28. Dean
Dean
Nights have become the worst part of my day.
It doesn’t matter how long I stay up or how hard I push myself during practice or how much film I run through before I finally shut everything down. The second I lay in bed, it hits me. The quiet. The space. The absence of something that was there just long enough to ruin me for anything less.
Her.
That one night with her in my bed—her body tucked into mine, her breathing steady against my chest—spoiled me in a way I didn’t see coming. I used to sleep fine. Used to crash the second my head hit the pillow, no second thoughts, no restlessness, no reaching for something that wasn’t there.
Now—I don’t settle. I shift. I turn. I stare at the ceiling more nights than I actually sleep.
Tonight is no different. It takes longer than it should, but eventually I drift off, not deep, not fully gone—just enough that my body starts to let go.
And then my phone rings.
It cuts through everything, sharp and immediate, dragging me back up before I even realize I was under. I almost let it go, my hand missing it the first time as I reach blindly across the nightstand, my head still heavy with sleep.
Then I see the name.
Maddie.
I’m awake instantly.
“Baby,” I answer, my voice rough but already shifting, already sharpening with concern. “What happened? What’s the matter? Everything okay?”
“Yeah.” One word. Quiet. And I know.
I sit up immediately, dragging a hand through my hair as the last of the sleep burns off.
“Don’t lie to me, Maddie.” My voice drops, not harsh, but firm enough that she can’t brush it off. “We don’t do that with each other. You can lie to anyone else—but not me.”
There’s a long pause. She doesn’t answer.
I close my eyes for a second, already piecing it together, already knowing what pulled her out of sleep the way it used to do to me before I learned how to shut it down.
“Did you have a nightmare?” I ask, softer now, even though the tension in my chest hasn’t eased.
“Yeah.” It’s barely there. A whisper.
“Baby…” The word comes out steadier than I feel, calmer than what’s sitting under my skin, because she doesn’t need that from me right now. She doesn’t need the anger or the frustration at the situation or the fact that I’m not there to fix it.
She needs control.
“Do you want me to come get you?” I ask, already shifting like I’m going to get up, already calculating how fast I can be out the door.
“No.” It comes quick. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have called. You have to get up early for the trip. I’m sorry.”
She’s whispering again. Apologizing. That alone makes my jaw tighten.
“But Luka and Addy heard me,” she continues, her voice breaking slightly now, the words rushing out like she can’t hold them back. “They heard me scream, saw me crying, Dean. How can I face them after they’ve seen me like that? I’m so stupid. So stupid for still dreaming like that.”
“Maddie.”
I cut in, my voice firmer now, enough to stop the spiral before it goes any further.
“They love you,” I say, steady and sure, not giving her space to argue it. “They’re not going to look at you differently. Not for that.”
I exhale slowly, forcing everything else down so she doesn’t hear it.
“And you are not fucking stupid.”
The words come sharper, but not at her.
At the idea.
“Mad at yourself for something you can’t control? No. Not happening. You don’t get to talk about yourself like that.”
She goes quiet again. Listening.
“Are you in bed?” I ask after a second, my tone easing back down.
“Yeah.”
“Okay,” I say, already shifting back against the headboard. “Get comfortable. Pull the covers up.”
I wait, listening to the small sounds on the other end, the movement of fabric, the slight rustle that tells me she’s doing exactly what I asked.
“Put me on speaker,” I continue. “Set the phone beside you on the other pillow.”
There’s a pause. Then the faint echo kicks in.
“Okay… now what?”
“Now you go to sleep, Baby,” I tell her, my voice low, steady, something meant to settle instead of push. “If you have another dream, I’m here. I’ll stay on the phone with you all night. You’re not doing this alone.”
There's another pause before I hear her sweet voice whisper. “Okay.”
Her breathing shifts after that, slowly evening out, the tension easing in small increments as the seconds pass. I don’t say anything else, just stay there, listening, letting her settle into it at her own pace.
I think she’s asleep. I almost let myself relax.
Then—
“Please be careful with my heart, Dean.”
It’s so quiet I almost miss it. Barely there. But it hits like something solid in my chest, something that doesn’t move once it lands.
I stare out into the dark for a second, letting that sit, letting the weight of it settle into something real before I answer.
“You don’t have to ask me that,” I say finally, my voice low, steady in a way I don’t question. “I’m already taking care of it.”
A breath.
“I’m not letting anything hurt it,” I add, softer now, the edge gone completely. “Not even me.”
Silence follows. Not heavy. Not tense. Just…quiet.
