I grab my travel bag, double-check the flight itinerary, then switch off the light. The house goes dark except for the faint glow from the street outside.
Tomorrow it’s back to the grind—the travel, the noise, the fight to finish what we started.
But tonight, for once, everything feels exactly where it should be.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
CHARLOTTE
The plane hums with low conversation, the rustle of gear bags, and the occasional laugh from the rows up front. I’m a few seats behind the players with the rest of the medical staff. Vic’s out cold against the window, mouth slightly open. Dan’s scrolling through treatment logs beside me, muttering about hydration reports.
My phone buzzes. It’s Kristy.
How’s Mr. Broody-and-Beautiful? Still driving you clinically insane?
I bite back a smile, thumbs flying.Headed to Seattle. He’s behaving. For now.
Sure he is,she replies.Don’t forget you’re supposed to be icing knees, not melting them.
I shake my head, tucking my phone away like I’m hiding evidence.
From here, I can see the back of Declan’s head a few rows ahead—broad shoulders stretched against the seat, posture easy for the first time in days. He’s talking with Dalton, and something he says makes both of them laugh.
After the last week—the tension, the quiet, Sophie’s distance—seeing him relaxed again feels like sunlight after a stretch of gray. I know he and Sophie talked yesterday morning. Whatever he said must’ve helped, because he’s been lighter ever since. Softer, in small ways most people wouldn’t even notice.
He glances over his shoulder once, a casual check down the aisle that barely lingers. Still, his eyes find mine for half a second, and something inside me steadies. He doesn’t wink, doesn’t smile outright, but the corner of his mouth lifts just enough for me to see it.
I look away before anyone else notices.
But for the rest of the flight, that tiny flicker stays with me—quiet proof that we’re okay.
By the time we land, Seattle’s skies are a sheet of gray. The bus ride to the hotel is short and quiet; everyone’s conserving energy, the kind of stillness that sits just before a storm. Teamdinner, meetings, lights out by ten. Playoff routine down to muscle memory.
When my alarm goes off, the sky outside my window is heavy with rain.
Game day. Win tonight and we move on to the Conference Final.
I’m at the arena by eight, ahead of the rest of the crew. Morning skate isn’t until ten, but I like the quiet before everything wakes up—the low hum of the Zambonis, the sharp scent of fresh ice and disinfectant in the air.
Dan’s downstairs in the locker room double-checking ankle wraps and braces, and Vic’s already down by the bench, headset on, running comms and staging what he might need for skate. The rest of the staff won’t roll in for another half hour.
Which means, for once, this little corner of the world is mine.
I start laying out ice wraps, restocking tape bins, and pretending the flutter in my stomach is from caffeine and not the fact that Declan’s name keeps circling through my thoughts.
The door clicks behind me.
“Morning,” comes his voice—low, rough around the edges.
I glance over my shoulder. “You’re early.”
“So are you.” He steps inside, closing the door quietly behind him. “Didn’t want to fight for table time.”
“Pretty sure no one else is rushing in here this early,” I say, raising a brow.
“Exactly.” His smile is small, knowing. “Figured this is the safest room in the building.”
He’s in joggers and a team quarter-zip, his brace snug over the fabric. His hair’s still a little damp, the ends curling unevenly. Without thinking, I step closer and smooth it down with my fingertips.
