Page 11 of Trade It All

“Alright, go be intense somewhere else.”

He doesn’t smile, but there’s something in his eyes that almost does before he walks past me.

Grady is next. And he knows exactly what he’s doing. His suit fits like it was made for him—which, honestly, it probably was—and there’s something about the way he carries himself that makes people look twice without even realizing it.

“Maddie,” he drawls.

“Grady,” I return, already bracing myself. “Same question.”

He steps just a little closer to the camera than necessary.

“How do I prepare?” he repeats, slow.

I roll my eyes. “Answer the question.”

He smirks. “Make sure Lennon doesn’t give me a reason to stay home,” he says, voice dipping just enough to make it sound like something more.

I choke out a laugh. “Oh my God.”

“And then,” he adds, straightening his jacket, “I show up and make everyone else regret it.”

“Go away,” I say, shaking my head.

He just grins and walks off.

I lower the phone for a second, checking the clips, already knowing they’re good. Better than good. This is exactly what people love.

Real. Easy. Them.

Footsteps echo again behind me. Slower this time. Heavier. I don’t need to turn around to know who it is. But I do anyway.

Dean.

Coach Kincade, I remind myself.

He walks into the tunnel like he owns it. Not loud like Luka. Not intentional like Jasper. Just… steady. Sure.

His suit is dark, clean lines, perfectly fitted without trying too hard. His watch catches the light when he adjusts his sleeve, the movement absent, habitual.

My camera lifts before I can stop myself.

And I keep it there a second longer than I did with the others. Tracking him as he walks. Taking in the details I shouldn’t be noticing. The way his shoulders fill out the jacket. The way he moves like nothing ever throws him off balance.

The way—He looks up. Catches me watching him. And instead of looking away—He smirks. It’s subtle. Just enough to let me know he knows exactly what I’m doing. My stomach flips in a way I don’t like. Or maybe I do. He tips his chin slightly. Waiting.

Of course he is. He wants me to ask him.

I hesitate. Because I don’t want to. Because I don’t know where he was today. Because I don’t know if he spent it with—Camille.

The name hits sharp and immediate. Perfect hair. Perfect clothes. Perfect everything. And the kind of smile that feels like it’s always calculating something.

I swallow. Dean’s gaze doesn’t waver.

“Ask, Mads,” he says.

Quiet. Like it’s just between us. I press my lips together for a second, then lift the camera fully again.

“How do you prepare for a home game?” I ask.