Chapter 34
Chapter thirty-four
You’ll be the safest place in the world
Reid
The Lightning are pressing, and the crowd is roaring behind them like it’ll make a difference.
I lock in. One breath, glance at the puck, the traffic, and the play unfolding like a roll of static. My body knows before my brain does.
Snapshot, top of the slot. I stretch glove-side and snag it mid-air.
The puck lands with a satisfying thud in the webbing, and the crowd groans. I don’t react, just hold it for the whistle, then hand it to the ref.
They’re desperate now. Cross-checking and slamming into boards. Chase takes a hit that makes Viktor chirp in Swedish as he hauls the guy off him.
Logan slashes back and earns a whistle. Idiot.
There’s a faceoff in the left circle, and I adjust my stance and blink the sweat from my lashes.
The puck drops, sticks clack loudly, and the shot comes hard and low—just enough bounce to make it messy.
I block it with the inside of my pad, drop to smother the rebound, and feel the weight of two bodies crash into the net behind me.
The whistle blows, but someone’s still leaning on me. A stick digs into the back of my ribs. Not enough to injure, but enough to test me. I keep the puck covered, but the stick comes down again, and something in me shifts.
I rise slower than I feel and shove the forward off me with both hands, but when he takes one more lazy jab at my glove, I don’t shove this time. I swing.
It’s a clean, sharp punch that catches him high on the shoulder and sends him stumbling back into the crease he just tried to claim.
The arena immediately changes pitch because Goalies don’t usually get involved. But this guy’s an asshole, and he’s pushing it.
Chase is on him immediately, followed by Logan barreling in. Viktor’s gloves are off, and he’s got someone else by the collar.
My eyes catch across the ice to where their goalie is already moving. He’s coming straight for me, pads chewing up the distance, mask still on but chin tucked like he’s made a decision.
I stare right back at him and let my blocker drop first. Then the glove. They hit the ice heavily between us as the arena explodes.
The ref’s shouting something, but it doesn’t matter. I’m being challenged, and I’m fucking ready.
He reaches center just as I push my mask up and off, letting it fall behind me near the blue paint.
We grab at the same time—jerseys fisted high on our chests, blades carving small, angry half-moons in the ice.
He throws first, but it glances off my shoulder, and then I answer.
The fight isn’t graceful; pads make everything awkward. We tug and spin, our skates slipping as we try to anchor and land something clean. He yanks at my collar, but I drive forward, forcing him back a stride. The crowd is on its feet now, roaring like it’s blood they paid for.
He tries to pull me off balance, but I hold.
For a second, everything narrows. The noise, the lights, the weight of the season. My injury. Carina and her job and the baby. Harry.
All of it funnels into the grip of my hands and the sharp burn in my lungs.
My fist lands clean against the side of his head, snapping him sideways. The padding makes everything clumsy, but I’m stronger and angrier.
The crowd is losing its mind.
He tries to anchor and throw again, but I roll my shoulder and land another, this one square to his chest, knocking the wind from him. I feel it in the way his weight shifts.
He grabs at my collar to yank me down, but I plant my skates and shove him hard enough that he stumbles, blades scraping uselessly against the ice.
This is weeks of me swallowing it. The funeral. The waiting. The quiet dread that something else will go wrong before she makes it to full term. The knowledge that she’s at home and carrying our child, and I’m stuck in an arena pretending I’m fine.
He swings again, but I beat him to it. One last punch lands clean and decisive, and he drops to a knee before he can catch himself.
The linesmen are immediately there, wedging themselves between us, arms locking around my shoulders and hauling me back. I don’t fight them.
I can hear the boys pounding the boards, their sticks tapping against the ice. The crowd is a living thing, screaming and hungry and electric.
Chase is half-laughing, half-yelling as he skates backward and points his stick.
“That’s Reid Hutchison, you asshole! You don’t get to hack him and skate away!”
Logan is cackling like a lunatic. “Should’ve stayed in your crease, buddy!”
Viktor just nods at me with a sharp, satisfied look, while Jake leans halfway over the boards, his grin proud.
“Atta boy, Hutchy!” he shouts. “Build the statue, baby!”
The refs herd me toward the box long enough to bark out the calls—fighting majors and matching misconducts.
Chase skids to a stop near the box, already peeling his gloves back.
“I’ve got it,” he says, tapping the glass. “I’ll sit.”
“Of course you will,” Logan laughs. “You’d marry him if he could stand you for more than five minutes.”
Chase flips him off and hops into the penalty box to serve my five.
