Page 27 of Faking the Rules

I stare at her, caught off guard by the absence of judgment in her voice. "You're not... upset?"

"About what? That my son recognized a quality young woman and found a way to bring her into his life?" Her laugh is soft, genuinely amused. "Declan has always been resourceful. And he's never looked at anyone the way he looks at you, regardless of how it began."

Before I can process this unexpected perspective, the crowd roars as the players take their positions for the opening face-off. I spot Declan immediately, his focus absolute as he crouches at center ice. Just before the puck drops, his eyes lift to the family section, finding me with unerring accuracy. The ghost of a smile touches his lips before his game face returns, all business as the referee releases the puck.

The game unfolds with brutal intensity, bodies colliding, sticks clashing, the crowd a living entity that breathes and roars with each turn of play. Declan is magnificent—fierce and graceful, dominating the ice with a skill that makes even my untrained eye recognize his exceptional talent.

By the second period, Westford leads 2-1, both goals assisted by Declan though he hasn't scored himself. The crowd chantshis name with each possession, a rhythmic thundering that reverberates through the arena. I feel a strange mix of pride and unease—pride in his obvious skill, unease at the public adoration that follows him everywhere.

During a break in play, Caroline leans closer, her voice pitched for my ears alone. "Richard won't be joining us tonight," she says, a hint of something—relief? frustration?—coloring her tone. "Business dinner in the city."

"Oh," I respond, unsure what she expects from me. "That's... too bad."

Her smile turns knowing. "It's not, actually. I love my husband, but his... reservations about you were becoming tiresome."

"Reservations?" I echo, though I'm not surprised. Richard Wolfe's assessment of me at dinner had been clear enough.

"He has very specific ideas about Declan's future," she explains, a shadow crossing her elegant features. "About the kind of partner who would best advance the Wolfe family interests."

"And I'm not it," I conclude flatly.

"You're not what he expected," she corrects. "But expectations can change, Ellie. Richard will come around, especially when he sees how happy you make our son."

The confidence in her statement—as if my relationship with Declan is a foregone conclusion, a permanent fixture rather than the complicated, undefined thing it currently is—unsettles me. I'm saved from having to respond by a surge in the crowd's energy as Westford's offensive line drives toward the opposing goal.

Declan has the puck, skating with a speed and precision that draws gasps even from the opposing team's fans. He weaves between defenders, stick handling with casual mastery, then suddenly passes—a no-look behind-the-back feed that landsperfectly on his teammate's stick. Brady one-times it into the net, and the arena erupts.

The team mobs Brady, but it's Declan they're celebrating—the architect of the play, the leader whose vision created the opportunity. As they skate back to the bench, Declan's eyes find me again, a question in them that I can read even from this distance:Are you watching? Are you impressed? Are you mine?

I smile, a small acknowledgment that yes, I see him. Yes, I recognize his brilliance on the ice. But the other questions—the ones about us, about what's real and what's pretense—those remain unanswered, churning in my chest like a storm-tossed sea.

The third period passes in a blur of tension and release, East Ridge ultimately securing a 4-2 victory that sends the crowd into ecstatic celebration. Caroline excuses herself to speak with some university officials, leaving me alone in the family section as I wait for Declan to emerge from the locker room.

I check my phone to pass the time, finding a barrage of texts from Mia (OMG DID YOU SEE THAT ASSIST?) and one from an unknown number:Hope you enjoyed the show. Ice princesses like you never keep his attention for long.

My stomach twists with a familiar anxiety. Another message from Kaitlyn, presumably. Her campaign to undermine whatever is developing between Declan and me seems to be escalating, from public exposure to personal intimidation.

"There's my girl."

I look up to find Declan approaching, freshly showered, his damp hair curling slightly at the ends. He's dressed in dark jeans and a blue button-down that makes his eyes look impossibly bright. The possessive note in his greeting—my girl—sends a complicated flutter through my chest.

"Great game," I say, forcing a smile despite the turmoil inside me. "That assist was incredible."

"You noticed?" His face lights up with boyish pleasure, transforming his features from handsome to breathtaking. "I wasn't sure you'd understand the significance."

"Your mother explained it," I admit. "Along with most of the rules. She's surprisingly knowledgeable about hockey."

"She should be. She played in college." I try to picture Caroline on the ice, and somehow, it works. She has a fieriness inside of her that seems suited to the game. Declan takes my hand, fingers intertwining with mine as if it's the most natural thing in the world. "Victory party at the hockey house. Come with me?"

The invitation catches me off guard. We've carefully avoided the hockey house parties during our arrangement—too public, too many people who might see through our performance. But now, with our "relationship" exposed and in flux, the old boundaries no longer apply.

"I don't really do parties," I hedge.

"One hour," he bargains, his thumb tracing circles on my palm in a way that makes rational thought difficult. "Just long enough for me to make an appearance, then we can go somewhere quiet and talk. Really talk."

The sincerity in his voice, the vulnerability beneath the confidence—it disarms me as it always does. "Fine," I concede. "One hour."

His smile is worth the anxiety twisting in my gut. He pulls me into a hug, his arms strong around me, his lips pressing a kiss to my temple—that signature gesture that's become as familiar as my own heartbeat.

---