G ame day dawns bright and crisp, the kind of perfect early spring morning that feels like a good omen. I wake early despite having slept little, nerves and anticipation creating a restless energy I can't contain.

Declan texted late last night after the team dinner: Can't sleep. Thinking of you. Wish you were here.

The vulnerability in those simple sentences had made my chest ache. Close your eyes, I replied. Imagine me there, telling you how amazing you are, how proud I am, how much I love you. Now sleep, superstar. Tomorrow needs your best.

His response came quickly: You are my best. My reason. My center. I love you, Ellie. See you tomorrow.

Now, as I dress in carefully selected layers—Westford colors, of course, with Declan's number discreetly embroidered on the navy scarf wrapped around my neck—those words echo in my mind, a talisman against the anxiety that tightens my chest when I think about what today means for his future.

The campus buzzes with pre-game excitement, students and faculty alike sporting team colors, classes half-empty as many have already headed to the arena to pre-game. I make my way through this carnival atmosphere with singular focus, headed for the will-call window to collect my ticket for the family section.

"Gardner!"

I turn to find Brady jogging toward me, already dressed in his pregame suit, his expression uncharacteristically serious. "Hey," I greet him, concern immediately prickling. "Everything okay? Is Declan—"

"He's fine," Brady assures me quickly. "Well, as fine as any of us are before the biggest game of our lives. But he asked me to make sure you got this." He holds out a small envelope. "Said it was important."

I take it with a murmured thanks, curiosity warring with concern as Brady hurries away toward the arena. The envelope contains a folded note in Declan's distinctive handwriting:

Ellie,

By the time you read this, I'll be in pre-game lockdown—no phones, no distractions, just focus. But I wanted you to have these words before I step onto that ice.

I've played hockey since I was three years old. Won championships, broken records, earned accolades. But nothing in those years prepared me for you—for the way you challenge me, see me, demand my authentic self rather than the performance I've perfected.

Whatever happens today—win or lose, scouts impressed or not—I want you to know that meeting you has been the best thing that's happened to me. Not because you've "reformed" me or made me "better," but because you've shown me who I already was beneath the expectations and performances.

I'm playing for my future today. But for the first time, that future isn't just about hockey. It's about possibility. About choice. About the freedom to write my own story rather than follow the script others have written for me.

You're part of that future, Ellie. However it unfolds, whatever challenges come. I love you. Not as performance or convenience or arrangement, but as truth. Simple, complicated, terrifying, wonderful truth.

Yours, Declan

Tears blur my vision as I refold the note with trembling fingers. The raw honesty in his words, the vulnerability, the certainty—they silence the last whispers of doubt that have lingered despite the intensity of what we've shared.

This is real. He is real. We are real.

The revelation steadies me as I collect my ticket and make my way into the arena, already filling with excited fans. The family section is easy to spot—prime center-ice seating, more comfortable chairs, a collection of well-dressed parents and girlfriends engaged in tense pre-game conversation.

Caroline Wolfe spots me immediately, waving me over to the empty seat beside her. "Ellie, there you are," she greets me with genuine warmth. "I was beginning to worry."

"Got a bit delayed," I explain, settling beside her. "How's everyone holding up?"

Her smile turns wry. "Parents are nervous wrecks, girlfriends are pretending not to be, and Richard—" she glances toward her husband, engaged in what appears to be an intense conversation with a group of older men in expensive suits, "—is networking with NHL representatives as if his life depends on it."

The casual mention of scouts makes my stomach clench with anxiety. So much rides on today's game—Declan's future, his dreams, the culmination of years of sacrifice and dedication.

"And you?" I ask, genuinely curious. "How are you feeling?"

Caroline's expression softens. "Proud," she says simply. "Regardless of what happens today, I'm immensely proud of the man my son has become." Her eyes, so like Declan's in their intensity, meet mine directly. "And grateful for the influence you've had on him these past weeks."

I flush, uncomfortable with the credit she's assigning me. "I haven't done anything special."

"You've seen him," she corrects. "The real Declan, not the performance he's perfected to please his father or impress his peers. Do you have any idea how rare that is? How precious?"

Before I can respond, Richard appears, his expression tightening almost imperceptibly when he spots me. "Miss Gardner," he greets me with cool civility. "I didn't expect to see you here."

The implied reference to our conversation makes my spine stiffen. "I wouldn't miss it," I reply, meeting his gaze steadily. "Declan asked me to be here. To support him."

Something flickers across Richard's face—frustration, perhaps, or reluctant respect. "Yes, well. I suppose we'll see how that support translates to performance."

"Richard," Caroline admonishes quietly. "Be civil."

He subsides with obvious reluctance, turning his attention to the ice where staff are making final preparations. The tension between us hangs heavy in the air, a counterpoint to the excited energy building throughout the arena.

The crowd roars as the teams take the ice for warm-ups, Westford in their home navy and gold, their opponents in crimson and white. I spot Declan immediately—his movements fluid and confident as he circles the ice, stick handling with casual mastery that belies the pressure weighing on his shoulders.

As if sensing my attention, he skates toward the glass in front of our section, eyes scanning until they find me. The smile that breaks across his face when our gazes lock makes my heart stutter—open, genuine, transforming his features with a joy that has nothing to do with hockey and everything to do with me.

He raises his stick in silent acknowledgment before rejoining his teammates, the gesture both public declaration and private promise. I'm aware of Richard's assessing gaze, of Caroline's knowing smile, of the whispers among other girlfriends and parents, but in that moment, I don't care. Let them see. Let them wonder. Let them witness the truth of what exists between Declan and me.

