8. Savion

EIGHT

SAVION

A soft buzz from my phone breaks the monotonous hum of my office. I glance at the screen and a familiar name pops up, Declan. His message lights up my screen.

Dash: Hey Savvy! I found the perfect way to introduce you to LA properly. Grizzlies vs. Vipers game this weekend. You in?

I chuckle, imagining him with that playful grin he always seems to wear. The thought of going to a hockey game with him sends a thrill of anticipation through me, mixed with a pinch of unease. Trying to keep it light, I type back.

Me: Haha, tempting! I might be bad luck for the Vipers!

Dash: Bad luck? Nah, they'll be too busy dodging our home team puck to notice us! Come on, it'll be fun. Plus, I promise not to make you wear a Grizzlies jersey... unless you want to. *winking face emoji*

His response comes quickly and the words make me laugh out loud.

The idea of going out with Declan is exciting; I always have fun even when I step out of my comfort zone, but it's also nerve-wracking. We've only known each other for a short time, but there's something about his easy confidence that draws me in. And that makes me feel like I'm a different person when I'm around him.

I finally surrender.

Me: Alright, alright. You win. Meet you at the arena after work?

There's a pause before his next message pops up.

Dash: I could swing by your place and we could drive there together.

I hesitate at this offer—meeting him at the arena is one thing but letting him pick me up feels like another step into his world that I'm not quite ready for yet. But I can't leave him hanging.

Me: Thanks, but I'll meet you at the arena.

Me: See you there!

Hours later, I step out of the taxi, and I'm immediately swallowed up by an electric atmosphere. The Golden State Coliseum, or GSC as everyone calls it, hums with anticipation and energy. Fans flood in, a sea of turquoise, teal and maroon that ripples and sways with their movement. The cool breeze carries the distant roar of the crowd inside, blending with the excited chatter around me.

There's Declan, leaning nonchalantly against a pillar near the entrance. He's hard to miss in his Grizzlies jersey and backward cap; he exudes this natural coolness like he was born with it. His dark jeans and light hoodie somehow match the team colors without being garish. A pair of sunglasses rests on his face—probably to avoid drawing too much attention.

Great. He looks exactly like a rockstar at a hockey game would look like. And here I am, fresh from work in my button-down shirt and khakis feeling like I'm off to a business meeting instead of a hockey game.

A wide grin splits Declan's face when he sees me. He pushes off from the pillar to greet me.

We exchange quick side hugs—an unexpected gesture that catches me off guard but not unpleasantly so. Through his clothes, I can feel the firmness of his muscles against my own much leaner frame—another reminder of our differences.

"Ready for some hockey?"

I force a smile onto my face even though I feel overdressed for this occasion. "Yeah," I reply, trying to sound enthusiastic, "It's been ages since I've been to a game. Used to go all the time back in New York."

His eyebrows lift slightly at that information before he asks, "Vipers fan?"

"Used to be," I admit while shrugging lightly, "but not anymore. Too many memories tied to that team."

Declan gives me an up-and-down glance which makes me feel self-conscious but his next words are reassuring: "You look great, man." He winks at me then adds teasingly, "Very professor-chic."

Laughing at his comment helps ease some tension away from me. "Thanks. Didn't have time to change after work."

"No worries at all," he assures, "You look sharp. Come on, let's get inside. The energy in there is insane tonight."

I can't help but admire how comfortable he is in his own skin and wish I could be the same. Instead, I feel like a fish out of water, caught between my professional world and this vibrant, chaotic world Declan thrives in.

As we walk towards the entrance, Declan chats animatedly about the players and his expectations for tonight. His enthusiasm is infectious and with each step I take, I find myself relaxing a little more.

Maybe this isn't so bad after all... And who knows? Maybe this is exactly what I need—a little chaos to shake up my carefully ordered life.

Several minutes later, I'm in the heart of it all, seated next to Declan, surrounded by a sea of Grizzlies fans whose cheers echo in my ears. The ice below gleams like a polished mirror, reflecting the bright lights overhead. Players dart across it like lightning bolts, their skates cutting through the surface with precision and power.

Ryan Bennett and Alexander Harrison, right and left wingers, are particularly impressive tonight—they're playing as though possessed, weaving around the Vipers' defense like water around rocks.

A pang hits me as I watch them—memories flooding back of nights spent in New York arenas watching games with Haley. We were Vipers fans then; we'd cheer until our voices went hoarse and our hearts pounded in rhythm with the game's beat. Everything was perfect until that fateful day when an attack changed everything—changed me.

Declan nudges my shoulder, his eyes sparkling with excitement as he points towards Jake "Jester" Anderson making a daring play against a Viper forward. His enthusiasm is infectious and despite myself, I find my lips curving into a grin.

"Did you catch that?" He doesn't wait for my answer before continuing, "Grizzlies are on fire this year! You ever consider switching teams?"

I chuckle at his question, glancing at him sidelong. "Already did," I admit. "New city, new team."

The game continues its relentless pace—Miguel "Maestro" Rodriguez, goaltender for our team, makes one spectacular save after another, which draws roars from the crowd that resonate within me too.

