Page 10

C hampionship week descends on Westford like a gathering storm—tension building day by day, anticipation hanging in the air like electricity before lightning strikes. The campus transforms into a sea of navy and gold, banners draping buildings, sidewalks chalked with team slogans and player numbers.

Declan becomes increasingly scarce as game day approaches, consumed by extended practices, team meetings, media obligations, and the crushing weight of expectation that follows him everywhere. I catch glimpses of him between commitments—snatched moments in the library, quick coffees between classes, late nights when he collapses into my bed or pulls me into his, too exhausted for anything but sleep but needing the comfort of physical proximity.

His body shows the strain of championship preparation—new bruises blooming across his ribs, a persistent knot in his right shoulder that I massage with careful fingers, the shadows under his eyes deepening as sleep becomes increasingly elusive. But his focus never wavers, his determination burning with quiet intensity that both impresses and frightens me. So much rides on this game—NHL scouts, his future, the culmination of years of sacrifice and dedication.

"You should rest," I tell him Wednesday night, curled against his side in my narrow dorm bed, my fingers tracing the contours of his face as if memorizing him by touch. "You look exhausted."

"Can't sleep," he admits, turning to press a kiss to my palm. "Brain won't shut off."

"Want to talk about it?" I offer.

He's quiet for so long I think he might not answer. Then, voice barely above a whisper: "What if I'm not good enough, Ellie? What if all of this—the years of training, the sacrifices, everything I've given up for hockey—what if it's for nothing?"

The vulnerability in his question steals my breath. This is Declan stripped of performance, of confidence, of the golden-boy persona he presents to the world. This is Declan at his most authentic, his most human.

"You are good enough," I say firmly, rising onto one elbow to look directly into his eyes. "But more importantly, your worth isn't determined by a single game, Declan. Not to me, not to anyone who truly matters."

Something shifts in his expression—surprise, followed by a softening that makes my chest ache. "When did you get so wise, Gardner?"

"I've always been wise," I retort, earning a small smile that feels like victory. "You were just too busy being insufferable to notice."

He laughs then, the sound rusty but genuine, some of the tension easing from his shoulders. "Come here," he murmurs, pulling me down to him, his lips finding mine in a kiss that feels like gratitude, like trust.

But Thursday brings a new complication. I'm leaving the library after an evening study session – Declan has decided to try and get to sleep early before tomorrow’s final practice, and even though he invited me to join him at his apartment, I have a big test coming up in chem and needed to catch up on some studying -- when a sleek black car pulls up alongside me, window gliding down to reveal Richard Wolfe's impassive face.

"Miss Gardner," he says, his voice carrying that particular blend of authority and condescension that seems to define him. "A moment of your time?"

Every instinct screams caution, but curiosity wins out. I approach the car, stopping a safe distance from the open window. "Mr. Wolfe."

"Get in," he says, not a request but a command. "Please," he adds as an apparent afterthought.

Against my better judgment, I slide into the passenger seat, the leather cool and expensive against my thighs. The interior smells of wealth—subtle cologne, fine leather, the indefinable scent of privilege that seems to follow the Wolfes wherever they go.

Richard pulls smoothly into traffic, driving aimlessly, his attention apparently on the road though I sense his awareness fixed firmly on me.

"I'll be direct, Miss Gardner," he says finally. "The championship game is Saturday. NHL scouts will be in attendance. Declan's future—the future he has worked toward his entire life—hangs in the balance."

"I'm aware," I say cautiously, unsure where this is going but feeling dread pool in my stomach.

"Are you also aware that he's been distracted this week? That his performance at practice has been below his usual standard? That Coach Brennan has expressed concern about his focus?"

The accusation implicit in his questions isn't lost on me. "If you're suggesting I'm somehow responsible—"

"I'm not suggesting," Richard interrupts coldly. "I'm stating it plainly. Since whatever this is between you began, Declan's priorities have shifted. His concentration has wavered. His commitment to his future has become... compromised."

Anger flares, hot and sudden. "With all due respect, Mr. Wolfe, you have no idea what's between Declan and me, or how it affects his hockey performance. Have you considered that perhaps the pressure you're placing on him is the actual problem?"

