Page 76 of Trade It All

I love him.God, I love him.

Then he turns toward the bench and the moment is gone, swallowed back up by fifteen thousand screaming fans. But I stand there for one extra second trying to remember how to breathe.

The plan had been simple.

Dean was going to grab dinner on the way back to my place while I stayed behind long enough to finish sorting footage and grab a few extra clips of the younger guys screwing around after the game. Then I would head home, crawl into bed beside Dean,and listen to him complain about how I took too long getting there while he wrapped himself around me like he hadn’t seen me in weeks instead of hours.

Simple. Easy. Except now I’m standing halfway between the locker room and the arena exit with my bag hanging from my shoulder and my chest so tight it feels hard to breathe.

The arena always changes once it empties out. During the day it feels alive. Loud. Fast. Full of movement and voices and music and hockey pucks slamming against boards hard enough to rattle through the walls.

But late at night? Late at night it becomes something else entirely. Quiet in a way that makes every sound echo.

The rookies are still out on the ice, their laughter drifting faintly through the hallway while sticks scrape against the rink and someone yells about a terrible shot. A speaker somewhere overhead is still playing music low enough that it blends into the building itself, and every once in awhile I hear the heavy slam of the bench doors opening and shutting.

I should leave. I know I should. I packed up almost forty minutes ago. But every single time I get close to the doors, my feet stop moving. Because the second I walk out of this building, my mind starts spiraling into places I can’t seem to control.

What if something happens? What if one of them gets hurt? What if someone needs help and I’m not here? The thoughts hit so fast they almost make me dizzy. It’s stupid. I know it’s stupid.These are grown men. Professional athletes. Half of them are built like they could survive getting hit by a truck and walk it off afterward.

But none of that matters to the part of my brain that still remembers blood. Still remembers finding Luka on the ground. Still remembers the terror of realizing something horrible had happened while I was inside finishing an edit.

That moment changed something inside me. Ever since then, leaving before the guys are safely out of the building feels impossible. Like if I leave first, I won’t be there if something goes wrong. Won’t be there to help. Won’t be there to save them.

My fingers tighten around the strap of my bag. One rookie jogs past me toward the exit, tossing me a distracted “Night, Mads,” over his shoulder before disappearing through the doors.

I watch until they close behind him. My chest loosens slightly. One gone safely. Three still inside.

God.

I squeeze my eyes shut, frustrated tears burning unexpectedly behind them. This is insane. Absolutely insane.

My phone buzzes in my hand, and the second Dean’s name lights up the screen guilt crashes through me.

I stare at it for a second before sending the call to voicemail and typing out a quick response.

Leaving soon. Sorry.

The little typing bubble appears immediately. Disappears. Comes back. My throat tightens. Because Dean knows me too well now. He’s going to know something’s wrong from three stupid words.

The phone starts ringing again almost instantly. I can’t answer it. Not because I don’t want him. God, I always want him. But because the second he hears my voice, he’ll know. And I can’t explain this without sounding completely ridiculous.

So I send him to voicemail again and type:

I’ll call you back.

The second I hit send, regret settles heavy in my stomach. Because now he definitely knows.

I lean back against the wall and press my hand against the center of my chest, trying to breathe through the panic creeping higher and higher while the sounds from the rink echo faintly through the empty arena.

Then suddenly the main doors slam open hard enough to make me jump.

Fast footsteps echo through the hallway. My head jerks up.

Dean.

Still in his suit. Hair messy like he dragged his hands through it the entire drive back here. His eyes sweep the hallway once before landing on me, and the second they do, his expression changes completely.

Concern softens every hard edge of him instantly. “Baby.”