Page 5

VICTORIA

C hecking my watch, I hurry through the VIP entrance, balancing a bakery box from Dougherty’s in one hand. Shelby’s special delivery of peach danishes arrived by courier barely an hour ago, and their sweet aroma clings to the warm box, curling around me like a hug from home. It makes my mouth water, a small comfort against the flutter of nerves that always hit before a game.

Three weeks into my tenure as the Nighthawks’ ballet instructor, and I still get butterflies. Not because I’m performing—those days are behind me—but because my work is on display. Every stride, every pivot, every perfectly held balance from these men who once laughed at the idea of dance now carries my fingerprints.

“Victoria!” Frank, the security guard, grins as I flash my badge. “Cutting it close today.”

“Special delivery,” I say, lifting the box slightly. “Straight from Peach Springs.”

He inhales deeply. “Those famous pastries your friend makes?”

“Take one,” I say, opening the lid. Frank’s eyes light up like a kid at Christmas as he selects a danish.

“Just don’t tell Coach. Since you started bringing these, half the security team’s addicted. Pretty soon we’ll be checking the pastry schedule instead of IDs.” He laughs, spraying a few crumbs into his mustache.

“Occupational hazard,” I say with a smile, already moving toward the stands.

A whole month in Sugar City. Three weeks of training, team drills, and private sessions with Declan. And somehow, he has become the thing I look forward to most. He brings coffee—just the way I like it—asks thoughtful questions about my life, like he’s actually interested. And I can’t stop staring at him. His mouth. His hands. The lines of his body when he moves. Every session is a master class in restraint.

Not that I’d ever admit that. “Just checking your alignment, Mr. O’Rielly” sounds far more professional than is touching your abs part of my job description? Because if so, I need hazard pay before I pass out.

But none of it means anything. Because it can’t . Men like him don’t fall for women like me. They flirt, they smile, they take what’s easy—and then they move on. I’ve learned that lesson the hard way.

I swallow down that truth and keep walking, heading for the stands where Olivia, Sara, and Natalie are watching pre-game warmups, all wearing their partners’ jerseys and talking about wanting cannoli.

“I think I can help you there,” I say, stepping into their circle.

“What is this?” Olivia’s eyes go straight to the box.

“I brought reinforcements. Peach danishes—Shelby’s latest recipe. They’re not cannolis, but they should tide you over until dinner tonight.”

“They will definitely help me out!” Sara says, reaching eagerly for one. I scan the ice out of habit, and sure enough, my eyes land on Declan.

He’s stretching—showing off, if I’m honest. Elongated lines, dramatic turnout, a clear nod to the technique we’ve been working on. And when he realizes I’m watching, the tips of his ears turn pink.

“Declan!” I call, loud enough to carry. “Your turnout is slipping. Remember what we worked on yesterday?”

He adjusts instantly, earning snickers from teammates, but when I give him a nod of approval, he lights up. The pride in his smile coils warm and dangerous through me.

“I still can’t believe how quickly you got them to embrace ballet,” Olivia says.

“When you grow up in Peach Springs, you learn how to sweeten up the sourest attitudes,” I say with a wink. “When I opened my studio, some dads were horrified their sons wanted dance lessons—until I promised those boys would dominate football thanks to improved balance. Now those same fathers cheer loudest at recitals. But teaching professional hockey players definitely wasn’t in my five-year plan.”

“Neither was moving to the big city,” Natalie adds. “But look at you now.” Her comments land deeper than she knows.

They don’t see the way I white-knuckle my grip on my old life. I drive back every Sunday to stay tethered to my studio, my garden, Shelby. It’s the version of me that feels real. Here, I’m surrounded by sharp lights and faster rhythms. Glamor and ambition. A world that feels like it’s constantly asking me to prove I belong.

I take a bite of pastry, letting the buttery crust and warm peach filling ground me.

“These are incredible,” Sara says, already halfway through her danish.

“Shelby will be thrilled to hear that,” I reply, swallowing a lump of homesickness along with my bite of pastry. “She worked hard perfecting this recipe.”