Richard's knuckles whiten on the steering wheel, the only visible sign that my words have affected him. "What I know," he says with dangerous softness, "is that my son has worked his entire life for the opportunity awaiting him Saturday. What I know is that distractions—particularly emotional entanglements—are deadly to that level of focus and dedication."

"So what exactly are you asking of me?" I challenge. "To disappear? To break things off? To conveniently remove myself as a 'distraction'?"

"I'm asking you to consider Declan's future," Richard says, his voice modulating to something almost reasonable. "To ask yourself if whatever temporary gratification you're both experiencing is worth risking everything he's worked for."

The calculated cruelty of his assessment—reducing what Declan and I share to "temporary gratification"—strikes deep, awakening insecurities I've been fighting to silence.

"Has it occurred to you," I say carefully, "that Declan is an adult capable of making his own decisions? That perhaps what we have might actually support his goals rather than threaten them?"

Richard's laugh is short, dismissive. "Miss Gardner, I've known my son his entire life. I've watched him navigate infatuations before. This—" he gestures vaguely in my direction, "—is not new. The only novel element is the timing, which could not be worse."

Infatuations. The word lands like a slap, confirming my deepest fears—that I am just another in a line of Declan's temporary interests, meaningful in the moment but ultimately replaceable. Disposable. That I’ve actually become the thing Declan was trying to avoid – a random hook-up that does nothing but distract him from what he’s been trying to accomplish.

"If you're so concerned," I say, fighting to keep my voice steady, "why not speak to Declan directly?"

"I have," Richard says simply. "He refuses to see reason. Which is why I'm speaking to you instead."

The implication is clear: Richard believes I have more perspective, more rationality, than his lovestruck son. That I'll make the "right" decision where Declan cannot.

"What exactly do you want from me?" I ask, though I already know the answer.

"Distance," he says bluntly. "Just until after the championship. Give him space to focus, to perform at his best, to secure the future he deserves."

"And after?"

Richard's smile doesn't reach his eyes. "After, you're both adults. What happens then is none of my concern."

The car has circled back to campus, pulling to a stop where he first picked me up. I reach for the door handle, then pause, turning back to face him.

"I'll consider what you've said," I tell him, choosing my words with precision. "But you should know—I care about Declan. Deeply. And any decision I make will be based on what I believe is best for him, not what's convenient for you or your vision of his future."

Something flickers across Richard's expression—surprise, perhaps, or reluctant respect. "Fair enough," he concedes. "But Miss Gardner? Consider carefully. Some opportunities come only once in a lifetime. Some decisions, once made, cannot be unmade."

I exit the car without responding, the night air a shock after the climate-controlled interior. As Richard drives away, his warning echoes in my mind, feeding the doubt that has never fully subsided despite the intensity of what's developed between Declan and me.

What if Richard is right? What if my presence in Declan's life is a distraction he can't afford right now? What if the best thing I can do for him is step back, give him space to focus on the culmination of years of dedication and sacrifice?

These questions plague me as I walk back to my dorm, as I shower and change, as I stare at my phone debating whether to text Declan or leave him to the rest he desperately needs before tomorrow's final practice.

In the end, I send a simple message: Thinking of you. Sleep well. You've got this.

His response comes almost immediately: Miss you. Can I see you tomorrow after practice?

The naked need in his message makes my chest ache. Whatever Richard believes, whatever doubts plague me, one truth remains undeniable: Declan wants me in his life. Has chosen me, continues to choose me, even in the midst of the most important week of his athletic career.

Of course, I reply. My place or yours?

Yours. Less chance of teammates interrupting.

I smile at the practical consideration. I'll be here. Now sleep, superstar.

Yes ma'am. Sweet dreams, Ellie.

I stare at his message long after my screen has dimmed, torn between the growing certainty of my feelings for him and the nagging fear that Richard might be right—that what serves Declan best right now is freedom from emotional complication, space to focus solely on the challenge ahead.

Sleep eludes me, my mind replaying Richard's warnings, analyzing Declan's behavior over the past week for signs of distraction or divided attention. By dawn, I've reached no conclusions, only a bone-deep certainty that whatever decision I make must be based on what's best for Declan, not what's safest for my heart.

Friday dawns clear and cold, the sky a brilliant blue that seems to mock my emotional turmoil. I go through the motions of my morning routine, attend classes with minimal attention, and return to my room to wait for Declan's arrival after his final practice before tomorrow's championship.

