Chapter 1

Declan

I grit my teeth as I step out of the private SUV, the lingering burn in my thighs reminding me every movement counts. Another away game behind me, another round of interviews and flashing cameras I can’t stand. The driver offers a polite nod, and I return it with a curt dip of my chin. No words exchanged. Works for me. Silence is the only thing I want tonight.

My legs protest each step toward the glass doors of my building. The place looks exactly as I demand: exclusive, secure, and quiet. My PR team insists that my public image remain spotless—star defenseman, coveted brand endorser, a household name in hockey. But my privacy? That’s non-negotiable. The paparazzi know better than to stake out here. The doorman has standing orders not to let anyone loiter. Once I swipe my key fob at the entrance, I’m in a fortress, shielded from the world.

At the front desk, the night concierge gives me a subdued, “Good evening, Mr. Hayes.” I acknowledge him with a small nod and keep moving, heavy equipment bag slung over one shoulder. The burn in my calves intensifies, courtesy of a hard-fought game and cross-country flight. I haven’t decided which I loathe more—post-game interviews or the endless barrage of camera flashes. My penthouse is my refuge. It’s where I can breathe.

The elevator doors glide open, revealing polished mirrors and soft lighting. I catch my reflection: six-foot-four, broad shoulders that stretch any hoodie I wear, hair still flattened on one side from my helmet. I run a palm over my jaw, scruff rasping against my palm. Endorsement shoots require me clean-shaven, but I only bother when marketing demands it. Off the ice, I prefer low maintenance—my beard stays until someone complains loud enough to make me care.

A faint ding signals my floor. It’s almost midnight. The corridor is empty, recessed lights casting gentle shadows on the polished wood. My footsteps echo in the hush, each one a dull thud of post-game exhaustion. I’m already picturing the shower I’ll take—steam, heat, the chance to wash away the tension knotting my neck and shoulders. Maybe a stiff drink afterward, something to dim the adrenaline.

My hand tightens on the bag’s strap. I replay the press’s questions from earlier—interrogating me about my slump, my mood, my life. They see any slip in performance as a sign of decline. I’ve been here before. The spotlight never relents, always searching for the next scandal or headline. I tell myself I can handle it, the same way I’ve handled dirty hits and rough ice my entire career.

I reach my penthouse door, key fob ready. That’s when I notice the shape on the floor, tucked against the wall near the threshold. My gut tenses. The hallway is pristine—packages are usually left at the downstairs desk. Nobody should be able to leave anything up here without security clearing it first.

As I step closer, I realize it’s not a package. It’s a child’s car seat, the kind parents lug around for toddlers. Dull pink plastic sides, a strap across the front, a small blanket bunched near the seat. My mind stutters. A neighbor’s kid? A weird prank? Confusion tangles with something darker, a low hum of alarm in my chest.

I set my equipment bag on the floor, hating how stiff my hands feel. I crouch, the strain in my legs ignored, and lean in. Under the blanket, a little girl—maybe three years old—sleeps fitfully, her cheeks flushed. Dark hair fans across her forehead. My breath stutters, each inhale feeling sharp. A thousand questions flash through me.

Then I see a slip of paper tucked under the seatbelt strap. I tug it free, my hand unsteady as if I’ve just taken a hard check into the boards. The note is brief:

Her name is Olivia. She’s yours. I can’t do this. Don’t look for me.

I stare at the words until they blur. I blink hard, re-reading them. Olivia. She’s… mine? My body goes rigid, every muscle coiling. The girl shifts, her face scrunching, a soft whimper slipping out. Her eyes flick open—brown, wide. She sees me and shrinks back, uncertain. My stomach twists at the raw fear in her tiny expression.

Silence swallows the hallway. No mother lurking in the corner. No father—other than me, apparently—stepping up to claim her. Just me, a man who spent the entire evening crushing opponents against the boards, now staring at a three-year-old child in a pink seat.

My mind scrambles. I’ve had casual flings, short-lived relationships, but never anything that hinted at a child. How could I have a daughter this old without knowing? My heart thumps so loud I swear she can hear it. If she is mine, then she’s been out there for three years, unseen, unknown. My head buzzes with shock.

Her lip trembles. She rubs at her eye with a balled fist, and I see the dampness on her cheeks. She’s been crying, maybe before she fell asleep. A wave of helplessness crashes over me. I’m an NHL defenseman, paid to be the wall that stops pucks, the brute force that defends the team. But right now, I can’t even form a coherent sentence.

