Page 32 of Faking the Rules

"Where to?" I ask, suddenly ravenous now that the emotional turmoil has ebbed.

"My place," he suggests, then quickly adds, "I'll cook. No pressure, no expectations. Just food.” His thumb traces my knuckles, sending shivers up my arm.

The memory of his lips on mine, his hands exploring with careful restraint—it sends heat spiraling through me, settling low in my abdomen

As we walk across campus, his hand warm around mine, I feel something shifting inside me—fear giving way to cautious hope, doubt to tentative trust.

One day at a time, I remind myself. No arrangements, no performances. Just us, figuring it out together.

It's enough. For now, it's enough.

Declan's apartment is nothing like I imagined. Located in one of the upscale complexes near campus, it's spacious but not ostentatious, the furniture comfortable rather than trendy, the walls lined with books that show signs of actual reading rather than decorative display.

"This is... unexpected," I admit, turning slowly to take in the space as he moves confidently around the open-concept kitchen, pulling ingredients from the refrigerator.

"Good unexpected or bad unexpected?" he asks, glancing up from chopping vegetables.

"Good," I clarify. "I was expecting..."

"Hockey trophies and beer pong tables?" he suggests with a knowing smile.

"Something like that," I acknowledge, moving to the bookshelf that takes up an entire wall of the living room. The collection is eclectic—classic literature, modern fiction, poetry, biographies, books on hockey strategy and sports psychology. Many show signs of wear, dog-eared pages and cracked spines indicating frequent handling.

"My grandfather was an English professor at Princeton," Declan explains, noticing my interest. "Most of these were his. He left them to me when he died my junior year of high school."

Another piece of the Declan puzzle clicks into place—his unexpected literary knowledge, his appreciation for poetry, the depth beneath the surface I've been gradually discovering.

"You were close," I surmise, running my fingers along the spines, noting the careful organization by author and genre.

"He was the first person who saw me as more than just an athlete," Declan says, his voice softening with memory. "Made sure I developed my mind as much as my body. Used to say, 'Hockey may feed your future, but books will feed your soul.'"

The sentiment resonates deeply with me, echoing my own relationship with literature. "Smart man," I observe.

"He would have liked you," Declan says, the simple statement carrying surprising weight. "Been impressed by your mind, your insight. Probably would have argued with you about gothic feminist interpretation for hours."

The thought of being accepted by someone Declan clearly admired sends a warm glow through my chest. I move away from the bookshelf, drawn to the kitchen by the delicious smells beginning to emanate from the stove.

"Need help?" I offer, leaning against the counter as he expertly stirs ingredients in a large pan.

"Nope." He flashes me a grin that makes my stomach flutter. "Just sit, relax, let me feed you. Been wanting to cook for you for weeks now."

"Really?" The admission surprises me. "Why?"

He shrugs, a faint color touching his cheeks. "It's... personal, I guess. Intimate in a way going to restaurants isn't. And I wanted to show you this side of me."

The vulnerability in the confession touches me deeply. Another layer of the performance peeled back, revealing the real man beneath. I perch on a stool at the kitchen island, watching him move with the same fluid confidence he displays on the ice, though channeled now into the domestic rhythm of cooking.

"Wine?" he offers, gesturing to an open bottle on the counter.

"Please." The events of the past few days have left me emotionally raw, and a little liquid courage seems appropriate for wherever this evening might lead.

He pours two glasses, sliding one toward me before returning to the stove. The wine is good—better than the cheap varieties that usually circulate at campus parties—but I sip slowly, wanting to maintain clarity for the conversations still to come.

"So," I begin, searching for neutral ground. "The project for Harmon's class. We should discuss how we're handling it.."

Declan laughs, the sound rich and genuine. "Academic talk as a safety buffer. Very on-brand, Gardner."

Heat rises to my cheeks, but I can't deny the accuracy of his observation. "We still have to finish it," I point out. "Regardless of... other developments."

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