The game itself unfolds with brutal intensity—bodies colliding, sticks clashing, the crowd a living entity that breathes and roars with each turn of play. I understand enough now, after weeks of watching and learning, to follow the flow of action, to appreciate the strategy beneath what once seemed like chaos.

Declan is magnificent—fast, aggressive, his focus absolute as he commands the ice with a skill that draws gasps even from the opposing team's fans. By the second period, the score remains deadlocked at 1-1, tension building with each passing minute.

"He's playing well," Richard observes during a break, reluctant approval in his voice. "Better than practice this week."

The implied acknowledgment that my presence isn't distracting Declan, might even be enhancing his performance, feels like victory. I say nothing, simply nod and return my attention to the ice where players are lining up for a face-off in Westford's defensive zone.

The third period begins with renewed intensity, both teams sensing championship hanging in the balance. Five minutes in, disaster strikes—a brutal hit sends Declan crashing into the boards, his head snapping back with sickening force. He crumples to the ice and lies motionless.

The arena falls silent, thirteen thousand breaths held in collective fear. Caroline's hand finds mine, squeezing with surprising strength. I can't breathe, can't think, can only watch as medical staff rush onto the ice.

"He'll be alright," Richard says, the slight tremor in his voice betraying his concern. "He's tough. Always has been."

Endless seconds pass before Declan finally moves, pushing himself to his knees, then to his feet with assistance. Blood streams from a cut above his eye, staining the ice in vivid crimson drops. The crowd roars as he skates slowly to the bench, waving off the stretcher, though he's clearly dazed.

I watch him disappear down the tunnel toward the medical room, my heart lodged somewhere in my throat. Caroline murmurs reassurances I barely hear, my focus narrowed to the empty space where Declan should be.

Ten minutes pass, the game continuing with a desperation matching my own mounting anxiety. Then, like an answered prayer, Declan reappears at the bench—face stitched, eyes clear, nodding to his coach with determination.

When he takes the ice again, the arena erupts. He skates directly to the face-off circle, shoulders set with a resolve that transcends mere athletics. This isn't just about hockey anymore. It's about proving something—to himself, to his father, to the scouts watching from nearby boxes, evaluating his potential, his character, his ability to overcome adversity.

With four minutes remaining in regulation, still tied 1-1, Declan intercepts a clearing attempt at the blue line. He cuts through two defenders, a burst of speed that seems impossible after his injury. The goaltender slides across, anticipating, but Declan doesn't shoot—instead, he slides the puck to Brady cutting toward the net. One touch, and it's in.

2-1, Westford.

The crowd explodes, a wave of sound that feels physical in its intensity. Declan is swarmed by teammates, their celebration almost violent in its exuberance. Through the tangle of limbs and sticks, his eyes find mine again—always finding me, even in chaos.

The final minutes are agony, the opposing team pressing desperately for the equalizer. Westford collapses around their net, sacrificing bodies to block shots. When the final buzzer sounds, securing the championship, pandemonium erupts—gloves and sticks thrown skyward, players piling onto each other at center ice, the crowd a deafening wall of jubilation.

I watch through tear-blurred eyes as Declan emerges from the celebratory scrum, searching the crowd until he locates me again. The intensity of his gaze pins me in place, even from this distance. In the midst of the biggest athletic achievement of his life, surrounded by teammates and adoration, his focus is unwaveringly on me.

"Go," Caroline urges, giving me a gentle push. "They'll open the gate for family after the trophy presentation. He'll be looking for you."

Family. The word resonates in my chest with unexpected warmth. Is that what I am now? Part of Declan's family?

Richard says nothing as I make my way toward the ice level, but his expression has shifted from yesterday's dismissive condescension to something more thoughtful, more assessing. Whether this represents acceptance or merely strategic recalculation remains to be seen. But it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters except me and Declan.

I wait as the team accepts their trophy, as the players embrace and pose for photos. Declan stands at the center, his face transformed by pure joy despite the angry red gash above his eye. When the gate finally opens, allowing family onto the ice, I hesitate—suddenly uncertain, overwhelmed by the magnitude of the moment.

Then Declan sees me, and everything else falls away. He breaks from his teammates, skating directly toward me with single-minded purpose. Before I can process what's happening, he reaches me, lifts me off my feet, and spins us in a circle, heedless of who might be watching.

"You're here," he says against my hair, his voice rough with emotion.

I cling to his sweat-soaked jersey, uncaring about the blood and ice staining my clothes. "Congratulations, champion."

He sets me down but doesn't release me, one gloved hand coming up to cup my face. "None of this means anything without you to share it with," he says, his eyes intense despite his obvious exhaustion. "You know that, right?"

The raw honesty in his voice steals my breath.

"I'm beginning to understand," I answer, my own voice thick with emotion.

His smile breaks through like sunshine after storm, transforming his face despite the blood and sweat and fatigue. "Good," he says simply. "Because I plan to spend however long it takes making sure you never doubt it."

And then he kisses me—not a performance for watching eyes, not a strategic move in our elaborate charade, but a declaration. A promise. A beginning.

Around us, teammates whoop and cheer, cameras flash, the celebration continues unabated. But in this moment, there is only us—Declan and Ellie, no longer pretending, no longer hiding behind carefully constructed walls.

Just two people who found something real in the midst of fake, something true within the lie.

Just two people choosing each other, without expiration dates or strategic advantage.

Just two people in love.