Page 45 of Faking the Rules

By the time you read this, I'll be in pre-game lockdown—no phones, no distractions, just focus. But I wanted you to have these words before I step onto that ice.

I've played hockey since I was three years old. Won championships, broken records, earned accolades. But nothing in those years prepared me for you—for the way you challenge me, see me, demand my authentic self rather than the performance I've perfected.

Whatever happens today—win or lose, scouts impressed or not—I want you to know that meeting you has been the best thing that's happened to me. Not because you've "reformed" me or made me "better," but because you've shown me who I already was beneath the expectations and performances.

I'm playing for my future today. But for the first time, that future isn't just about hockey. It's about possibility. About choice. About the freedom to write my own story rather than follow the script others have written for me.

You're part of that future, Ellie. However it unfolds, whatever challenges come. I love you. Not as performance or convenience or arrangement, but as truth. Simple, complicated, terrifying, wonderful truth.

Yours,Declan

Tears blur my vision as I refold the note with trembling fingers. The raw honesty in his words, the vulnerability, the certainty—they silence the last whispers of doubt that have lingered despite the intensity of what we've shared.

This is real. He is real. We are real.

The revelation steadies me as I collect my ticket and make my way into the arena, already filling with excited fans. The family section is easy to spot—prime center-ice seating, more comfortable chairs, a collection of well-dressed parents and girlfriends engaged in tense pre-game conversation.

Caroline Wolfe spots me immediately, waving me over to the empty seat beside her. "Ellie, there you are," she greets me with genuine warmth. "I was beginning to worry."

"Got a bit delayed," I explain, settling beside her. "How's everyone holding up?"

Her smile turns wry. "Parents are nervous wrecks, girlfriends are pretending not to be, and Richard—" she glances toward her husband, engaged in what appears to be an intense conversation with a group of older men in expensive suits, "—is networking with NHL representatives as if his life depends on it."

The casual mention of scouts makes my stomach clench with anxiety. So much rides on today's game—Declan's future, his dreams, the culmination of years of sacrifice and dedication.

"And you?" I ask, genuinely curious. "How are you feeling?"

Caroline's expression softens. "Proud," she says simply. "Regardless of what happens today, I'm immensely proud of the man my son has become." Her eyes, so like Declan's in theirintensity, meet mine directly. "And grateful for the influence you've had on him these past weeks."

I flush, uncomfortable with the credit she's assigning me. "I haven't done anything special."

"You've seen him," she corrects. "The real Declan, not the performance he's perfected to please his father or impress his peers. Do you have any idea how rare that is? How precious?"

Before I can respond, Richard appears, his expression tightening almost imperceptibly when he spots me. "Miss Gardner," he greets me with cool civility. "I didn't expect to see you here."

The implied reference to our conversation makes my spine stiffen. "I wouldn't miss it," I reply, meeting his gaze steadily. "Declan asked me to be here. To support him."

Something flickers across Richard's face—frustration, perhaps, or reluctant respect. "Yes, well. I suppose we'll see how that support translates to performance."

"Richard," Caroline admonishes quietly. "Be civil."

He subsides with obvious reluctance, turning his attention to the ice where staff are making final preparations. The tension between us hangs heavy in the air, a counterpoint to the excited energy building throughout the arena.

The crowd roars as the teams take the ice for warm-ups, Westford in their home navy and gold, their opponents in crimson and white. I spot Declan immediately—his movements fluid and confident as he circles the ice, stick handling with casual mastery that belies the pressure weighing on his shoulders.

As if sensing my attention, he skates toward the glass in front of our section, eyes scanning until they find me. The smile that breaks across his face when our gazes lock makes my heart stutter—open, genuine, transforming his features with a joy that has nothing to do with hockey and everything to do with me.

He raises his stick in silent acknowledgment before rejoining his teammates, the gesture both public declaration and private promise. I'm aware of Richard's assessing gaze, of Caroline's knowing smile, of the whispers among other girlfriends and parents, but in that moment, I don't care. Let them see. Let them wonder. Let them witness the truth of what exists between Declan and me.

The game itself unfolds with brutal intensity—bodies colliding, sticks clashing, the crowd a living entity that breathes and roars with each turn of play. I understand enough now, after weeks of watching and learning, to follow the flow of action, to appreciate the strategy beneath what once seemed like chaos.

Declan is magnificent—fast, aggressive, his focus absolute as he commands the ice with a skill that draws gasps even from the opposing team's fans. By the second period, the score remains deadlocked at 1-1, tension building with each passing minute.

"He's playing well," Richard observes during a break, reluctant approval in his voice. "Better than practice this week."

The implied acknowledgment that my presence isn't distracting Declan, might even be enhancing his performance, feels like victory. I say nothing, simply nod and return my attention to the ice where players are lining up for a face-off in Westford's defensive zone.

The third period begins with renewed intensity, both teams sensing championship hanging in the balance. Five minutes in, disaster strikes—a brutal hit sends Declan crashing into the boards, his head snapping back with sickening force. He crumples to the ice and lies motionless.

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