As each minute ticks by, I get more engrossed in the game; each successful move by the Grizzlies stirs something inside me—an excitement that drowns out the echoes of past disappointments. I know it's silly, blaming a sports team for my heartbreak, but maybe just this once, I can allow myself to be irrational.

I cheer louder for the Grizzlies, feeling an unexpected sense of belonging as the crowd roars with me. The joy in my heart is genuine as I watch our home team dominate the ice—it's as if with each cheer, I'm leaving behind a piece of my old life and embracing this new one. It's about time I embraced this shift.

About two hours after the puck dropped, Xander's game-winning goal with just seconds left on the clock seals our victory against the Vipers. What a finish! The arena vibrates with the energy of the fans, and Declan and I weave through the jubilant crowd, our spirits high.

Navigating through the post-game traffic, we reach The Palette Lounge. The moment we step inside, the warm, dim glow of the bar's eclectic lighting washes over us, a soothing contrast to the brisk night air. The hum of conversation and the clinking of glasses create a cozy cocoon around us.

We find our seats, and as we settle in, I notice that the usual anxiety I feel when I'm around new people is absent tonight. There's a calm that wraps around me, an unfamiliar yet welcome sensation.

My mind flicks back to when Declan and I first met. I'd braced myself for his reaction to my scars, half-expecting discomfort or pity. Instead, he was simply… normal, as if my scars were just part of the landscape rather than defining it. His laughter and attentive listening made me feel seen for who I am, not just the sum of my past wounds.

Declan catches my eye with a grin that lights up his face. The sight of him, so genuinely joyful, spreads warmth through me, like sunshine breaking through after a storm. It's as if his acceptance is gradually chipping away at the walls I've built around myself. For once, I don't feel the overpowering urge to hide or turn away so he can't see my scarred side. Instead, there's this growing confidence within me, whispering assurances that maybe it's time to lower my defenses. I take a deep breath, letting the sense of normalcy wash over me like a soothing balm.

A thought crosses my mind—is this what healing feels like? Not a sudden change, but a slow, steady process where fear and self-doubt give way to acceptance and trust. Sitting across from Declan, I realize I'm starting to believe in these small, significant moments. Maybe it's time to start believing in myself again, too.

I glance around the lounge, my eyes drawn to the vibrant artworks that decorate the walls, each piece contributing to the room's lively atmosphere. "This place has a great vibe. The paintings... they're really unique."

Declan's smile matches the warmth in his eyes as he follows my gaze toward a painting near the bar. It has shades of reds and purples, with thick, swirling brushstrokes that almost give it texture, like the paint is still wet. At the center, there's a single white flower, delicate and almost glowing against the colors around it. The contrast pulls me in—the fragile bloom surrounded by a chaos of colors. It feels strangely familiar, like a quiet strength in the middle of everything.

"Yeah, I love coming here," Declan says. "The art always sparks something for me. Plus, the food's fantastic."

My curiosity deepens. "Ideas for your music?"

He chuckles, rich and warm, the sound settling comfortably between us. "Not just for music. I paint, too. It's... a big part of who I am."

That catches me off guard, and I lean in, intrigued. "Really? What kind of paintings do you do?"

Just then, a friendly waiter dressed in a black apron and crisp white shirt approaches with an easy smile. "Good evening, gentlemen." He places menus before us with practiced grace, and Declan gestures for me to go ahead and order.

I scan the options before deciding. "I'll start with the artisan cheese board and the spinach artichoke dip."

Declan nods approvingly, and then turns to the waiter. "And I'll have the roasted beet and goat cheese salad to start."

We also give him our drink orders and the waiter notes our choices and smiles. "Excellent selections. I'll get those started for you." With a quick nod, he disappears, leaving us alone once more.

I'm eager to pick up where we left off. "So, you paint? What's your style?"

Declan's expression shifts, his gaze distant yet focused, as though he's visualizing every stroke and texture. "It's hard to pin down. I don't really stick to one thing. Landscapes, portraits, abstract... I'm drawn to whatever fits the emotion I need to work through at the time."

I tilt my head, intrigued by the depth in his words. "Emotions?"

He nods slowly, his voice quieting as if he's letting me in on something personal. "Yeah. I started painting after my mom died. It was the only way I knew how to deal with it, you know? Talking didn't help, and music couldn't reach that part of me. But with a canvas... I could pour it all out."

I pause, thinking back to the time he mentioned losing his parents. I remember the ache in his voice, the way he skimmed over the details like they were too raw to touch. Now, hearing him open up, I'm struck by how art became his lifeline.

"Must've been hard," I murmur. "But amazing too, finding a way to express all that."

He shrugs, a softness in his eyes now. "It was rough at first. I'd stare at the canvas for hours, not knowing where to start. But then, once I did... it became something else. Like each brushstroke helped me say goodbye a little bit. The more I painted, the less heavy it felt."

I feel the weight of his words, and they settle into the quiet space between us. "It's incredible how art can speak when words can't."

Declan meets my gaze, and there's a shared understanding in his expression. "Exactly. I think it's why I never stopped. I needed that outlet."

