3. Maddie
Maddie
The quiet in the apartment presses in the longer I sit in it.
At first, it almost feels like a break—like something I should appreciate.
No noise, no movement, no one asking anything from me.
But the longer I stay still, the more it starts to feel like there’s nothing there to push back against. Just space. Too much of it.
My laptop rests open across my thighs, the glow of the screen soft against the dim morning light slipping through the blinds. Tabs are pulled up—engagement trends, content ideas, notes I started organizing last night—but I haven’t moved anything forward.
The cursor blinks at me. Waiting. I read the same line again.
And again. The words stop making sense somewhere around the third time.
I reach for my coffee out of habit, take a sip, and immediately make a face.
It's Cold. Of course it's cold. It's been sitting there for an hour.
I set it back down without finishing it, dragging my fingers over my forehead and pushing my hair back.
Focus. You need something for tonight.
Something new. Something… My phone buzzes against the couch cushion beside me.
Tyler.
“Hey, you.” I smile into the phone.
“Yeah.” No hello.
“What’s up?” I shift slightly, tucking my foot beneath my leg, grounding myself against the couch.
“I need three tickets for tonight.” Straight to it.
I glance at the laptop, at the half-finished list, at the time in the corner of the screen.
“I don’t know if I can get them so last minute,” I say, keeping my voice steady. “It’s a home game. Everything’s usually locked in by now.”
“You work there.” He reminds me like I don't know that.
I close my eyes briefly. “I know, but that doesn’t mean I can just pull tickets whenever I want. There’s a process—”
“So what’s the point then?” The words land hard enough that I go still.
“What?” I stare at the wall across from me.
“What’s the point of your job if you can’t get three damn tickets?”
My fingers curl into the blanket beside me. There’s a second where I almost laugh. Not because it’s funny. Because of how easily he says it. Like it’s nothing.
“That’s not what I do,” I say, my voice quieter now but steadier than it was a second ago. “I handle media. I don’t control ticketing, but I will try.”
“It’s three tickets, Maddie.” His tone sharpens, impatience slipping in like it’s been waiting just beneath the surface.
“I already told the guys we’d be there.”
Of course he did. I press my lips together, staring down at my laptop screen, the cursor still blinking.
“I said I’d try.”
“That’s not good enough.”
The silence that follows sits heavy between us. I could push. I could tell him he doesn’t get to talk to me like that. I could remind him that I’m not responsible for things he promises without asking me first.
The words line up, one after the other. All I would have to do is say them. But I can already hear where it would go. The shift in his voice. The way the conversation would stretch, pull, twist into something bigger than it needs to be. And I’m already tired.
“I’ll see what I can do,” I say instead.
A sharp exhale comes through the phone.
“Yeah. Do that.” The line clicks off.
I stay still for a second, the phone still pressed to my ear.
Then I lower it slowly, staring at the screen.
The apartment feels quieter than it did before.
Like the air shifted. Like something settled into place that I didn’t agree to but didn’t stop either.
I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding and drop my hand to my lap.
For a second, I don’t move. I just sit there.
Then I reach for my laptop. Because of course I do.
It takes longer than I want it to. A couple messages. One favor I hesitate over before sending anyway. Another message I rewrite twice before hitting send.
By the time I get the confirmation, I’m already leaning forward, elbows resting on my knees, staring at the screen like it might change if I look at it long enough.
Three tickets. Done.
I pick up my phone and call him back before I can think too much about it.
He answers on the first ring. “Hey, babe.”
The difference hits immediately. Like the last conversation never happened.
“I got them.” My voice sounds steady, even if the last call still lingers in the back of my head.
A beat—then his tone shifts, easy and warm like it’s always been there.
“Told you,” he says easily. “I knew you had it.”
I lean back against the couch, letting my head rest for a second. “Yeah.”
“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 my bag 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.
“Hey, Captain,” I say, lifting my phone slightly. “Got a quick one for you.”
He grins. “Always.”
I tilt the camera toward him. “How do you prepare for a home game?”
Jake huffs out a laugh, running a hand through his hair.
“Depends,” he says, adjusting the cuff of his shirt. “Before Matty? I’d say routine, focus, all that boring captain stuff.”
I smile. His and Pen's little boy Matty is the cutest little boy. He is all chunky rolls and squeezable cheeks.
“And now?” I prompt.
His grin shifts—softens.
“Now?” he says. “I’m lucky if I get more than two hours of sleep and make it out of the house without wearing crayon.”
I laugh quietly behind the camera.
