Page 10 of Faking the Rules

"I'm Caroline Wolfe," she continues, confirming my suspicion. "Declan's mother."

My heart stutters. Declan never mentioned his parents would be here. "Mrs. Wolfe, it's nice to meet you."

"Caroline, please." She takes my arm as if we're old friends, guiding me toward the seats. "Declan's told us so little about you—just that you're brilliantly smart and keeping him on his toes academically."

The easy way she accepts my presence in her son's life catches me off guard. "He exaggerates," I say automatically.

"Not according to Professor Harmon." She pats the seat beside her. "Richard and I had dinner with him and his wife last weekend. He speaks very highly of your work."

Richard—Declan's father, I presume. The family resemblance is obvious in the distinguished-looking man on Caroline's other side, currently engaged in conversation with someone who looks like a university administrator.

"Declan didn't mention you'd be here," I say, trying to keep my voice neutral as I settle into the offered seat.

Caroline's smile turns knowing. "He probably wanted to spare you the parent interrogation. But don't worry, we don't bite." She leans in conspiratorially. "Though I must say, you're quite different from his usual... companions."

There's an undercurrent to her words I can't quite decipher—approval? Suspicion? "Different how?" I find myself asking.

"More substantial," she says after a moment's consideration. "Declan has always been drawn to... let's call it surface appeal. Pretty faces, popular girls, the easy choice." Her eyes, so like her son's, assess me with unnerving directness. "You strike me as someone with depth."

I'm saved from having to respond by the lights dimming and music blaring through the arena. The crowd roars as the team takes the ice for warm-ups, skating fast laps around the rink. Despite knowing nothing about hockey, I immediately spot Declan—something in the fluid confidence of his movement, the power in his stride.

He skates toward the glass in front of our section, eyes scanning until they find me. The smile that breaks across his face seems genuinely pleased, maybe even relieved, as if he'd doubted I would actually show up. He raises his stick in a small salute before rejoining his teammates.

"He looks focused tonight," Caroline comments. "That's good. He's been... distracted lately."

The game begins with a ceremonial puck drop, followed by a blur of action I struggle to follow. Caroline occasionally leans over to explain a call or play, her knowledge surprising me until I remember what Declan said about his NHL dreams. Of course his family would understand the sport he's dedicated his life to.

Despite my initial reluctance, I find myself drawn into the game's rhythm, the ebb and flow of tension as the teams battle for control. Declan is mesmerizing on the ice—fast, aggressive, commanding. This version of him—intensely focused, physicallydominant—is yet another facet of a man I'm beginning to realize is far more complex than I'd allowed myself to believe.

During a break in play, Caroline turns to me. "Richard and I are hosting a small dinner at the house on Friday. Nothing formal, just a few of Declan's teammates and their families. We'd love for you to join us."

The invitation sends a wave of panic through me. A family dinner feels far beyond the scope of our arrangement. "That's very kind, but—"

"Declan already said you'd come," she interrupts smoothly. "Unless you have other plans?"

Trapped. "No, no other plans," I concede. "Friday would be lovely."

Her smile is triumphant. "Wonderful. I can't wait to get to know the woman who's finally captured my son's attention."

The woman who's captured his attention. If only she knew the truth—that our entire relationship is a charade, a mutually beneficial lie.

Guilt twists in my stomach, a sensation that only intensifies when Declan scores a goal in the second period and blows a kiss toward the family section. The crowd eats it up, and even Caroline looks pleased by the public display of affection.

"He's never done that before," she comments, eyes sparkling with amusement. "You must be special indeed."

By the time Westford secures a 4-2 victory, I'm emotionally exhausted from maintaining the facade. I consider leaving immediately, avoiding any post-game interaction, but Caroline's hand on my arm stops me.

"The players usually come up after they shower," she explains. "We can wait here."

Declan’s father, Richard, who never acknowledged me during the game, has disappeared somewhere, along with the important-looking man he was sitting with.

Twenty minutes later, Declan emerges from the locker room tunnel, hair damp from his shower, dressed in dark jeans and a button-down shirt. Several other players accompany him, but his eyes find me immediately, a smile breaking across his face.

He navigates the crowd with practiced ease, accepting congratulations and pats on the back, but his trajectory is clear—straight to where I stand with his mother.

"You came," he says when he reaches us, his voice pitched low beneath the ambient noise.

"I said I would." I'm unprepared when he pulls me into a hug, his body still radiating heat despite the shower. His lips brush my temple, lingering a beat longer than necessary.

---