Chapter 21
Kennedy
The arena buzzed with life the moment I stepped inside; the sound swelling around me like a heartbeat I could feel in my bones. This time, it didn’t overwhelm me. It energized me.
I tugged Nick’s jersey tighter around me as I found my seat near the glass, and for the first time, it didn’t feel like a costume I was borrowing. It felt like mine—like a banner I’d chosen to wave, loud and proud.
I scanned the ice instinctively. And there he was.
Nick Maddox.
My husband.
Black and white gear, jaw set beneath his helmet, posture coiled like a loaded weapon. My pulse tripped over itself. There was something unshakable about him, something that made the whole rink tilt in his direction like gravity bent for him alone. I couldn’t look away.
The puck dropped, and the game began, but my world narrowed to him and him alone. Everything else fell away: the fans, the announcer, even the cold biting through my jeans. I tracked his every movement with breathless focus.
The way he moved across the ice was nothing short of beautiful. Calculated. Sharp. Fluid. Like a predator in his natural element. Every time he checked someone into the boards, I found myself half on my feet, heart in my throat.
“Go, Nick!” I shouted, unable to contain the rush building inside me.
He glanced my way—just a flicker—but it landed like a punch straight to my chest. He saw me. He heard me. And I didn’t care who else did.
Every pass, every dodge, every glint of his stick against the ice sent another wave of adrenaline through me. And when he set up a clean play that led to a near goal, I screamed his name again, louder this time, like the sound alone could bridge the distance between us.
The first period blurred past me in flashes—Nick barreling down the ice, Nick slamming an opponent into the boards, Nick backchecking with a speed that made the crowd gasp. I was on edge, hands balled in my lap, body leaning forward like I could will the puck wherever he wanted it to go.
Then came the moment.
Less than two minutes on the clock. Nick took the puck deep in their zone, pivoted hard, faked left, and burned past two defenders like they were standing still. My breath caught. It was all instinct and fire now.
“Come on!” I yelled, rising to my feet as he neared the crease.
He wound up—and the shot flew.
Time stretched thin.
And then the net rippled.
A beat of silence.
Then chaos.
The buzzer blared, and the crowd roared to life, an explosion of sound and light.
The fans leapt up around me, but I didn’t hear them.
I only saw Nick turning toward the glass, toward me.
His helmet lifted just enough for me to see the smirk I knew too well, his gaze locked on mine like it was just us here—just us, always.
I pressed my hand to the glass, breathless. And for the first time in a long, long time… I wasn’t afraid of being seen. I wanted the whole world to look.
I shot to my feet, heart thundering as I pumped my fist in the air. “Nick!” I screamed, my voice tearing through the noise, wild with adrenaline.
The second I saw him raise his stick in victory—shoulders broad, head tipped back like a king who just claimed his crown—something electric sparked in my chest.
God, he was beautiful like this. Untouchable. Unstoppable. Mine.
And in that moment? Nothing else mattered. Not Gary. Not Jake. Not the eyes watching me from every row. Every doubt, every fear, every whispered warning dissolved like smoke in the wind.
All I saw was him.
All I felt was us.
I pressed my palms to the glass, the chill biting into my skin as the whole arena vibrated with anticipation. The air crackled, every fan holding their breath like I was, watching the power play line up.
And then came Nick. Eyes locked on the puck like it was prey. Body coiled. Every muscle ready to strike.
The puck shot across the ice, fast and sharp—and for a split second, everything in the world paused. My heartbeat thundered in my ears.
Nick intercepted clean. The sound of his stick meeting the puck rang out like a promise. He pivoted so fast my breath caught in my throat—and that look in his eyes? That wild, focused fire? It was everything.
“Come on,” I whispered, fingers flattening against the glass like I could somehow push him faster.
He tore down the ice, weaving around defenders like they didn’t exist. Power. Grace. Violence wrapped in beauty.
Then came the shot.
It flew—fast, clean, unstoppable.
And when it hit the net?
The crowd exploded.
Screams, chants, bodies rising in unison—but I couldn’t hear any of it over the pounding of my heart.
“Maddox! Maddox! Maddox!” they roared.
I was already on my feet, mouth open in a soundless cheer, pride flooding every inch of me. My throat burned with it. My eyes stung. He’d done it. Again. Like it was nothing.
He turned to celebrate, and then his gaze found mine through the chaos.