She shifts again, glancing around. My door looms behind me, the only escape into my private space. I exhale through my nose, forcing steadiness into my voice. “Hey,” I manage. It sounds foreign, too soft. Her gaze snaps to mine. Uncertainty flickers.

The note is still clutched in my hand. Don’t look for me. So whoever left her is gone, expecting me to handle this alone. My pulse pounds at the injustice. How does someone just walk away from a three-year-old? My mind runs wild with anger and confusion, but I swallow it. She’s not the cause of that anger; she’s the victim.

I lift the car seat by its handle, bracing for her to cry out. Instead, she just whimpers softly. I clear my throat and push open my door. The lights of the penthouse click on automatically, revealing an expanse of sleek furniture and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Chicago. Normally, I find comfort in the minimalism. Now it feels cold, too large for a child so small.

I set the seat down on the kitchen island’s broad surface, ignoring the thought that it’s probably not the safest spot. I’m panicking. My entire body is tense. Gently, I unbuckle her. She’s big enough to walk, talk, do all the things toddlers do—but she’s quiet, likely scared. Her little sneakers dangle over the edge of the seat, and I notice she isn’t wearing a coat. The night is chilly, and she was left in nothing more than jeans and a thin sweater with a glittery star on the front.

The quiet tension shatters when she mumbles, “Mama?” Her voice is high and wavering, a single word that reduces my control to ashes. I inhale sharply, my chest tightening. How do I even respond? I’m no one’s father. At least, I never planned to be.

I rub my hand over my stubbled jaw, mind blank. The note’s words echo in my skull—She’s yours. My throat goes dry. A few heartbreaks and one-night stands aren’t exactly the best references for fatherhood. I glance at her again, how she’s curled into the seat, hands gripping the sides.

“Mama?” she repeats, louder this time. There’s a hint of a quiver, like she’s one breath away from sobbing. I force my feet to move, edging closer. 

“She’s… not here.” My voice comes out rough. “It’s just me.”

Her eyes well up, and I see tears clinging to her lashes. The next few seconds feel like a ticking bomb. A meltdown is imminent, and I’m powerless to stop it. My palms start to sweat. I can block a full-speed winger, but a crying three-year-old? That terrifies me in ways I don’t want to admit.

I fumble for my phone. Tessa Blake. She’s known me forever, or at least since we were kids running around the block. She’s my sister’s best friend and has a knack for staying calm. If I call the cops, the press will have a field day. If I call a teammate, it’ll get around the locker room in seconds. Family… Nope. 

Tessa is my only shot at damage control. I punch in her number.

She answers on the third ring, voice groggy. “Declan?” It’s not exactly friendly, more startled, but hearing her feels like a lifeline.

I drag in a breath. “I need help,” I rasp, forcing the words out. Olivia shifts, and a small sob escapes her. My heart kicks against my ribs. “Can you come here? It’s… important.”

Tessa’s tone sharpens. “What’s wrong?”

I can’t even form a real explanation. “I’m fine. Just…” My gaze skitters back to Olivia. She’s trembling now, tears sliding down her cheeks. “Please,” I manage, voice hoarse.

Tessa doesn’t waste time. “I’m on my way.” She hangs up, no more questions, no scolding. Just like that, I have a thread of hope to hold on to.

I slide the phone onto the counter and dare to approach Olivia again. She’s fully crying now, chest heaving. “Easy,” I whisper, trying not to sound as unsure as I feel. Carefully, I slip an arm around her back and lift her from the seat. She weighs more than a baby would, but she’s still so light compared to a grown adult. She scrambles, gripping my hoodie with small fists, tears dampening my chest.

The softness of her hair tickles my chin. “Shh,” I mumble, patting her back like I’ve seen people do with kids. I have no idea if it helps. Her cries hitch, half stifled by my shirt. My pulse is a mess, throbbing in my ears. Everything feels unreal—the quiet penthouse, the city lights outside, this child calling for a mother who isn’t here.

I drift to the living room, where the couch sits against a wall of glass windows. I lower onto the cushions, Olivia in my arms. She glances up, eyes wet, cheeks stained with tears. A pang of protectiveness slams into me, so fierce I can’t breathe for a second. She’s frightened, and I’m the only one here. The thought makes my chest coil with guilt. Shouldn’t a father know exactly what to do?

