"Riley's boyfriend is a sommelier. He's been trying to educate me." Declan's smile is self-deprecating. "I usually just drink whatever's coldest."
"That's basically my entire wine philosophy."
"Then we're both frauds." He raises his glass. "To fraudulent wine appreciation."
I laugh and clink my glass against his. The sound is soft, intimate in a way that makes my pulse quicken.
I decide to try out the special for the night, while he orders some steak and vegetables. When the waiter leaves, I sway to the low music vibrating through the room.
"Tell me about your childhood," he says, leaning back in his chair. "Who were you before you were Dr. Ivy Chandler, revolutionary researcher."
The question catches me off guard. I didn’t expect Declan to care enough and ask that type of question. I thought he’d ask about my research, degree, or relationship to Marcus. Nobody asks about the girl I was before all of that.
"I was the kid who corrected her teachers' math," I say slowly. "The one who finished tests in half the time and spent the rest of class reading ahead. My parents were thrilled at first that they had a gifted daughter. But then Marcus started hockey, and suddenly I was the smart one while he was the star."
His expression shifts, something akin to understanding flickering in his eyes.
"That must have been hard."
"It was confusing. I kept achieving straight A's, graduated early from high school, and even had a fully-funded scholarship to college. But it never felt like enough. Marcus would score a goal and my parents would throw a party. I'd publish a paper and get a 'that's nice, honey' over dinner." I take another sip of wine, surprised at how easily the words flow. "I think that's why I chose biomechanics. If I couldn't be the athlete, I could be the person who understood athletes better than anyone else."
"Revenge through science," Declan says, but his tone is gentle. "I can respect that."
"It sounds petty when you say it out loud."
"It sounds human. We all have reasons for the paths we choose. Yours just happens to involve proving you're brilliant to people who should have noticed it all along."
The validation makes my lips stretch into a smile. I blink back sudden heat in my eyes.
"What about you?" I ask. "What made you fall in love with hockey?"
His smile turns distant. "My dad played college hockey. He never went pro but loved it. He used to take me to the rink when I was four years old. I couldn't even skate properly, buthe pushed me around the ice and I felt free, like nothing else mattered except the cold air and the sound of skates and my dad laughing."
"That’s beautiful.”
“It was. Until he died.” His jaw tightens. “After that, hockey wasn’t about joy anymore. It was about survival. About making enough money to take care of my brother and sister. About becoming Declan Hawthorne, NHL star—instead of just Declan, who missed his parents.”
His voice roughens on the last words. I surprise myself by reaching across the table, covering his hand with mine. Maybe there’s more to him than the bad-boy persona. Maybe something kind and loyal, carefully hidden beneath it.
My heart seems to agree, thumping hard in my chest.
Declan’s fingers curl immediately, lacing through mine.
“That must have been terrifying,” I say softly.
“It was the loneliest thing I’ve ever experienced,” he says. “Everyone saw the prodigy. The rookie making millions. No one saw the nineteen-year-old kid crying himself to sleep, wondering if he was ruining his siblings’ lives.”
My throat tightens. “I don’t think you ruined anything. You should be kinder to yourself.” I squeeze his hand gently. “Talk to yourself the way you would to a close friend. If someone you loved went through what you did, would you tell them they screwed everything up?”
“I guess not.” His grip tightens, his intense eyes locking onto mine.
The food arrives, interrupting the moment. But the connection doesn't break. We eat and talk about everything and nothing: his favorite books (surprisingly literary for a hockey player), my cooking skills, the worst injuries we've each witnessed, our mutual hatred of small talk at parties.
The conversation flows like we've known each other for years instead of weeks.
After dinner, Declan pays and we step out into the cold night. The river is a few blocks away. Without discussing it, we start walking in that direction.
The temperature has dropped. My cardigan is completely inadequate, and I'm shivering within minutes. Before I can say anything, Declan shrugs out of his jacket and drapes it over my shoulders.
