Page 41 of Faking the Rules

His expression darkens instantly. "What? Why didn't you call me?"

"It was late," I hedge. "And I knew you needed sleep before today's practice."

"What did he want?" The tension in his voice, his body, is palpable.

I consider softening the truth, protecting him from his father's manipulation. But we promised honesty, even when difficult. "He thinks I'm distracting you from hockey. From the championship. From your future."

Declan's laugh is harsh, disbelieving. "Of course he does. God forbid anything compete with the almighty Wolfe plan for my life. Either take over the family business or the only reasonable excuse not to -- become an NHL superstar. Nothing else is satisfactory."

"Declan." I place a hand on his arm, feeling the coiled tension beneath my fingers. "He's worried about you. About your performance."

"No, he's worried about control," Declan corrects, jaw tight with anger. "About me making choices he doesn't approve of, living a life he hasn't scripted."

"Maybe," I allow. "But he mentioned Coach has concerns about your focus this week. Is that true?"

Something flickers across his face—discomfort, perhaps guilt. "Coach always has concerns. It's his job."

"But specifically about you? About your concentration?"

He sighs, running a hand through his hair in the gesture I've come to recognize as frustration. "I've been tired," he admits. "Distracted, maybe. But not because of you, Ellie. Because of everything—the scouts, the pressure, my father's expectations, the team depending on me."

"But I'm part of it," I press gently. "Part of the complication."

His eyes meet mine, suddenly fierce. "You're the only part that makes sense. The only thing that feels real and right in the middle of all this insanity."

The naked emotion in his voice steals my breath. This isn't performance or calculation—this is Declan at his most authentic, his most vulnerable.

"Your father suggested I give you space," I say carefully. "Just until after the championship. To let you focus completely."

"And what do you think?" he challenges, something like fear flickering behind the anger in his eyes.

I take a deep breath, weighing truth against protection, honesty against comfort. "I think... he might not be entirely wrong," I finally say. "Not about us, not about what this is, but about timing. About the importance of this moment in your life."

Hurt flashes across his face, quickly masked by anger. "So you're taking his side? Buying into his manipulation?"

"No," I say firmly. "I'm trying to consider what's best for you, Declan. For your future. The future you've worked toward your entire life."

"And you think what's best is for you to disappear until after the game? To remove yourself as a 'distraction'?" The bitterness in his voice makes me wince.

"Not disappear," I correct. "Just... give you space to focus. To prepare mentally without emotional complications."

"That's bullshit," he says flatly. "And it's my father talking, not you."

"It's me trying to be rational," I counter. "Trying to see the bigger picture beyond what I want."

"And what do you want, Ellie?" he demands, leaning closer, intensity radiating from him like heat. "Because I know what I want. I want you—in my life, in my bed, in my future. Game or no game, NHL or no NHL."

The declaration lands like a physical blow, emotion rising in my throat. "You can't mean that," I whisper. "Hockey is everything to you."

"It was," he corrects. "Before you. Now it's important—incredibly important—but it's not everything. Not anymore."

The weight of his words terrifies me. To be someone's everything is a responsibility I'm not sure I'm ready for, a vulnerability I've spent years guarding against. And what happens when he realizes I’m not worth it? When he realizes that he’s given up his dreams for me, and that it’s not what he thought, thatI’mnot what he thought?

"You don't have to choose," I say, desperate to reassure him, to reassure myself. "That's what I'm trying to say. You can have both—your hockey future and...whatever this is between us. I'm just suggesting a pause, a temporary separation to let you focus on what's immediately ahead."

"A pause," he repeats, his expression closing off in a way that makes my chest ache. "Right before the biggest game of my life. When I need you most."

Put that way, my suggestion sounds cruel, manipulative. But I push on, convinced that short-term pain might serve long-term happiness. "Just until Sunday," I clarify. "Just to give you mental space to prepare without distraction."

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