Page 105 of Trade It All

I pick hers first. Slim white gold. Clean. Elegant. Something she can wear every day. Something that won’t snag cameras or scream for attention at the arena. Something that says married without her needing to explain a giant rock every five minutes.

Mine is heavier. Brushed silver. Solid. The kind of ring I can feel. The kind that will remind me every time my hand closes into a fist that I belong to someone now too.

I buy them both and head to the penthouse with my pulse doing stupid things the whole drive.

The private elevator opens. And the second I step into my place, I stop.

Maddie is curled up on my couch under one of my gray blankets like she has lived here forever.

Shoes kicked off. Hair piled messily on top of her head. Her Kindle glowing in front of her face. My apartment has always been too clean. Too quiet. Too untouched.

Now there’s her overnight bag by the chair and one of her hoodies draped over the armrest and suddenly this place feels like someone turned the lights on for the first time.

She glances up when she hears me. Sees the takeout bags. Then immediately holds one finger in the air. I lift a brow.

She points to the Kindle.

I bite back a laugh. My wife is making me wait because apparently fictional men are still competition.

I set the food on the coffee table as quietly as I can, then pull the small velvet ring boxes from my pocket.

When I turn back, I just stand there holding them out. Waiting. She finishes the page. Taps her Kindle. Looks up. And freezes.

Her eyes drop to the boxes. Then to me. Then back to the boxes.

Slowly, she lowers the blanket. “Dean…”

I smile. Soft. Completely wrecked by how much I love this woman.

“You didn’t think I was letting my wife walk around without rings, did you?”

Maddie did not wear her ring to the arena today. I noticed the second she slipped it off.

We were by the door of my penthouse getting ready to leave, me straightening my tie, her shoving camera batteries into her bag, when she paused and motioned me over.

Without a word, she took her wedding band off. Then reached for mine.

I stared at her hand like she had personally offended me. I pull my hand to my chest protecting my ring. “Absolutely not.”

She laughed softly, the traitor. “Dean…”

“No.” She slid my ring from my finger anyway and set both bands carefully on the dresser by the door.

I glared. She stepped into me, rose onto her toes, kissed me once. “Soon,” she whispered against my mouth.

Soon. I have discovered I hate that word. Because soon still means not now. Soon still means I have to spend another night pretending she isn’t mine. And I am rapidly running out of patience for pretending.

Which is exactly why I am in a foul mood standing in the locker room twenty minutes before puck drop while Maddiefilms some dumb little pregame social segment with two of our rookies.

One of said rookies—some twenty-two-year-old call-up with too much hair product and not enough self-preservation—keeps smiling at her.

Too much. Leaning in too close. Too comfortable. Maddie laughs at something he says while adjusting her camera angle and the kid actually reaches over and touches her elbow.

My eye twitches. No. Nope. Not happening. I cross my arms and try to tell myself to calm down. He doesn’t know. No one knows. This is exactly the problem with no one knowing.

The rookie says something else. Maddie smiles politely.

He winks.He fucking winks.