Anger at the anonymous note flares again—How could anyone leave her like this? But Olivia’s sobs keep me anchored in the present. I look around helplessly. I have nothing—no snacks for a three-year-old, no child’s blanket, not even a single stuffed toy in this entire sterile apartment.

I exhale slowly and tighten my hold, hoping my warmth is enough to calm her. Her crying slows, turning into soft hiccups. She sniffs, and I realize she’s exhausted, face blotchy, eyes red. She curls into my chest, little legs tucked close. I feel each ragged breath.

Minutes crawl by. My hoodie sleeve grows damp from her tears, but eventually her sobs ease. She lifts her head, blinking at me with wary curiosity. I try to smile, though it’s more of a grimace. “Olivia,” I say, testing the name. “I’m Declan.”

She wipes her nose on her sleeve, still quiet. She might not understand. Three-year-olds talk, but this situation is so far from normal. My mind jumps to random questions: Is she potty trained? Does she know how to feed herself? Does she have allergies?

Frustration squeezes my lungs. I’m in over my head. My phone buzzes, and I flinch. Tessa’s name lights the screen. Relieved, I shift Olivia onto my lap—she clings to me like a lifeline—and grab the phone with my free hand. “You’re downstairs?” I murmur.

“I’m parking. Be up in two minutes.”

I manage a faint murmur of thanks and hang up. Another wave of tension releases from my shoulders. Tessa will know what to do. She’s patient, great with kids. Used to babysit half the neighborhood, if memory serves right. My chest constricts at the thought of her seeing me like this—rattled, clueless. But I have no choice. Pride doesn’t matter right now.

Sure enough, it’s not long before I hear the elevator ding outside my door. I stand, carefully balancing Olivia on my hip. She’s calmer, but I feel her small hands gripping my hoodie. Her eyes dart around, anxious. My door camera feed shows Tessa stepping off the elevator, hair wild from rushing. She doesn’t even wait—she knocks twice, urgent.

I open the door to find her in leggings, a hoodie, sneakers scuffed at the toes. Her dark curls frame wide eyes as they immediately drop to Olivia. One second passes, then two. She exhales, stepping inside and clicking the door shut behind her. “Oh my God,” she breathes, setting her purse down. She peers at Olivia, who blinks back, eyes full of unshed tears.

Tessa’s voice is steady when she says, “She’s… older than I expected.” That’s all. No accusations, no judgment. She just meets my gaze. “What happened?”

I glance at Olivia, then at Tessa. “She was left outside my door. A note says she’s mine.” Each word tastes bitter, laced with guilt and disbelief. “I had no idea.”

Tessa’s lips part. It’s clear she wants to bombard me with questions, but she pushes them down. Instead, she steps closer, hands gentle as she coaxes Olivia to look at her. “Hi, sweetheart,” she says softly. “I’m Tessa. Can you say hi?”

Olivia presses her face to my chest, but her crying doesn’t start back up, which I’ll count as progress. Tessa’s gaze flicks to me. I see the swirl of emotions in her eyes: concern, confusion, maybe anger that I somehow ended up in this situation. But she keeps her voice calm. “Let’s sit her down. See if she’s hungry or thirsty.”

I carry Olivia to the couch. She clings tighter, refusing to let go. Tessa kneels in front of us, rummaging in her purse. I see a packet of tissues, a half-empty water bottle, and some candies. She offers one to Olivia, but the child just stares, uncertain.

“It’s okay,” Tessa coaxes. “They’re sweet, I promise.”

Olivia slowly reaches a small hand, takes the candy, and clutches it. She doesn’t eat it, just holds it like a talisman. My chest feels tight again. She’s so cautious, like she’s waiting for someone to yank it away.

Tessa’s gaze flits around my spartan living space—gray sectional couch, glass coffee table, no trace of childproof anything. She sighs. “She might need clothes, pajamas… Does she talk much? Did she say anything to you?”

“She asked for her mom,” I admit, voice low. “I didn’t know how to—” I can’t finish. Tessa’s expression softens, and she lays a comforting hand on Olivia’s knee.

“Well, we’ll figure this out,” she says quietly. “Right now, she might be hungry, tired, or both.” She raises a questioning look my way. “Have you got anything she can eat?”

I shake my head, frustration rippling. “I live on takeout and protein bars. I wasn’t exactly… prepared.”

Tessa seems unruffled. “Then we start with the basics. Maybe a quick grocery run. Snacks. Something mild. If she’s three, she should be able to manage simple foods.” She stands, phone in hand. “I’ll see what’s open. Maybe buy some pajamas too.”

