Page 17 of Trade It All

“And you don’t stop,” he says, his voice cutting clean through all of it, steady, controlled, unshakable. “Not when you’re tired. Not when it gets messy. Not when it hurts.” Something in my chest tightens at that. Because I believe him. Because they do too. “You play for the man next to you,” he continues, and there’s something different in that line—something deeper, something that lands heavier than the rest. “You hold that line for each other.” The circle starts forming before he even finishes. Bodies pulling in closer. Tighter. “And when that puck drops—”

Everything stills for half a second. Just enough. “You remind them exactly who they’re playing.” And then— “Bring. It. Home.”

The room explodes.

Sound crashes into itself all at once—voices rising, sticks hitting the floor, gloves slamming against lockers as the guys surge together like something just snapped into place. The energy thathad been building finally breaks, loud and electric and impossible to ignore, filling every inch of the space until it feels like it’s vibrating through me.

Dean steps right into the middle of it. Not above them. Not separate.With them.

And somewhere in the middle of it all, I end up beside him, close enough that I can feel the heat of him, the solid presence of him grounded in a way everything else isn’t.

The chant builds, louder and louder, the sound vibrating through the room and into me, settling somewhere deep in my chest. And without meaning to—I look up. He’s already looking at me. Like he knew I would. The intensity from before is still there, but it’s different now—focused, controlled, wrapped in something steadier than what I caught when he first walked in. He smiles. Small. Real. And something in my chest shifts with it, not sharp or overwhelming, just… settling. Like a piece sliding into place without asking for permission. I drop my gaze back to the camera, forcing myself to focus on the shot, on the movement, on the reason I’m standing here in the first place.

Because that’s what this is. Work. The team. The game. But even as I move, even as the noise builds and everything around me sharpens into something fast and loud and alive— I’m still aware of him. Not because I’m looking. Because I don’t need to. And for some reason—That feels steady in a way I don’t question.

Not tonight.

Chapter 6

Dean

Theicealwayssettlesme.

It doesn’t matter how loud the arena gets, how many bodies fill the seats, how much energy builds before the first drop—once I’m standing here, watching it all unfold, everything narrows into something I understand. Clean lines. Controlled chaos. Movement with purpose, if you know where to look.

The guys spread out across the ice during warmups, each of them falling into their own version of routine. Some keep it tight, controlled, working through reps like clockwork. Others burn through it faster, letting the energy bleed off before it spikes too early.

And then there’s Luka. Because of course there is.

He’s already in the crease, mask off, hair damp, gloves loose at his sides like he hasn’t decided yet if he’s warming up or putting on a show.

He slides his gloves on and mask in place as a shot comes in from the blue line, clean and easy, and instead of settling it like he should, he snatches it out of the air, holds it for half a second—just long enough for the crowd to register it—before tossing it back with a careless flick that looks like it shouldn’t land as clean as it does.

They react immediately. They always do. He glances up, catches it, and that’s all it takes. Now he’s playing.

Sliding across the crease in an exaggerated shuffle, dragging his stick behind him like he’s got nowhere else to be, dropping into a butterfly just to pop back up again like it didn’t cost him anything. Another puck comes in—he blocks it with his pad, kicks it out wide, then spins on his skate and…breaks into that ridiculous moonwalk he started doing halfway through last season.

In full gear. In the crease. Like gravity doesn’t apply to him the same way it does to everyone else. The crowd loses it. Pressing closer to the glass, phones up, kids jumping, adults just as bad as them. He plays it up, tapping his stick once against the ice like he’s answering them, then drops into position again like none of it happened, catching the next shot clean in his glove.

It’s chaos. Controlled just enough to work. Exactly where he needs to be. I should be watching his angles. His positioning. The way he tracks through bodies. Instead, my attention shifts. Not to the ice. To the glass.

The Rizzoli family is right where they always are, pressed up against it like they belong there just as much as anyone on the ice.

You don’t miss them once you know where to look.

Gio’s got one hand braced against the glass, the other wrapped securely around one of Liam’s twins, holding him steady while the kid presses both hands flat against the surface like he’s trying to get closer to Luka. Layla stands beside him, smaller but just as locked in, the other twin balanced on her hip like she’s done it a hundred times before and takes the responsibility seriously.

Lorenzo and Leonardo. Too young to understand the game. Old enough to feel it. Their attention is locked on Luka as he slides across the crease again, dropping low, then kicking one leg out dramatically to block a shot that wasn’t going in anyway, just to hear them react.

Layla laughs. Gio says something I can’t hear but I know is probably half warning, half encouragement. And just off to the side—Paxton.

Three years in this world and it shows. He stands like he belongs here now, not just visiting it, Alessandro settled easily on his hip like it’s second nature, Cross’s kid tucked in close as both of them watch Luka like it’s the best thing they’ve seen all day. Paxton says something to him that makes the kid grin wide enough I can see it from here, his small hand slapping against the glass in excitement.

Paxton’s ready. For the next step.For the farm. Damn kid has been training since the day he moved up here with Penelope. He is a natural, and I had to take him under my wing and make sure he knew he could make it. And he is ready for everything that comes with it. And he’s going to take it. Not because anyone hands it to him. Because he’s earned it.

Something about that lands heavier than it used to. I rest my forearms on the boards, letting my gaze stay there a second longer than it should.

Because this—This isn’t just a team. It never has been. It’s something built into the spaces between them, into the way they show up for each other off the ice just as much as they do on it. You can see it in moments like this—in the way kids who shouldn’t be part of this world somehow are, in the way no one questions it.