Page 9 of Trade It All

“Hey…” His voice softens just enough to feel intentional. “I’m sorry about earlier.”

I don’t say anything right away.

“I’ve just got a lot going on right now,” he continues. “You know how it is.”

My fingers trace the seam of the couch cushion absentmindedly. He’s been talking about it more lately. Getting called up. Not wanting to get stuck where he is.

I can hear it in his voice even now—like everything is sitting just out of reach and it’s getting harder for him to pretend that doesn’t bother him.

“You’re stressed.” The words come out quieter than I expect.

“Exactly.” His answer comes quick, like he’s been waiting for me to say it. “And I haven’t seen you much this week.”

The quiet stretches between us.

“I just didn’t want to look bad in front of the guys.”

I nod, even though he can’t see me. “Yeah.”

“Seriously though… thank you.” There’s a shift in his voice again, lighter now. “I appreciate it.”

“Of course.”

“I’ll see you tonight?”

“I’ll be there early,” I say.

“Good.”

The call ends. Just like that.

I stare at the phone for a second before setting it down on the table beside me. The tickets are still pulled up on the screen. Three seats. Exactly what he wanted. I sit there for a moment longer, then reach forward and close the tab on my laptop. Game day. There’s work to do. I pull the laptop back onto my lap, straighten my posture just slightly, and start typing.

Because this part—This part I can control.

And right now, that’s enough to keep me moving.

The arena feels different on game days.

Louder, even when it’s quiet.

There’s something in the air the second I walk through the doors—like everything is already moving beneath the surface, building toward something bigger. It settles into me easier than it did this morning. My steps fall into rhythm without me having to think about them, my mind finally catching up to where it’s supposed to be.

This part always makes sense. The chaos. The energy. The way everything comes together in real time. I adjust the strap of mybag on my shoulder and head straight toward the tunnel, already pulling my phone out as I walk.

The idea came to me halfway through my drive in. Simple. Easy. Exactly the kind of thing people eat up.

Everyone loves the behind-the-scenes stuff. The routines. The little things that make the players feel human instead of just names on jerseys.

And the girls—They definitely love seeing the guys walk in. Suits. Watches. The way they carry themselves like they own every step they take.

I set up near the entrance of the tunnel, angling my phone just right, testing the lighting, adjusting the frame until it catches the full walk-in without blowing out the overhead lights.Perfect.

Footsteps echo a few minutes later. Right on time. Jake is first. Of course he is. Always early. Always put together.

His suit jacket is slung over his shoulder, tie already loosened like he’s been up for hours—which, knowing him, he probably has.

“Hey, Mads,” he greets, slowing when he spots me.