When the knock comes, my heart leaps despite my determination to maintain emotional equilibrium. I open the door to find him leaning against the frame, exhaustion evident in the shadows under his eyes but a smile breaking across his face at the sight of me.

"Hey," he says softly, stepping into my space and pulling me into an embrace that feels like coming home. "God, I've missed you."

I melt into him despite myself, despite the doubts swirling in my mind, despite Richard's warnings still echoing in my ears. "It's been one day," I point out, voice muffled against his chest.

"Too long," he murmurs into my hair. "Way too long."

He pulls back enough to capture my lips in a kiss that starts gentle but quickly deepens, his hands tangling in my hair as mine fist in his shirt. The connection is electric, immediate, my body responding to his with a readiness that would be embarrassing if it weren't so clearly mutual.

"Wait," I gasp, breaking away reluctantly. "We should talk."

Concern flickers across his features. "Everything okay?"

I guide him to my bed, sitting beside him with enough distance to think clearly. "Your father came to see me last night."

His expression darkens instantly. "What? Why didn't you call me?"

"It was late," I hedge. "And I knew you needed sleep before today's practice."

"What did he want?" The tension in his voice, his body, is palpable.

I consider softening the truth, protecting him from his father's manipulation. But we promised honesty, even when difficult. "He thinks I'm distracting you from hockey. From the championship. From your future."

Declan's laugh is harsh, disbelieving. "Of course he does. God forbid anything compete with the almighty Wolfe plan for my life. Either take over the family business or the only reasonable excuse not to -- become an NHL superstar. Nothing else is satisfactory."

"Declan." I place a hand on his arm, feeling the coiled tension beneath my fingers. "He's worried about you. About your performance."

"No, he's worried about control," Declan corrects, jaw tight with anger. "About me making choices he doesn't approve of, living a life he hasn't scripted."

"Maybe," I allow. "But he mentioned Coach has concerns about your focus this week. Is that true?"

Something flickers across his face—discomfort, perhaps guilt. "Coach always has concerns. It's his job."

"But specifically about you? About your concentration?"

He sighs, running a hand through his hair in the gesture I've come to recognize as frustration. "I've been tired," he admits. "Distracted, maybe. But not because of you, Ellie. Because of everything—the scouts, the pressure, my father's expectations, the team depending on me."

"But I'm part of it," I press gently. "Part of the complication."

His eyes meet mine, suddenly fierce. "You're the only part that makes sense. The only thing that feels real and right in the middle of all this insanity."

The naked emotion in his voice steals my breath. This isn't performance or calculation—this is Declan at his most authentic, his most vulnerable.

"Your father suggested I give you space," I say carefully. "Just until after the championship. To let you focus completely."

"And what do you think?" he challenges, something like fear flickering behind the anger in his eyes.

I take a deep breath, weighing truth against protection, honesty against comfort. "I think... he might not be entirely wrong," I finally say. "Not about us, not about what this is, but about timing. About the importance of this moment in your life."

Hurt flashes across his face, quickly masked by anger. "So you're taking his side? Buying into his manipulation?"

"No," I say firmly. "I'm trying to consider what's best for you, Declan. For your future. The future you've worked toward your entire life."

"And you think what's best is for you to disappear until after the game? To remove yourself as a 'distraction'?" The bitterness in his voice makes me wince.

"Not disappear," I correct. "Just... give you space to focus. To prepare mentally without emotional complications."

"That's bullshit," he says flatly. "And it's my father talking, not you."

"It's me trying to be rational," I counter. "Trying to see the bigger picture beyond what I want."

"And what do you want, Ellie?" he demands, leaning closer, intensity radiating from him like heat. "Because I know what I want. I want you—in my life, in my bed, in my future. Game or no game, NHL or no NHL."

The declaration lands like a physical blow, emotion rising in my throat. "You can't mean that," I whisper. "Hockey is everything to you."

"It was," he corrects. "Before you. Now it's important—incredibly important—but it's not everything. Not anymore."

The weight of his words terrifies me. To be someone's everything is a responsibility I'm not sure I'm ready for, a vulnerability I've spent years guarding against. And what happens when he realizes I’m not worth it? When he realizes that he’s given up his dreams for me, and that it’s not what he thought, that I’m not what he thought?

