"Hayes." Marcus's voice cut through the room like a blade. The door opened to reveal my brother standing by the doorway. He crossed his arms, gesturing with his head. "Be quick and move along."
Connor deflated slightly but maintained his smile. "Right. Yes. Moving along."
The testing proceeds without incident, though Connor keeps shooting me hopeful puppy-dog looks that make me want to pat his head and tell him to focus.
Now, hours later, I’m exhausted. My feet hurt. There’s one player left—and I really, really don’t want to face him.
Because ever since that kiss—ever since I let myself feel what it was like to want him back—I’ve been avoiding Declan Hawthorne like the plague.
I kissed him. I didn’t plan to. I didn’t even want to want him. But the second his mouth touched mine, something cracked open that I’ve spent years reinforcing with logic, restraint, and rules.
So I ran.
I told myself it was responsible. That I was protecting my career, my relationship with Marcus, my carefully constructed sense of self. All of that is true.
But there’s another reason I haven’t looked Declan in the eye since.
I don’t trust myself not to step closer.
Not to remember how his hand felt at my jaw. How easily my body responded. How terrifyingly right it felt to stop thinking and just feel.
Declan is dangerous because he makes me curious about the version of myself I’ve spent my life keeping locked down.
Around him, I stop being the responsible sister. The brilliant researcher. The woman who always makes the correct choice.
Around him, I want.
And wanting him feels like standing on the edge of something irreversible.
I straighten my shoulders, inhale, and tap the screen again.
Professional. Controlled.
Just data. Just another athlete.
I repeat it like a mantra—right up until I hear his footsteps in the hallway and my pulse betrays me anyway.
Declan strides into the room.
Gray athletic shorts. A sleeveless black compression shirt clinging to every muscle I’m trying not to notice. Dark brown hair messy. And those piercing green eyes locking onto mine immediately.
The tattoo sleeve on his right arm is fully visible now. Intricate designs of hockey imagery flow from wrist to shoulder. I catch glimpses of skate blades, a puck breaking ice, and what might be initials in the pattern. I can already pinpoint where the designs connect to the large tattoo on his chest that flows down to his tight abs.
An image of a naked Declan appears in my mind. It pans down from his chest to his abs and down below.
The room feels suddenly smaller, the air thicker. I swallow.
"Dr. Chandler." His voice is pure gravel. “Saved the best for the last?”
"Saved the most difficult for when I have the most patience." I gesture to the chair. "Sit."
"Bossy. I like it."
My teeth grind together. "This is a professional assessment, Mr. Hawthorne."
"Declan," he corrects.
"We're not friends."