“You two are close?” Olivia asks.

“Since kindergarten,” I confirm. “She’s the sister I never had.”

The announcer’s voice booms through the arena, but my focus zeroes in on the ice. Declan glides into view, every movement a blend of power and precision. He’s fluid now, confident. His body holds the control we’ve built together, and watching it—watching him —does something to me.

I catch Calvin looking toward the stands. The moment he finds Olivia through the glass, he winks. She blushes and blows him a kiss, and a lump forms in my throat. That kind of wordless intimacy... the way they just belong to each other. I’ve never had that.

And maybe I want it more than I let myself believe.

But not with Declan. That’s not just unrealistic. It’s reckless. He lives in a world of endorsements and road games, of limelight and late-night interviews. I picture him in a tailored suit at an awards show, every camera turned toward him. Me? I’m the awkward plus-one in borrowed heels, clutching a glass of champagne like it’s a lifeline.

This—whatever this fluttering in my chest is—will fade. Once the season ends, I’ll go back to Peach Springs. I’ll teach tiny dancers to point their toes and then I’ll go home and plant spring bulbs in my garden. And I’ll tell myself it was just a crush. Nothing more.

“Go get ‘em, boys!” Natalie shouts as the puck drops.

The game launches into full throttle. I try to focus on the movement, on my work. Calvin’s edges are clean. Luc’s pivots flow smoother than I’ve ever seen. But my attention keeps snagging on Declan. Every time he skates into a turn or shifts direction, I see the precision we practiced. The core control. The spotting technique.

He’s doing it. He’s really doing it.

The first period ends in a blur. As the players head off the ice, I watch them run through their mobility drills. There’s pride in seeing it—the routine, the focus. It’s a piece of my world that’s taken root here.

“You’ve made such a difference,” Sara says. “They all seem more centered.”

“The ballet was genius,” Natalie adds. “Even if Victoria’s pretty face was what finally convinced them to try it.”

Heat rushes to my cheeks. “That so was not the reason!”

“It so was,” Sara insists with a grin.

I’m not used to this kind of teasing, this easy acceptance. In the classical ballet world, my curves had always been an obstacle, something to apologize for or minimize. Here, surrounded by these women who see me as so much more than my body type, I feel a freedom I’ve rarely experienced outside my own studio.

The second period picks up with a vengeance. Declan moves with quiet confidence, skating like he owns the ice. Then he breaks away, intercepting a pass, and spins. My breath catches. It’s the exact movement we drilled, down to the placement of his head and the timing of his release. The shot barely misses, but it doesn’t matter.

He nailed it.

“Somebody’s been practicing,” Sara murmurs, following my line of sight.

“He’s a dedicated student,” I say, keeping my tone even as my heart beats an excited thud against my ribcage.

“Mmm-hmm,” Natalie says, voice amused. “And this dedicated student just so happens to bring you coffee before every training session?”

“It’s just coffee,” I lie.

But it’s not just anything. It’s the way he listens. The way he remembers the little things. The way he shows up, not just physically, but fully . And that’s the problem.

Guys like Declan don’t stay. They get what they want and move on. Eventually, he’ll shift his focus to a new goal, a new challenge, and I’ll be just another stepping stone he politely thanks on his way to something bigger.

And I’ll be back in Peach Springs, pretending it didn’t matter.

The period ends with the Nighthawks ahead. As the team heads off, Declan glances up. His eyes find mine instantly, like he was looking for me.

And then he smiles.

Not the cocky grin he gives the media or the one he shares with teammates.

This one’s just for me.

I smile back before I can stop myself, and when he winks, my heart flips so hard I have to grab the railing for balance.

“Just coffee, my ass,” Sara mutters under her breath.

“I, uh… I should check on something in the training room,” I say quickly, the words tumbling out. I need a moment. Just a moment away from the noise, the knowing looks, the way my body keeps betraying me while my mind keeps saying no, stay safe. It’s dizzying.

“Everything OK?” Natalie asks gently.