"You don't have to choose," I say, desperate to reassure him, to reassure myself. "That's what I'm trying to say. You can have both—your hockey future and...whatever this is between us. I'm just suggesting a pause, a temporary separation to let you focus on what's immediately ahead."

"A pause," he repeats, his expression closing off in a way that makes my chest ache. "Right before the biggest game of my life. When I need you most."

Put that way, my suggestion sounds cruel, manipulative. But I push on, convinced that short-term pain might serve long-term happiness. "Just until Sunday," I clarify. "Just to give you mental space to prepare without distraction."

"Without you, you mean." The hurt in his voice is raw, unfiltered. "Because that's what this is about, isn't it? You're not a distraction, Ellie. You're the opposite—you center me, ground me, remind me why any of this matters."

His words strike at the heart of my insecurity—the fear that I'm not enough, not necessary, ultimately replaceable in his life. To hear him articulate the exact opposite of my deepest fear is both exhilarating and terrifying.

"I'm scared," I confess, the truth finally breaking through the rational arguments, the careful considerations. "I'm scared of how important this is becoming, how much it would hurt if it ended. I'm scared that your father might be right—that this is temporary, an 'infatuation' that will pass when the novelty wears off."

Understanding dawns in his eyes, anger giving way to something softer, more patient. "So this isn't about the game at all," he says quietly. "It's about you protecting yourself. Using my father's concerns as an excuse to create distance."

The accuracy of his assessment silences me. He sees through my rationalizations to the truth beneath—my fear of vulnerability, of dependency, of potential abandonment.

"Ellie," he says, taking my hands in his, his touch warm and steady. "I can promise you this moment, this feeling, this truth: I am falling in love with you. Have fallen in love with you. And pushing me away won't protect either of us from that reality."

The words I've been both longing for and dreading land like stones in still water, sending ripples through my carefully constructed defenses. He loves me. Or is falling in love with me. The distinction seems insignificant in the face of the naked emotion in his eyes.

"I don't know how to do this," I admit, voice barely above a whisper. "How to be vulnerable, how to trust, how to believe this isn't going to end in heartbreak."

"Neither do I," he says with a small, sad smile. "I just know that the alternative—not trying, not risking, not experiencing this fully—seems worse than whatever pain might come later."

The sincerity in his voice, the vulnerability in his eyes—they dismantle the last of my resistance. Whatever fears I harbor, whatever doubts linger, the truth remains undeniable: I am in love with Declan Wolfe. And pushing him away now, under the guise of helping him focus, would be an act of self-protection rather than love.

"Okay," I say softly, squeezing his hands. "No pause. No distance. I'm here, Declan. For all of it."

The relief that washes over his features makes my chest ache. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." I offer a small smile. "Besides, I already bought a new scarf in team colors for tomorrow. Be a shame to waste it."

He laughs, the sound releasing the tension that has built between us. "Can't have that." His expression turns serious again, his hand lifting to cup my cheek. "Thank you for being honest with me. About my father, about your fears. That means more than you know."

"I promised you honesty," I remind him. "Even when it's hard."

Something shifts in his expression—a tension releasing, a weight lifting. He pulls me to him, his lips finding mine in a kiss that feels like gratitude, like promise, like coming home after the longest journey.

His hands frame my face, thumbs tracing the curve of my cheekbones with such tender reverence that tears prick behind my eyelids. The campus hockey star, the man with a reputation for casual hookups and meaningless encounters, touches me like I'm something precious—something to be cherished rather than consumed.

"I want you," he murmurs against my lips, the words vibrating through me like a physical touch. "All of you, Ellie. Not just your body. Everything you are."

His confession strips me bare in ways that have nothing to do with clothing. I've spent months—years—building walls to protect myself from this exact vulnerability. From the possibility of being seen, being known, being left again. Yet here I am, walls crumbling beneath the steady gaze of a man I once dismissed as nothing more than performance and privilege.

"I'm scared," I whisper, the truth escaping before I can contain it.

Declan's eyes soften, understanding darkening their oceanic depths. "I know. But I got you.”

His words loosen something tight within my chest. His lips find mine again, but the kiss has transformed from questioning to claiming. There's an urgency now, a need that makes my blood rush hot and fast beneath my skin.