My breath hitched.
Everything else faded.
It was just us. Just that look. Just this feeling between us that kept growing louder, bigger, realer with every beat.
I pressed my fingers harder to the glass, like I could reach through it and touch him. His lips quirked—barely. Just enough for me to see it was real.
This wasn’t just adrenaline. Or lust. Or rebellion.
It was ours.
And nothing—not the crowd, not the past, not even the ice—could come between us.
The moment we stepped inside, the club hit me like a wave—heat, sound, motion. The bass vibrated through my bones, syncing with my pulse. I clutched Nick’s hand tighter as bodies moved all around us, wild and free, like the music had taken over their limbs.
Neon lights bled across the room in waves of violet and blue, giving everything a dreamy, unreal feel.
I tried to match Nick’s calm confidence as he navigated the crowd, but it wasn’t easy—not when I could feel eyes flicking toward us, catching on our entwined fingers, on the way I wore his jersey earlier like a second skin, on the way I followed behind him like I belonged to him.
Because I did.
And that realization sent a thrill up my spine.
When we reached the velvet rope, the bouncer didn’t even blink—just nodded and let us through like we were royalty. Like I was someone. It still stunned me sometimes, how different everything felt with Nick beside me. How safe. How dangerous. How real.
He pulled me into a sleek VIP booth, the leather warm beneath my thighs as I slid in beside him. Close. His arm brushed mine, and that was all it took for my skin to light up with awareness.
A waitress brought champagne like it had been waiting for us. Like this—the win, the celebration, the pulse of the night—was all preordained.
Nick leaned close, lips brushing the shell of my ear to be heard above the beat. “We did that.”
My heart flipped. I turned toward him, laughter bubbling up before I even meant to let it out. “You’re going to give me a heart attack if we keep celebrating like this.”
He smirked, slow and smug, as his fingers traced a circle on my knee. “Better than being bored.”
God, he made everything feel dangerous in the best way.
I glanced around the club—how the lights flickered off the crystal in our glasses, how people stared like they could feel something buzzing between us, even from across the room.
I looked back at him. “Do you always do this after a game?”
He shrugged, took a sip of champagne, his throat working as he swallowed. I watched the movement like a fool, totally spellbound. “Only when I win.”
I bit my bottom lip, dragging my gaze away from his mouth. “What’s it feel like?”
He raised a brow. “What's what feel like?”
I nodded, suddenly serious. “Winning. What’s it really feel like?”
His answer didn’t come right away. Instead, he studied me for a second, then set down his glass and shifted closer.
So close I could feel his breath on my lips.
“It feels like this,” he said, voice low and rough, “—knowing you’re here, wearing my name, looking at me like I’m the only thing that matters. ”
I swallowed hard, my chest tightening at the way he said it—not cocky, not smooth. Just honest.
And for the first time in a long time, I didn’t feel like I was trying to keep up with someone else’s version of me.
I just felt… right. Like I’d already won something too.
I raised an eyebrow, smiling. “Just that?”
A low chuckle rumbled from his chest as he shook his head, like he’d just remembered something heavier than he was willing to say out loud. Then his voice dropped lower, quieter. “It feels like freedom.”
That word hit something deep in me—freedom.
It echoed through my chest like a bell, sweet and aching.
I felt it wrap around my ribs and squeeze.
Because that was what I felt too, wasn’t it?
Unbound. Unburdened. Untouchable. We were sitting here in a dark velvet booth, champagne in hand, drenched in strobe light and bass—and still, that one word undid me more than all of it.
Before I could spiral too far, his voice tugged me back. “What about you?” he asked, turning toward me with that crooked grin that always disarmed me. “How does it feel watching your husband crush it on the ice?”
Husband.
The word danced across my skin, unfamiliar and thrilling and a little terrifying. He said it so easily—like it was already carved into stone. My heart stuttered before speeding up.
“I’m proud,” I said softly, the truth of it resting heavy and warm in my chest. I gave his hand a small squeeze, needing the contact, needing him to feel how much I meant it.
His smile grew, a softer version of the usual cocky smirk, and he leaned in until I could barely hear him over the music. “You should be.”
And just like that, the club melted away—the noise, the people, the pulsing lights. All I could feel was him, warm beside me, grounded and solid, like an anchor in a storm I didn’t realize I’d been weathering.