I nod, relief warring with a fresh surge of guilt. I’m an adult with a multi-million-dollar contract, endorsements, everything. Yet I can’t even manage a child’s meal by myself. My jaw clenches as Olivia shifts in my lap, the candy still in her hand. Her breathing remains shallow, and I feel her warmth through the hoodie.

Tessa glances at me, her voice softer now. “I’ll help, Declan. But you have to be patient with her. She’s scared.”

“I know.” The words come out like gravel. “Thank you.” It’s not enough, but it’s all I’ve got right now.

She makes a short list on her phone—snacks, pajamas, maybe a stuffed toy or blanket—then tells me she’ll hurry to a 24-hour store a few blocks away. As she moves toward the door, I stand, still holding Olivia. My arms tense with the realization that Tessa is leaving me alone with this child, even if only for a short run. Olivia eyes Tessa, then tugs on my hoodie, burying her face against me again.

Tessa pauses by the entrance. “You’ll be okay, right?” She studies me, an undercurrent of worry in her tone.

I nod, though my heart is pounding. “We’ll be fine.” I hope I sound convincing. She gives me a brief, reassuring smile before slipping out into the hallway. The lock clicks, and we’re alone again.

The penthouse swallows us in silence. Olivia’s small voice breaks it. “Where’d she go?” Her words wobble.

My pulse stumbles. She spoke clearly, and now I have to answer. “She’s getting you something to eat,” I manage, my hand rubbing her back awkwardly.

Her brow furrows. “I want Mama.” She sounds more plaintive this time. My chest tightens painfully. I search for a response that won’t break her heart or mine. The truth is, her mother left her. The note proves it. But a child shouldn’t have to face that, especially not in a stranger’s apartment.

I force a steady breath. “I know,” I whisper, easing onto the couch again. “We’ll find answers, okay?” It’s a useless promise, but it’s all I have. She relaxes just a fraction, nestling closer. I cradle her carefully, feeling her small heartbeat against my ribs.

Time grinds forward. The city lights gleam across the glass walls, reflecting off the black marble floors. This place used to make me feel powerful—above it all, a silent fortress built to keep the world out. Now it feels cavernous and cold. Maybe I’ve been shutting out more than paparazzi and fans. Maybe I’ve been shutting out everything but hockey. And now here I am, blindsided by a reality that won’t vanish when I close my eyes.

My phone pings with a message—probably Tessa, or maybe a teammate checking in. I ignore it for now, focusing on Olivia. Her fingers cling to my shirt, and I rest one large hand on her back. Her eyes droop, exhaustion tugging her under again. She’s had a long, scary night, left in a hallway like forgotten luggage. Fury churns in my gut at whoever could do that. But underneath the anger lies something more complex—an ache, a responsibility I never asked for but can’t deny.

After a few minutes, her breathing evens out. She’s fallen asleep again. I adjust her carefully, leaning into the couch cushions to support her weight. Her hair smells faintly of some children’s shampoo. My mind trips over the question: was she bathed recently? Did her mother… No, I can’t go there. Not yet.

A series of faint footsteps outside signals Tessa’s return. The door swings open to reveal her juggling a couple of plastic bags, a small blanket draped over one arm. She shuts the door with a gentle click, then approaches, gaze flicking to Olivia’s sleeping form.

“Still out?” she whispers. I nod, and she sets the bags on the coffee table. “I got apple juice, some crackers, a small plushie—just in case. A few things to tide us over tonight.”

Relief floods me. “Thank you,” I murmur, trying not to shift too much so Olivia stays asleep. Tessa unpacks the items, laying out pink pajamas, a toothbrush decorated with cartoons, a container of milk, and a small stuffed penguin. The sight of these child-sized things in my sophisticated living room is jarring. Yet seeing them also eases the knot in my chest.

Tessa glances at me. “Do you have a spare room we can set up for her?” She says it gently, but there’s a certain finality to it—like we both understand she can’t just leave once we give the girl a snack. This is bigger than a one-time favor.

I clear my throat. “Yeah. Down the hall on the left. I use it for storage, but it has a bed.” I haven’t stepped in there for weeks. It’s probably dusty, barely furnished beyond a mattress. But it’s something.

