Page 46 of Faking the Rules

The arena falls silent, thirteen thousand breaths held in collective fear. Caroline's hand finds mine, squeezing with surprising strength. I can't breathe, can't think, can only watch as medical staff rush onto the ice.

"He'll be alright," Richard says, the slight tremor in his voice betraying his concern. "He's tough. Always has been."

Endless seconds pass before Declan finally moves, pushing himself to his knees, then to his feet with assistance. Blood streams from a cut above his eye, staining the ice in vivid crimson drops. The crowd roars as he skates slowly to the bench, waving off the stretcher, though he's clearly dazed.

I watch him disappear down the tunnel toward the medical room, my heart lodged somewhere in my throat. Caroline murmurs reassurances I barely hear, my focus narrowed to the empty space where Declan should be.

Ten minutes pass, the game continuing with a desperation matching my own mounting anxiety. Then, like an answered prayer, Declan reappears at the bench—face stitched, eyes clear, nodding to his coach with determination.

When he takes the ice again, the arena erupts. He skates directly to the face-off circle, shoulders set with a resolve that transcends mere athletics. This isn't just about hockey anymore. It's about proving something—to himself, to his father, to the scouts watching from nearby boxes, evaluating his potential, his character, his ability to overcome adversity.

With four minutes remaining in regulation, still tied 1-1, Declan intercepts a clearing attempt at the blue line. He cuts through two defenders, a burst of speed that seems impossible after his injury. The goaltender slides across, anticipating, but Declan doesn't shoot—instead, he slides the puck to Brady cutting toward the net. One touch, and it's in.

2-1, Westford.

The crowd explodes, a wave of sound that feels physical in its intensity. Declan is swarmed by teammates, their celebration almost violent in its exuberance. Through the tangle of limbs and sticks, his eyes find mine again—always finding me, even in chaos.

The final minutes are agony, the opposing team pressing desperately for the equalizer. Westford collapses around their net, sacrificing bodies to block shots. When the final buzzer sounds, securing the championship, pandemonium erupts—gloves and sticks thrown skyward, players piling onto each other at center ice, the crowd a deafening wall of jubilation.

I watch through tear-blurred eyes as Declan emerges from the celebratory scrum, searching the crowd until he locates me again. The intensity of his gaze pins me in place, even from this distance. In the midst of the biggest athletic achievement of his life, surrounded by teammates and adoration, his focus is unwaveringly on me.

"Go," Caroline urges, giving me a gentle push. "They'll open the gate for family after the trophy presentation. He'll be looking for you."

Family. The word resonates in my chest with unexpected warmth. Is that what I am now? Part of Declan's family?

Richard says nothing as I make my way toward the ice level, but his expression has shifted from yesterday's dismissive condescension to something more thoughtful, more assessing. Whether this represents acceptance or merely strategic recalculation remains to be seen. But it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters except me and Declan.

I wait as the team accepts their trophy, as the players embrace and pose for photos. Declan stands at the center, his face transformed by pure joy despite the angry red gash above his eye. When the gate finally opens, allowing family onto the ice, I hesitate—suddenly uncertain, overwhelmed by the magnitude of the moment.

Then Declan sees me, and everything else falls away. He breaks from his teammates, skating directly toward me with single-minded purpose. Before I can process what's happening,he reaches me, lifts me off my feet, and spins us in a circle, heedless of who might be watching.

"You're here," he says against my hair, his voice rough with emotion.

I cling to his sweat-soaked jersey, uncaring about the blood and ice staining my clothes. "Congratulations, champion."

He sets me down but doesn't release me, one gloved hand coming up to cup my face. "None of this means anything without you to share it with," he says, his eyes intense despite his obvious exhaustion. "You know that, right?"

The raw honesty in his voice steals my breath.

"I'm beginning to understand," I answer, my own voice thick with emotion.

His smile breaks through like sunshine after storm, transforming his face despite the blood and sweat and fatigue. "Good," he says simply. "Because I plan to spend however long it takes making sure you never doubt it."

And then he kisses me—not a performance for watching eyes, not a strategic move in our elaborate charade, but a declaration. A promise. A beginning.

Around us, teammates whoop and cheer, cameras flash, the celebration continues unabated. But in this moment, there is only us—Declan and Ellie, no longer pretending, no longer hiding behind carefully constructed walls.

Just two people who found something real in the midst of fake, something true within the lie.

Just two people choosing each other, without expiration dates or strategic advantage.

Just two people in love.

Epilogue

Six Months Later

“If you don't stop pacing, you're going to wear a hole in the floor," Mia observes from her perch on my bed, watching me move restlessly around my dorm room.

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