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To ignore the way Declan straightens, his gaze sweeping over me like he’s making sure I’m still in one piece.

Legit thing to check.

I feel like I’m coming apart at the seams.

And it doesn’t help that his hair’s damp like he just got out of the shower, and he smells like salon shampoo and fresh sheets dried in the sun, and he hasn’t shaved in days.

If pirates played hockey, they’d look like Declan right now.

And I suddenly have a thing for pirates.

A very big thing.

“Sorry about the mix-up,” he says. “You didn’t have to bring it over.”

“Alley-oop shoots andooh, right off the pipes, that one nearly went in,” the announcer says on the TV inside.

I flinch.

Can’t help it.

Alley-oop.

That’s Alex’s nickname.

Declan’s watching his old team play. Watching Alex play.

“It’s all here.” I hold out the bag, suddenly wanting to be anywhere but here. “I didn’t open the bag.”

“Would’ve been okay if you did. Delivery fee.”

My gaze drops to Flow, but notjustFlow.

I’m also eyeing Declan’s legs.

The peek of distinct thigh muscles above his knee, the slender but muscular calves, the skinny ankles—he was always one of the bigger guys on the ice, but he has skater’s legs.

And I shouldn’t be looking.

Leave, Ginny, I order myself.

Myself ignores me, and as soon as Declan has hands on the bag, I drop to my knees.

“Hey, Flow,” I say to the dog as her whines get louder and overpower the sound of the game inside. “Did you have a good trip?”

I know she did.

I saw every video Declan posted while he was gone.

Rewatched every livestream.

Listened to a podcast he recorded sometime before he arrived here.

Looking for the catch.

For glimpses of him slipping.

Letting down the face he shows to the world.