I nod, too fast. “I just think I forgot something in there.”

“Sure thing,” Olivia says with a small smile. “We’ll save your spot.”

Making my way through the hallway, I slip into the empty training room, closing the door behind me with a soft click. The quiet wraps around me, but it does little to calm the hammering in my chest.

This is ridiculous. I’m a grown woman acting like a teenager with a crush!

I place my hands on the barre, letting the familiar wood steady me. First position. Second. Third. My muscles know the rhythm. My mind tries to follow, chasing calm through motion. Ballet has always been my anchor. But today, even that isn’t enough.

The door creaks open, and I turn with a gasp. Declan stands there, sweat-slick and flushed, his pads still strapped over his uniform. His chest rises and falls, and a drop of sweat trails from his hairline down the side of his neck.

My pulse stutters.

“What are you doing here?” I ask, trying for cool and only managing breathless. “Shouldn’t you be with the team?”

“I saw you leave. Just wanted to check on you.”

“I’m fine,” I lie. “Just needed a moment.”

He nods slowly, eyes searching mine. “I get that.”

I grab onto professionalism like a lifeline. “Your skating’s looking really strong. The transitions we worked on are definitely showing out there.”

His lips tilt into a slow, knowing smile. “That spin move almost worked.”

“It did work,” I say, voice softer than I mean it to be. “The shot didn’t land, but your execution was flawless.”

His eyes darken at my praise. “Really? I wasn’t sure. Felt different.”

“Because it was. Your core stayed engaged, your timing was perfect. It was the most control I’ve seen from you on a breakaway.”

He takes a step closer. My body goes still.

“I have a good teacher.”

“Declan...” I start, though I don’t know where I’m going with it. I just know I need space. Air. Something to cut through the fog he’s wrapping around me.

“Victoria.” He says my name like it’s a secret. Like it means something. “You don’t have to pretend this is just about training.”

My heart pounds so loud I can barely hear myself think. “It is,” I manage. “This is my job.”

His hand lifts, slow and careful, and brushes a strand of hair from my face. Fingers trail along my cheek like he really needs to focus on what he’s doing. My breath catches. I shouldn’t let him touch me like this. I can’t let him. But I do.

“There’s something between us, Victoria. You feel it. Don’t say you don’t.”

My voice is a whisper. “We don’t know each other.”

His thumb grazes my jaw. “Then let me fix that.”

I should step back. I should say no. But instead I lean, just slightly, into his palm.

The distance between us shrinks to nothing.

My hands are still on the barre, my fingers gripping the rail like it can stop me from falling. Because this—him, this moment—is dangerously close to unraveling everything I’ve tried to keep in check.

But before either of us can say or do anything more, the door swings open.

Luc stands in the doorway, gaze flicking between us. His brows lift, unreadable.

“Coach is looking for you, O’Rielly. Third period’s about to start.”

Declan doesn’t flinch, just calmly lowers his hand. “Thanks, Cap.”

Luc looks at me next. “Victoria, the analysts want a quick word about the training program.”

I nod quickly. “Of course. I’ll be right there.”

As Luc leaves, Declan follows, then lingers in the doorway.

“We’ll continue this discussion later?” It’s phrased as a question, but his tone makes it clear he’s not really asking.

I should say no. I should re-establish boundaries. I should protect my heart.

“Sure,” I hear myself say instead. “Later.”

“I’m holding you to that, Victoria.”

As he walks away, I take a deep breath. This is dangerous territory. Declan is charming, talented, and undeniably attractive. He’s also a client, and a man whose life spins at a speed I don’t understand. The moment this season ends, I go back to Peach Springs. To my studio, my garden, my routine. To a quiet life I built piece by piece after learning just how quickly dreams can turn to ash.

I’m not built for this kind of fire. Not again.

But when I return to the stands and scan the ice, my eyes go straight to number sixteen. And when he meets my gaze from across the rink, like he feels me watching, I know one thing for sure.

When it comes to Declan O’Rielly, saying no is starting to sound like a lie I can’t keep telling.