Page 91 of Trade It All

I actually bark out a stunned laugh. His blocker hand is coming down. His glove hand too. Tyler curls up trying to protecthimself while Denver players rush in and officials throw themselves over the pile.

That’s when it hits me. All at once.They know.Not just about today. About weeks ago. About what he did to me. And this—this absolute circus of violence unfolding on my ice—is not random.

This is protection. This is four furious hockey men showing Tyler in front of an entire sold-out arena that he is not untouchable.

That if he hurts one of theirs, they will make him pay in pieces. I should be horrified.I am horrified.I am also so overwhelmingly aware of how loved I am that my throat burns.

Tyler gets yanked out of Luka’s crease by two Denver teammates and shoved toward their bench while the refs try to sort through what is now basically a riot.

Luka pulls off his goalie mask. His eyes find me instantly. And that asshole winks.

I choke on a laugh. Jasper skates by the glass on his way to the faceoff circle and gives me the slightest tilt of his head.

I press my fingers to my lips. My eyes lift one final time. To Dean. He looks stressed enough to stroke out. Pissed enough to murder every player he coaches. But when his eyes lock on mine—he smiles. Small. Disbelieving. Like he cannot believe these idiots just did this. And maybe he should be furious. Maybe he is.

But underneath it—I can see it.

He is proud as hell of every single one of them.

Winning against Denver still feels a little unreal. Mostly because half of our starting line spent more time glaring from the penalty box than they did actually touching the ice, and yet somehow the Mustangs still pulled it off.

Luka played out of his mind. Jake came back from his penalties skating like a man possessed. Grady nearly got into two more fights. Jasper chirped the Denver bench every chance he got.

And Tyler? Tyler never came back out after first intermission. Denver must have realized something was going on. Realized keeping him on the ice was only going to turn the entire game into a bloodbath.

Good. I’m not upset about it.

The flight to DC Stars territory and the bus ride to the hotel blur together in that exhausted, half-foggy way away trips always do. By the time we pile into the elevators, everyone looks dead on their feet and it’s still early.

Jake has Matty’s stuffed dinosaur shoved under one arm because Penelope sent it for good luck. Luka is still bitching about the refs. Dean stands beside me close enough that our shoulders brush every few seconds, but he keeps his face neutral because Jake is right there and Luka notices everything.

Same routine. Same little secret dance we’ve done every away game. At least that’s what I think.

Until the elevator dings on my floor. I step out with Luka and Jake, turning automatically because Dean should be following.

He doesn’t. He stays where he is. One hand braced on the elevator rail.

“I’m heading to the floor above you,” he says casually.

My brows lift. Jake and Luka don’t think anything of it. Why would they? But disappointment sinks into me immediately, heavy and irrational.

The doors close before I can question him with my eyes.

Well. That sucks.

Luka waves and disappears down his hallway. Jake heads in the same direction while texting Penelope something that has him smiling like an idiot.

I make my way to my room alone. And for the first time in days, the thought of sleeping without Dean beside me feels… wrong.

I have been spoiled. Hopelessly spoiled. By his arm around my waist. By his chest at my back. By the way he sleepily drags mecloser if I shift too far away in the middle of the night like even unconscious Dean refuses to let me out of reach.

I toss my bag onto the luggage bench and make a mental note to text him in a bit. Maybe get his room number before walk through. Maybe accidentally show up. The thought makes me smile.

I start unpacking the bare minimum—laptop on the desk, charger by the bed, camera batteries plugged in—before deciding I need a shower before I do anything else.

Airport air always makes me feel gross. I strip as I walk. Shirt. Leggings. Bra. Panties. Leaving a trail of clothes across the carpet while steam from the bathroom starts filling the room.

I’m fully naked by the time I step toward the bathroom—and that’s when I notice it.