“But,” he adds, straightening slightly, that captain edge slipping back in, “still showing up ready to win. Just with a little less sleep and a lot more motivation.”
“Perfect,” I say. “Go be a dad and a captain.”
He tips his chin and heads inside. Next is Luka.
He walks in like he owns the building. Suit sharp.
Watch catching the light just enough to be intentional.
That easy confidence in every step like he doesn’t even think about it anymore.
My breath catches for a minute. Like it does every time I see him.
Reminding myself that he is here. That he is okay.
“Maddie,” he greets, already smirking when he sees the phone.
“Luka,” I return. “Same question.”
He doesn’t even hesitate.
“How do I prepare?” he repeats, dragging a hand down the front of his jacket. “Simple. I show up, look this good, and let the rest take care of itself.”
I snort. “That’s it?”
“That’s it,” he confirms, leaning slightly toward the camera. “Confidence is key, babe.”
“Get out of my shot,” I laugh, waving him off.
He winks and keeps moving. Jasper follows. His energy is quieter. More contained. Everything about him feels deliberate—from the way his tie is perfectly in place to the way his gaze scans the hallway before landing on me.
“Maddie.”
“Jasper,” I say, lifting the phone again. “How do you prepare for a home game?”
His answer comes without hesitation.
“Same way every time,” he says. “Routine. Film. Focus.”
No fluff. No extras. Just facts.
“Nothing changes?” I ask.
“Doesn’t need to,” he replies simply.
I nod. That tracks.
“Alright, go be intense somewhere else.”
He doesn’t smile, but there’s something in his eyes that almost does before he walks past me.
Grady is next. And he knows exactly what he’s doing. His suit fits like it was made for him—which, honestly, it probably was—and there’s something about the way he carries himself that makes people look twice without even realizing it.
“Maddie,” he drawls.
“Grady,” I return, already bracing myself. “Same question.”
He steps just a little closer to the camera than necessary.
“How do I prepare?” he repeats, slow.
I roll my eyes. “Answer the question.”
He smirks. “Make sure Lennon doesn’t give me a reason to stay home,” he says, voice dipping just enough to make it sound like something more.
I choke out a laugh. “Oh my God.”
“And then,” he adds, straightening his jacket, “I show up and make everyone else regret it.”
“Go away,” I say, shaking my head.
He just grins and walks off.
I lower the phone for a second, checking the clips, already knowing they’re good. Better than good. This is exactly what people love.
Real. Easy. Them.
Footsteps echo again behind me. Slower this time. Heavier. I don’t need to turn around to know who it is. But I do anyway.
Dean.
Coach Kincade, I remind myself.
He walks into the tunnel like he owns it. Not loud like Luka. Not intentional like Jasper. Just… steady. Sure.
His suit is dark, clean lines, perfectly fitted without trying too hard. His watch catches the light when he adjusts his sleeve, the movement absent, habitual.
My camera lifts before I can stop myself.
And I keep it there a second longer than I did with the others. Tracking him as he walks. Taking in the details I shouldn’t be noticing. The way his shoulders fill out the jacket. The way he moves like nothing ever throws him off balance.
The way—He looks up. Catches me watching him. And instead of looking away—He smirks. It’s subtle. Just enough to let me know he knows exactly what I’m doing. My stomach flips in a way I don’t like. Or maybe I do. He tips his chin slightly. Waiting.
Of course he is. He wants me to ask him.
I hesitate. Because I don’t want to. Because I don’t know where he was today. Because I don’t know if he spent it with—Camille.
The name hits sharp and immediate. Perfect hair. Perfect clothes. Perfect everything. And the kind of smile that feels like it’s always calculating something.
I swallow. Dean’s gaze doesn’t waver.
“Ask, Mads,” he says.
Quiet. Like it’s just between us. I press my lips together for a second, then lift the camera fully again.
“How do you prepare for a home game?” I ask.
His smile shifts. Not gone. Just… different. He looks directly into the camera.
“Game tape,” he says, voice even. “And a nap.”
Simple. Easy. Like that’s all there is to it. Like there’s nothing else behind it.
“Riveting,” I mutter.
His mouth twitches. Then he steps past me, close enough that I can feel the shift in the air when he moves by.
And just like that—He’s gone.
I lower the camera slowly, staring at the space he just walked through for a second longer than I should.
Game tape…and a nap.
I glance down at the clip, replaying it quickly. Then I turn my camera off. Because I don’t need to see it again to remember it. Or the way he looked at me when he said it. I turn toward the tunnel, forcing myself to move. Because there’s work to do.
And I don’t need to be standing here wondering—If he took that nap alone.