"Let me take care of you," he says, the words roughened by desire but gentle in their intent. "Let me show you what this could be. What we could be."

I nod, beyond words, beyond thought. My body has already made its decision, arching toward him like a flower seeking sunlight after longest winter.

His hands move with deliberate purpose, unbuttoning my shirt with torturous slowness. Each newly exposed inch of skin receives its own attention—fingertips followed by lips, teeth grazing sensitive spots that draw sounds from my throat I barely recognize as my own. He removes my shirt and bar slowly.

"So beautiful," he murmurs against my collarbone, the reverence in his voice making me believe it. His eyes track over me with such hunger, such raw appreciation, that self-consciousness transforms into a heady sort of power. I did this—reduced the untouchable Declan Wolfe to speechless wonder.

"I want you," I breathe, reaching for him.

He captures my wrists in one large hand, pressing them gently back against the pillow above my head. "Not yet," he says, voice dropping to that register that makes my insides liquify. "Tonight is about you. About showing you what you do to me. What you mean to me."

The control in his movement sends an unexpected thrill through me. Not domination, not force, but confident possession—a wordless promise that he knows exactly how to please me, how to take me apart and put me back together stronger than before.

His free hand traces patterns down my torso, until finally he releases my wrists to focus on removing the denim barrier between us, sliding the fabric down my legs with agonizing patience. His palms trace back up my calves, my thighs, stopping just short of where I ache for his touch.

"You have too many clothes on," I complain, reaching for his shirt.

His smile is pure sin—confident, knowing, promising pleasures I've only begun to imagine. "Patience, greedy girl.”

He lowers his head, trailing kisses up my inner thigh, and rational thought dissolves like sugar in rain. His breath is warm against the thin cotton of my underwear, a teasing promise that has me writhing beneath him, desperate for more direct contact.

"Declan," I gasp, his name a plea and a prayer both. "Please."

"Tell me what you want," he commands, fingers hooking into the waistband of my panties. "I need to hear you say it."

The request should embarrass me—I've never been one for explicit verbalization in intimate moments—but there's something liberating in his demand. In this safe space he's created between us, I find the courage to voice desires I've barely acknowledged to myself.

"I want your mouth on me," I whisper, heat flooding my cheeks but determination overriding embarrassment. "I want you to taste me."

“Where?”

“My pussy.”

The groan that escapes him sounds as though it's been torn from somewhere primal, somewhere beyond conscious control. "Fuck, Ellie," he breathes, eyes darkening to midnight. "Do you have any idea what you do to me?"

He slides my underwear down my legs with new urgency, discarding the scrap of fabric with uncharacteristic carelessness. For a moment, he simply looks at me—completely bare, completely vulnerable beneath his still-clothed body. The power imbalance should make me uncomfortable. Instead, it's intoxicating, this sense of being the sole focus of his formidable attention.

When his mouth finally makes contact with me, the pleasure is so intense it borders on pain. My back arches off the bed, a cry tearing from my throat before I can contain it. His large hands grip my hips, holding me steady as he explores with devastating precision.

"You taste like everything I've ever wanted," he murmurs against me, the vibration of his words adding another dimension to the sensation. "Everything I never knew I needed."

I'm lost, adrift in a sea of pleasure more intense than anything I've experienced before. This isn't about technique, though God knows he has plenty—it's about connection, about the emotional significance that transforms physical sensation into transcendent experience.

My release builds with frightening speed, coiling tighter and tighter until I'm gasping his name, fingers tangled in his hair, hovering on the precipice of something I can't name but desperately need.

"Let go," he commands, voice rough with his own desire. "I want to watch you come apart for me."

The combination of his words and one final, perfect stroke of his tongue sends me hurtling over the edge. Wave after wave of pleasure crashes through me, my vision blurring, my body arching as something fundamental shifts and rearranges inside me. In this moment of absolute vulnerability, of complete surrender, I feel more myself than I have in years—more authentic, more present, more alive.

As I drift back to awareness, I find Declan watching me with an expression that makes my chest ache—wonder mixed with satisfaction, desire tempered by tenderness. He kisses his way back up my body, finally capturing my lips in a kiss that lets me taste myself on his tongue. The intimacy of it ignites a fresh surge of desire.

