12. Grant

No.

He wouldn't do that. Still, my pulse spikes. My palms sweat. I'm on a Tilt-A-Whirl of time and emotions, with wild thoughts whipping through me.

I shift in my seat, turning away from everyone else on the plane, and call him, stat, but it goes straight to voicemail.

You've reached Declan Steele. You know what to do.

But do I? Do I know what to do with the cyclone of feelings ripping through my chest? I've never dealt with a personal attack in the press. Sure, I've witnessed reporters speculating about good games and bad games. I've faced tough questions about even tougher losses. I've fielded plenty of queries about my charity work.

That's all part of the job.

But until now, nothing has ever dug into the core of who I am, who I love, and how I play the sport. No one has ever attacked my integrity.

The question still stings.

I want to tell Declan about the crappy end to my night, curl up with him on the couch, feel his arm around me, hear his reassuring voice. He is what I want after a shitty day at work.

I stab his name again, and the call goes straight to voicemail... again. My stomach churns as I press my forehead against the tiny window and stare at the starry night sky in Texas while we taxi.

I check the time, doing some quick calculations. Declan should be in New York in a couple more hours, but there's nothing I can do until then.

Closing my eyes, I swallow roughly, holding the phone tight.

Get over yourself, Blackwood.

He's not leaving you over an interview. He said he's never leaving you.

That ought to reassure me. His words. His passion. His absolute intensity for me.

But can any person truly promise he'll never go?

Tonight, I don't have any answers.

Except this—I need to get my shit together. I'm twenty-seven years old. I'm in a serious relationship. I've got to treat it seriously, and that means yank myself out of this funk. Before I lose cell service, I write Declan back, replying to his message rather than obsessing over what it means.

Trust.

I have to trust in him, and in us.

Grant:I tried to call you, but it went straight to voicemail. Hope your flight was good. Love you so fucking much.

I try to sleep on the plane, but I can't. I grab my iPad and click on my calendar, hunting for a distraction. I've got a busy day tomorrow with an Alliance event with LGBTQ teen athletes in the afternoon, then a free night before a series against the Coyotes begins the next day.

Maybe I'll see if Crosby and Chance want to play pool tomorrow evening. Or better yet, I'll drive to Petaluma and have dinner with my grandparents.

At last, I close my eyes, but I sleep fitfully.

The wheels touch the tarmac in the dark of night, jostling me awake. Rubbing my eyes, I yawn, turn on my phone, and hope.

A few emails pop up from my agent, asking if I'm okay after the interview. Nikki messages, too, with a chin-up note. And then there's a text from Declan.

My heartbeat races as I click it open.

Declan:One more thing. In case you can't call me before your flight, here's why I wanted to talk—just to say you did great in that interview, and I'm seriously proud of you. I meant ‘talk' as in I wanted to hear your voice and find out if you're okay. Man, texting is hard sometimes.

Relief crashes over me. I relax and smile, my body letting go of the tight wire of tension it had been clutching. All thanks to his reply.

Except . . .

This isn't actually a response to my text.

I read his first text again—the one that said call me, the one that freaked me out—then I re-read this new one. It seems like we've been cross-posting. I find a newer message from him, replying to mine.

Declan:Love you so much too. Miss you. Thinking of you. Still want to talk to you about the interview and how you're feeling. (P.S. I wrote the last message before we took off, but it didn't send until we landed.) Have I mentioned that keeping in touch through text is fucking hard?

Yes, Declan. Yes, it is.

Text tag is my new least favorite game. Sure, I'm glad we're finally in synch, but tonight feels like a train station where the conductors don't know what's happening on the other tracks.

Grant:I'm good now. Don't worry about me. Get some sleep.

Declan: Same to you. Just got to my hotel. Need to crash for a couple hours. I do worry about you, babe. That's my job. Let me do it.

Grant:If you insist.

Declan: I do insist. I'll call you tomorrow.

I wish it were tomorrow now. And I also kinda wish I didn't need him this much.

Love should come with a warning, or a handbook for how fantastic and terrible it is at the same time. This love with Declan is the best thing I've ever experienced. But every moment that reveals how starkly I need him, also betrays how much I'd be lost without him.

Needing someone means they can hurt you incomprehensibly if they leave. I don't want him to ever leave my life.

And that's a new awareness too.

But it's not one I can bask in.

Since I've got to figure out what the hell to do with the discomfort of loving so big, so deep, so desperately.