I bend, pick up my mask from where it slid near the crease, and roll my shoulders once before settling it back into place. The world narrows behind the cage.
Across the rink, their backup is scrambling over the boards.
The puck drops again, and the Lightning press, angry now, but I see everything. I track the shot through traffic and swallow it clean.
This line is mine, and we win 2–1.
But it doesn’t matter what barn we’re in, what city, what noise follows us down the tunnel.
The only thing I’m thinking now as I tug off my mask is: I want to go home.
When I get back to my hotel room, it smells like starch and too much carpet cleaner, instead of her shampoo. Instead of her cheeseburgers and my honey, and Harry’s lemons and soil.
Once I’m out of the shower with a towel slung low on my hips, my phone buzzes once. An incoming video call from Carina.
I don’t even dry off properly, just swipe it open, and drop onto the edge of the bed.
She’s curled on our couch, a throw blanket around her legs, one hand resting on the rise of her bump. Her hair’s a little wild, and her eyes narrow like she’s scanning for damage.
“You good?” she asks softly.
I nod. “Yeah. We won.”
She squints. “That’s not what I asked.”
I sigh. “Took a few shots. Ribs held up. I’m fine.”
“You’re lying about one of those things.”
“Maybe.”
A breath of quiet passes, and her fingers trail absently over the bump. My hoodie is hanging off one of her shoulders. I want to be with her.
“You look…” I shake my head. “Christ, Havoc.”
She lifts her eyes, smiling faintly at the nickname.
“You’re the one who looks like a soggy meatball.”
“Hey, we beat Vegas.”
“Still soggy.” Her smile turns softer. “You’re coming home tomorrow?”
“Should be back early evening.”
“You need anything?”
“No, just you.”
I see the way her lashes lower, the faint shimmer at the corners.
“Come back safe, okay?”
My chest aches, and I press my fingers to the screen again.
“I will, baby.”
“Goodnight, Reid.” Her voice is so soft, I almost miss it.
“Night, Havoc.”
***
The plane is dark, humming with the low white noise of half-sleep and recycled air. I’ve got a hoodie pulled low, and a baseball cap tugged down even further. Noise-canceling buds in too, but none of it helps.
I can’t sleep. I keep replaying the game—then overlaying it with the way her voice sounded. The curve of her belly and the faint hum of her laugh. The way her fingers moved across the blanket in absent little circles, like she was soothing both of them at once.
I think about the baby’s heartbeat. About the list in my phone of names we haven’t agreed on yet.
I think about Harry. About the way he said my name when he was proud. About the fucking treehouse we built that I’ll never see again.
I think about the look on Carina’s face when she told me about Harry’s House. That wild, brilliant idea she offered like it wasn’t already a legacy.
I don’t know how she keeps doing it, threading light through all my cracked seams without even meaning to.
But I do know one thing. The second I land, I’m going home.
To my girls.
To her.
The drive from the airport feels infuriatingly slow, but once my cab pulls away down the drive and I watch the taillights vanish into the night, I turn quickly toward the house, reaching for my keys.
When I get inside, the house is still. There’s no music and no psycho cat. No Carina waiting nearby to tell me she’s missed me.
I drop my bag in the hallway and toe off my shoes, letting the scent hit me first—lavender and lemon oil and her.
My ribs ache, and I roll my shoulder once as I walk into the dining room.
“Carina?”
I frown when she doesn't answer, walking through the space and toward the kitchen, then pause. There’s a glow through the back window. Not from an outdoor porch light, but from deeper in the yard.
Something’s different. Something’s there.
I slide the door open and step outside barefoot. The grass is cool beneath my feet, and the night’s too still.
But then I see it. Nestled between the trees, just where the yard starts to blur into bush—the treehouse.
My treehouse.
Only it’s not just mine, it’s always been my family’s. First, that meant Harry and Adele. And now, hers. And—fuck, ours.
The boards are sanded clean, re-stained, and weatherproofed. The old railing I built with too many nails and too much pride is there, only reinforced now.
There’s ivy curling up from the base of freshly turned soil, coiling up the ladder and around the slats. I know that green—it’s from Harry’s garden. She must've transplanted some.
Warm and golden string lights wind around the support beams, casting soft halos onto the grass below.
I swallow a shudder as my chest cracks wide open.
“Hi.”
When I turn my head, she’s standing at the patio doors, her green cardigan hanging off her frame. Her hand on her belly, and my socks on her feet.
I turn fully, still outside, still stunned.