"Now," I whisper against his mouth, hands tugging impatiently at his shirt. "I need you now."

He sits back on his heels, pulling his shirt over his head in one fluid motion that showcases the lean muscle of his torso—evidence of years of athletic discipline transformed into visual poetry. I reach for his belt, but he catches my hands, bringing them to his lips to kiss each palm in turn.

I reach up to trace the sharp line of his jaw, marveling at the contrast between his physical strength and emotional gentleness.

Something shifts in his expression—restraint giving way to hunger, control to need. He stands to shed his remaining clothes, and I drink in the sight of him—powerful, aroused, magnificent in his complete nakedness before me.

When he covers my body with his own, the first press of skin against skin pulls sounds from us both—relief and anticipation mingling in the narrow space between our lips. He settles between my thighs, the hard length of him pressing against me but not yet entering.

"Condom," he murmurs, reaching toward his discarded jeans.

I watch as he retrieves a condom from his wallet, struck by the care he takes even in the depths of obvious desire. When he rolls it on, his hands are steady despite the tension evident in every line of his body.

Then he's positioned at my entrance, his eyes locked with mine in a connection that transcends the physical. "Stay with me," he whispers. "I want to see you."

The first press of him inside me steals my breath—a stretching fullness that walks the exquisite line between pleasure and pain. He moves with careful restraint, giving me time to adjust, his focus absolute in a way that makes me feel like the center of his universe.

When he's fully seated, we both pause, adjusting to this new intimacy, this irrevocable crossing of boundaries. His forehead rests against mine, our breathing synchronized in the stillness.

"Okay?" he asks, voice strained with the effort of control.

"More than okay," I whisper, shifting my hips in invitation. "Move, Declan. Please."

He begins slowly, establishing a rhythm that quickly has me clinging to his shoulders, nails digging crescents into his skin. Each thrust feels deeper than the last, touching places inside me I never knew existed. His lips find my neck, my jaw, returning always to my mouth as if he can't bear to be disconnected from me even for moments.

"Ellie," he groans against my lips, the sound of my name transformed into something sacred. "Your pussy feels incredible. Like you were made for me."

His words, the reverence in his voice, push me closer to a second release I didn't believe possible. One of his hands slides between our bodies, finding the exact spot that makes stars explode behind my eyelids.

"That's it," he encourages, watching my face with fierce concentration. "Let me see you come again. Let me feel you."

The dual sensations—his cock inside mine, his fingers working magic against my clit—catapult me over the edge faster than I thought possible. This climax is different from the first— deeper, more all-encompassing, as if originating from my very soul rather than merely my body.

I cry out his name, inner muscles clenching around him, pulling him deeper. The sensation triggers his own release—his rhythm falters, his body tensing above me, inside me, a growl of completion tearing from his throat as he follows me into ecstasy.

For long moments afterward, we lie tangled together, hearts racing in tandem, breath gradually slowing. The weight of him should be crushing but instead feels like anchor in tumultuous seas—grounding, necessary, right.

"I love you too," I whisper against his skin.

He goes very still beneath me, then shifts to look into my face, his eyes searching mine with an intensity that steals my breath. "Say it again," he murmurs, a plea and a command both.

"I love you." The words come easier this time, the truth of them settling into my bones like certainty after longest doubt.

His answering smile is like sunrise after the longest night, transforming his features with joy so pure it makes my chest ache. "I love you, Ellie Gardner," he says, the declaration simple and profound in its certainty. "Have since you called me an entitled jock and refused to be impressed by anything except the content of my character."

We stay like that for hours, talking softly about everything and nothing—childhood memories, future dreams, favorite books, worst fears, the conversation punctuated with gentle touches and occasional kisses that range from tender to heated.

Eventually, reluctantly, reality intrudes. Declan has a team dinner, a last gathering before tomorrow's championship that he can't miss despite his obvious preference to remain exactly where he is.

"I'll see you tomorrow," he says as we stand at my door, his hands framing my face with gentle possession. "You'll be in the family section? I'll leave your ticket at will-call."

"I'll be there," I promise. "With my team scarf and everything."

He laughs, pressing one last kiss to my lips before reluctantly pulling away.

I watch him walk down the hallway, his athletic grace evident even in this mundane movement.

And for the first time in longer than I can remember, that possibility of joy seems worth any price.