Tessa comes around and carefully lifts Olivia from my arms. The girl stirs but doesn’t fully wake. I feel the emptiness immediately, as if I lost the anchor keeping me grounded. Tessa’s expression is focused and tender as she carries Olivia toward the spare room. I stand, following a few steps behind, heart pounding at how natural Tessa looks holding a sleeping child. She’s always been good with kids, I recall vaguely—babysitting the neighbors, volunteering at youth centers. Meanwhile, I never gave a second thought to the possibility of my own.

In the dim glow of the hallway light, Tessa lays Olivia on the bed, tucking the blanket around her small body. The child shifts once but settles quickly, the exhausted slump of her limbs telling me how drained she must be. I linger near the door, arms folded, feeling oddly protective, yet out of place. My fortress—once a proud symbol of isolation—now shelters a three-year-old girl and a woman I haven’t let myself be close to for years.

When Tessa finishes, she steps toward me, keeping her voice low. “I’ll stay tonight. We’ll sort out the rest in the morning.” There’s quiet steel in her tone, like she’s bracing for an argument or a refusal.

But I only nod. “Thank you,” I say again. It’s the one phrase that keeps leaving my mouth, and it still doesn’t feel like enough. My gaze drifts to Olivia’s sleeping form, small fists curled near her face. My daughter, if the note is true.

Tessa’s eyes follow mine. “We’ll figure it out, Declan. Whatever that takes.” She reaches out, squeezing my forearm lightly. I stiffen, unused to the contact. But a beat later, I allow myself to relax, just enough to show I appreciate the gesture.

Together, we stand there watching Olivia breathe, each inhale a reminder that none of this is a dream. My mind swirls with images of my father—distant, cold, never around to do more than criticize. Am I destined to repeat that pattern if she stays? Or can I rewrite the script?

A swirl of guilt and determination tangles inside me. Tomorrow, the press will still be hunting for a story. The team will still demand my best. My father might call, or my sister might hear rumors. Life won’t stop because I found a three-year-old on my doorstep. But for tonight, at least, we can keep the chaos at bay.

Tessa steps away, guiding me into the hallway and quietly pulling the door. I follow her into the living room, where plastic bags and child-sized pajamas wait like a newly unearthed reality. She turns to me, exhaustion etched in her features, but also resolve. I feel it echo in my chest.

My phone buzzes, the screen lighting up on the coffee table. Probably a teammate or a friend. I ignore it. All that matters is this moment—Olivia asleep in the other room, Tessa ready to help, my own heart beating faster than I can remember outside a game.

I rake a hand through my hair, letting the tension of the night surge and fade in a single breath. “I’ll make up the couch,” I say gruffly, voice cracking. “Unless you want the couch, and I’ll crash in my bed. Doesn’t matter to me.”

Tessa shakes her head, glancing around. “We’ll figure sleeping arrangements later,” she murmurs, eyes flicking to the corridor. 

Her words hang between us, a reminder that everything has changed. No matter what tomorrow brings—the mother’s sudden return, custody battles, or a media firestorm—Olivia is here, and so is Tessa. The weight of it presses on me, a combination of apprehension and a strange sense of purpose.

I step closer to the window, city lights shimmering below. My reflection stares back at me, tall and broad and uncertain, a man who’s spent his life perfecting a game plan on ice but now fumbles in the face of real-life responsibility. I can’t see Tessa’s expression, but I sense her presence, steady and watchful.

One shaky exhale later, I turn, meeting her gaze. “Thank you,” I say a third time, quieter. And in the hush, with Olivia’s faint breathing drifting from the spare room, Tessa nods. We don’t speak after that. We just stand there, the weight of this moment settling in, a silent vow formed between two people who never expected to find themselves on the brink of something so terrifying, so life-altering.

I rub my nape, swallowing hard. My name is Declan Hayes, star defenseman for the Chicago Blades—disciplined, detached, notorious for shutting the world out. Yet tonight, I hold a responsibility I never saw coming: a three-year-old daughter, asleep in the next room. And the only person I trust to help me is Tessa Blake, the woman I’ve kept at arm’s length for as long as I can remember.

It feels like stepping onto the ice without knowing the rules of the game. But I’m here, whether I’m ready or not. And I won’t run. Not this time. Not with that little girl depending on me—on us.

I push my hands through my hair again and let out a breath I’ve been holding for what feels like hours. One night at a time, Tessa said. Tomorrow, I’ll face the rest. Tonight, I brace myself for a new reality, holding on to the faint hope that I won’t fail her—or fail Olivia—in the process.