Page 39 of Faking the Rules

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 rideson 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'spriorities 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?"

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