It’s nothing anyone else would notice, but the weight in my chest loosens all the same. It isn’t approval exactly, but it isn’t avoidance either. Maybe it’s a start.
The sound is deafening. I can’t help it—my eyes go straight to Declan.
He’s still at the bench, head tilted back slightly, eyes closed for half a heartbeat like he’s letting it sink in. When he opens them, his gaze sweeps over his team, and then, somehow, finds me.
It’s brief. One second, maybe two.
But the look in his eyes is everything—relief, pride, gratitude, something deeper he’ll never say here.
I nod once. Small. Subtle. Enough.
The Foxes are moving forward.
And so are we.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
DECLAN
Iwake before the alarm, the hotel room still dim except for the strip of light cutting through the curtains. My knee aches. It’s not bad, just a reminder that I’m still not cleared. Just over three weeks left, if everything stays on track.
I’m counting every damn day.
The guys pulled it off last night. Conference Final. Even standing behind the bench, I could feel it—the surge when the clock hit zero, the weight lifting off everyone’s shoulders. Pride hits first. Then the burn. I should’ve been on the ice with them.
I stretch my leg, testing my knee. Better. Stronger.
Then my mind betrays me and goes back to yesterday. The quiet after treatment. Her skin still warm against mine. It wasn’t just heat. It was something steadier, heavier. The kind of thing that doesn’t fade overnight.
I lie there for a beat, letting it settle in my chest, before I roll onto my back and stare at the ceiling.
I shouldn’t think about it now, but it keeps finding me anyway.
The guys deserve their captain back. Sophie deserves her dad at full strength. And Charlotte deserves something we don’t have to hide.
Just three more weeks.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand just as I’m pulling on a hoodie.
Eric again. Third time in two days.
I let it ring once, twice, before I finally swipe to answer. “You don’t sleep, do you?”
“Not when you’re trending,” he says. “Listen, I’ve got something for next weekend. One of your sponsors is hosting a charity fundraiser at a community rink—family event, cameras, local kids on the ice. They want you there as the face of it.”
I rub my forehead. “I’m not cleared, Eric. I’m not skating for a photo op.”
“It’s symbolic,” he insists. “Smile for a few photos, wave to the crowd. Sponsors eat that shit up. It shows you’re still leading even off the ice.”
“I’m a player, not a mascot.” The words come out sharper than I mean, but I don’t take them back.
He sighs. “They just want you visible. You’re the story right now.”
“Yeah, and the story is I’m working to get back on the ice. That’s what I’m busy doing.”
“Fine,” he sighs, though I can tell he’s not letting it go. “Just give it some thought, okay? I’ll call you later this afternoon. They’ll keep your spot open if you change your mind.”
“Don’t count on it,” I mutter, hanging up before he starts his next pitch.
