow on the bus. I’ll have extra tape packed for your brace.
Simple. Work-related. Exactly what it should be.
Still, it pulls a small smile from me as I text her back.
Appreciate it. Night, Charlie.
Three dots flicker, then vanish. A few seconds later—
Good night, Declan.
I set the phone face-down and lean back, the quiet filling in around me. It isn’t heavy this time. It feels settled.
Sophie’s laughter from earlier still echoes faintly in my head—the way she teased me about “hating fun.” For once, she sounded like herself again.