His vulnerability resonates with something deep in me, and I can't help but admire how he channels that pain into something tangible. "I'd love to see your work sometime. It sounds... powerful."

Declan's face lights up, excitement crackling in his eyes. "I'd love that. Maybe you could come by my studio. I've got a few pieces I've been working on recently that I think you'd like."

A small smile tugs at my lips, and I almost don't recognize the guy saying these words—me, Savion Zachary Hayes, who's always kept walls up. "I'd like that. And... full disclosure? I was awful at art in school. I've always been better at admiring it than making it."

Declan laughs, the sound warm and effortless, as if I've said something brilliant. "You might surprise yourself. Sometimes the best art is the stuff you never expect to create."

I watch him, this man who seems to blend his artistic passions with ease, balancing rockstar swagger with the soul of a painter. He's not just the larger-than-life persona he projects on stage. He's something more—someone who wears his pain like a badge of honor and channels it into every note, every brushstroke.

The waiter returns with our drinks, placing them before us with a smile before taking our orders for the main course. Once he leaves, the air between us settles again into something warm and familiar, even as I feel Declan's eyes studying me.

He leans back in his chair, his posture relaxed, but there's genuine curiosity in his expression. "So, what made you switch teams? If you don't mind me asking."

His question hangs in the air for a moment, and I feel the tension coil tight inside me. I've gotten used to brushing off questions like this, deflecting with vague answers, but there's something about Declan's tone that makes me hesitate. Maybe it's the fact that he asked without judgment, or maybe it's the way his gaze doesn't pressure me, just waits.

"Well, it's a bit of a story." I swallow, feeling my chest tighten. "My ex-fiancée and I were huge Vipers fans. After everything went down, it just felt... wrong to keep supporting them."

Declan's nod is slow, his eyes softening with understanding. "I get that. Clean slate, huh?"

I release a breath I hadn't realized I was holding, grateful he doesn't push for more. "Yeah, exactly. It's weird, but cheering for the Grizzlies feels like reclaiming something for myself. Like a new start."

He leans forward slightly, his expression open, thoughtful. "I know what you mean about needing a fresh start. My parents… well, I already told you about what happened. Let's just say my past is pretty messed up. But painting, music—those are the things that keep me grounded. They help."

Something in the way he says it, so casual and yet heavy with meaning, makes me pause. There's a shared understanding between us, a silent acknowledgment that we both know what it's like to find escape in something creative, to use it as a lifeline when the weight of the past becomes too much. I've kept my pain locked away, but hearing Declan speak so freely, like it's just another part of his story, stirs something in me.

"Yeah," I murmur, "I get that." And I do. Maybe more than I want to admit.

As the conversation flows throughout dinner, it's effortless, natural. We bounce between personal stories, sharing bits of ourselves in between light banter about hockey highlights and the food. Every bite tastes better with this easy rhythm between us, and every laugh feels more real, more grounded.

And then, out of nowhere, Declan shifts the conversation. "Got any plans tomorrow?"

I blink, my fork hovering mid-air. The question catches me off guard. His eyes are on me, waiting, but there's no rush in them.

Before I can answer, he fills the space. "The band's getting ready for Rocktoberfest," he says, his tone casual, though there's an undeniable spark in his eyes. It's clear this isn't just another gig for him.

"Rocktoberfest?" I raise an eyebrow. "That sounds big."

"Yeah, it's a festival in Nevada, and Orion Skye's one of the headliners. First time for us." His grin widens, and I can tell how much it means to him.

I lower my fork, the weight of his words settling in. "That's... insane. Congrats, man. Seriously."

"Thanks," he says, clearly pleased. Then, as if it's the most natural thing in the world, he adds, "We're jamming tomorrow after practice at Lennon's studio. You should come."

For a moment, I freeze. An invitation. To one of their sessions. I feel my chest tighten, an old, familiar tension creeping in. I can already picture it—me, standing awkwardly in the corner while they jam, surrounded by rockstars, feeling completely out of place. What would I even do there? How would I fit in with them?

"Savion, you've met the guys before," Declan says, his voice gentle, coaxing me from my spiraling thoughts. His smile softens the edges of my doubts. "They'd love to see you again."

I glance down at my empty plate, my mind racing. Part of me wants to say yes, dive into his world for a night, see him in his element. But the other part—the cautious, self-protective part—keeps tugging me back, whispering all the reasons why I shouldn't. What if I don't fit in? What if I just end up on the sidelines, watching, feeling like an outsider?

Declan leans back, still waiting, but there's no pressure. No judgment in his eyes. Just that easy, relaxed vibe he carries with him wherever he goes. He's not pushing me. Just offering.

I tap my fingers against the table, feeling the hesitation gnawing at me. But there's something more powerful pulling at me now—the idea of being around him, seeing him in his element, surrounded by the people who know him best. It's tempting. More tempting than the fear that's holding me back.

I take a deep breath, letting it out slowly. "Yeah, alright. I'm in."

Declan's grin is immediate, wide and genuine, and for a second, all my doubts fade. Maybe this won't be as intimidating as it seems. Or maybe it will. Either way, I'll find out tomorrow.