Page 75 of Trade It All

“Come on,” I murmur. “Let’s go shower.”

She lets out a small breath, still tucked into me. “I’m sorry,” she says again, softer this time.

That gets a huff of a laugh out of me, the tension finally breaking. I pull back just enough to look at her, one brow lifting slightly.

“You’re sorry?” She nods, a little unsure now. A slow smirk pulls at my mouth. “I’m about to be wet and naked with you,” Isay, my voice dipping just enough to make her eyes flicker. “What exactly are you sorry for, Baby?”

Her lips part, and for the first time since the tears started—there’s a hint of a smile.

Chapter 33

Maddie

DeanandIbarelyleft my apartment the next day. He had to go to practice for a few hours, barking orders and pretending he wasn’t “dying” to get back to me—I know he was because he called twice in the span of one drill just to “check in”—but other than that, the world stayed outside and we stayed in.

Inside my bed. Inside my kitchen. Inside little pockets of quiet that felt almost dangerous because of how normal they seemed. Like this was what we had always done. Like I had always woken up with him tangled around me and always ended my nights with his chin on my shoulder while he whispered things that made my chest ache.

At some point while he was gone, I started on the boxes in my bedroom. He offered to help. Of course he did. Dean offered in that steady way of his, like if I said yes he would have emptied every single one without complaint, hung my clothes, made mybed, carried every reminder of Tyler straight to the dumpster if I asked.

But I didn’t. Because this… this felt like something I needed to do myself. Needed to touch. Needed to sort. Needed to prove to myself that my home was mine again. So by the time he came back from practice, there were empty boxes stacked by the door and my dresser looked like my dresser instead of some halfway abandoned life. He kissed my forehead when he saw it. Didn’t make a big deal out of it. Just looked at me with that soft pride that somehow means more than words.

Now it’s game day again.

The arena is already buzzing by the time I finish the pregame hallway clips. Guys walking in with headphones. Luka chirping anyone who makes eye contact. Grady pretending he doesn’t love the camera when he absolutely does.

I lower mine for a second and exhale. One more shot. I know exactly which one I want. My feet carry me there without me thinking about it, through the tunnel and toward the section that always seems to pull me in no matter how many times I tell myself I’m just here for content.

The family section. The seats are filling quicker now. The Rizzoli family section is impossible to miss as always—too many bodies, too many voices, too many kids climbing over chairs while someone is inevitably yelling at someone else to sit down. Adrianna is trying to wrangle one child while Lacey is laughingat something CeCe says. Mia has food spread out like she bought for a week instead of one game.

It’s chaos. Warm, familiar chaos. My eyes move past them automatically and land on another set of seats. Jake’s seats. There are three now. He told me once—on a road trip when everyone else was asleep—that he bought the original two because he kept hoping his parents would come. Every season he thought maybe this would be the year they’d care enough to show up.

They never did. Now those seats belong to the people who chose him anyway. Penelope. Paxton. And their dad. Except today—one of them is empty.

Paxton’s.

My chest pulls a little at the sight of it. He’s packing up today. Headed to the AHL. Headed toward the thing he’s wanted since Jake brought him into our crazy world. I already got Mark’s okay to make the post. A congratulations clip. A little something about the Mustangs believing in building the next generation and always pushing kids to chase the dream all the way. I lift the camera and zoom in slowly, catching the empty seat between Penelope and her father. Letting it linger for just a second because it says enough without anyone needing words. This is what leaving for your dream looks like. A missing chair. People proud enough to miss you.

I lower the camera and glance at the footage. Perfect. A small smile touches my lips before I turn away. And it’s impossible toresist the pull of the overflowing Rizzoli family section now that the noise over there has somehow doubled in volume, so I head that way.

The closer I get to the family row, the louder it gets. I should be used to it by now. Every home game this section somehow finds a way to become even more packed, even more chaotic, even more obnoxiously alive than the game before. What started as the Rizzoli's claiming an entire chunk of seats for their son has slowly turned into the designated place for everyone who loves a Mustang.

Addy is folded into it. Penelope and Matty always end up there for Jake. Now Lennon has found her place too. Every time one of these men lets someone into his life, this row seems to grow another body. Another loud voice. Another person banging on the glass like the players can hear them.

Lorenzo and Leonardo are climbing over chairs while Gio tries to follow behind them. Layla is half standing on her seat already screaming Luka’s name during warmups. Samantha keeps swatting little hands away before someone dumps popcorn everywhere. CeCe is laughing. Adrianna is yelling. Lacey is trying to get all three boys to sit down for five seconds. Penelope has Matty balanced on her hip while his little hand waves at the ice every time Jake skates by. And Lennon is tucked between Addy and CeCe, smiling in that way women do when they realize they’ve somehow been absorbed into something bigger than themselves.It is chaos. Pure, loud, affectionate chaos. The kind fans online love because it makes the Mustangs feel human.

Like they aren’t just hockey players. They’re husbands. Fathers. Men with entire armies cheering for them. I lift my camera and start filming, sweeping slowly across the row to catch all of it. The yelling. The kids. The women waving. Luka shooting Addy a puck and Layla nearly falling over the railing trying to catch it.

Perfect content. The arena lights dim a few seconds later, and the roar that rises from the crowd makes every tiny hair on my arms stand up. Showtime. I move closer toward the glass as the announcer’s voice booms through the speakers, introducing players one by one. Every single name gets some sort of reaction from this row.

Luka’s gets Addy screaming. Grady’s gets Lennon on her feet. Jake’s gets Penelope smiling while Matty claps because everyone else is clapping.

I’m filming all of it. Quick pans. Fast zooms. Little pieces I already know I’ll splice into tonight’s recap.

And then—“Head Coach Dean Kincade.”

My pulse jumps. I turn the camera toward the tunnel, expecting the same thing I always catch: Dean stepping onto the bench, face unreadable, already locked into the game. Only that’s not what I find. Because Dean isn’t looking at the ice. He isn’t looking at the players lining up. He isn’t looking at the giant camera aimed straight at him. He’s looking directly at me.My breath catches. The screaming around me dulls into background noise. For one second, maybe two, this entire arena disappears. Because the way he looks at me from across all this distance doesn’t feel accidental. It feels intentional. Like the first thing he needed before this game started was to find me. To make sure I was here.

My fingers tighten around the camera. He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t wave. But there’s something in his eyes that feels entirely too private for a building full of people. Something warm. Possessive. Almost hungry. And it hits me so hard my chest actually aches.