And I stay right there with her—until her breathing evens out completely.
Waiting has never been my thing.
I don’t sit still well. I don’t stall. I don’t stand around hoping something happens when I can make it happen myself. Everything in my life has been built on control—on knowing what comes next, on staying ahead of whatever’s in front of me.
But right now—I’m pacing my office like I’ve got nothing.
Like I’m waiting on something I can’t force.
My hands drag through my hair again as I turn, the same tight circle I’ve been walking since I got here, my eyes flicking to the window more times than I can count. The parking lot sits just below, empty in that early-morning way that won’t last much longer once the guys start rolling in.
I should be thinking about the trip.
Lineups. Matchups. The way we’re going to handle the next stretch of games on the road.
Instead—I’m waiting for her.
My phone sits on my desk, screen dark now, but that doesn’t stop me from glancing at it like something might’ve changed in the last five seconds.
I woke up with her still on the line, her breathing steady and quiet through the speaker, soft enough that I almost thought I imagined it at first. But it was there. Real. Grounding in a way I didn’t expect.
I should’ve ended the call.
Should’ve let her sleep without me sitting there listening like it was something I needed.
I didn’t. I stayed. Longer than I’ll ever admit out loud.
I laid there with the phone beside me, listening to her breathe like it was the only thing that mattered in that moment, like it settled something in me that nothing else has managed to touch.
Even when I got up—I didn’t hang up.
I took the phone with me, propped it on the counter while I made coffee, set it on the bathroom counter while I showered, the sound of water mixing with the quiet rhythm of her breathing in a way that should’ve felt strange.
It didn’t. It felt right.
By the time I was getting dressed, she shifted on the other end, the faint rustle of sheets pulling my attention back immediately.
“You’re still here?” she asked, her voice soft with sleep, like she hadn’t fully come back to herself yet.
“Morning, Baby.”
There was a pause.
“You didn’t hang up?”
I adjusted my cuff, glancing at the phone like I needed to see her even though I couldn’t.
“No.”
Another pause.
Longer this time.
Like she didn’t know what to do with that.
“I thought you would,” she said quietly.
“Not last night.”
The words came easy. Too easy. And the silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable. Just…full.
Now—I’m here.
And she’s not.
My jaw tightens as I turn again, forcing myself to stop pacing long enough to step toward the window, my hand bracing against the glass as I look down just as the first car pulls in.
Luka.
Of course it is.
He’s always early.
I track him without really seeing him, my focus already shifting to the next car, waiting for it before it even appears.
And then—there she is.
Right behind him.
My chest tightens before I can stop it, something immediate and sharp pulling through me as I watch her park, the way she moves when she steps out, the way she doesn’t hesitate as she walks around to the back and pulls her suitcase out.
She looks fine. Better than she did last night. But I still see it.
The slight tension in her shoulders. The way she moves just a little more carefully, like she didn’t get as much sleep as she should’ve.
I don’t think. I just reach for my phone.
She’s already heading toward the bus when I hit her name, lifting it to my ear, forcing my voice into something even, something that doesn’t give anything away before she answers.
“Hey,” she says, a little breathless from the walk.
“I need a word with you in my office.” Professional. Controlled. Like this is about work and nothing else.
“Okay,” she says, and I can hear the shift in her tone immediately, the way she matches it without question. “I’ll be right there.”
I lower the phone slowly, my gaze still fixed on her through the glass as she changes direction, turning away from the bus and heading toward the building instead.
And for the first time since I walked into this office—I stop pacing.
Because she’s coming to me.
I don’t hesitate when she walks into my office.
The second the door opens and she steps inside, my focus locks onto her like it’s been waiting for this moment since she hung up the phone. The world outside that door—the team, the trip, the schedule I should be thinking about—fades into something distant and unimportant.
“Close the door.”
My voice comes out lower than I intend, controlled, but there’s an edge to it that I don’t bother hiding. I’m already leaning back against my desk, my hands gripping the edge tighter than necessary, holding myself in place because if I move before that door shuts—
I won’t stop.
She doesn’t question it. Doesn’t hesitate. She turns, pushes the door closed behind her, and the second it clicks into place—
I’m on her.
My hands find her, pulling her into me with a force I don’t even try to soften, my arms wrapping around her like I’ve been holding myself back for too long and don’t have the patience for it anymore.
She fits against me instantly, like she always does, like there’s no space between us that doesn’t feel wrong.
I bury my face in her hair before I can stop myself, breathing her in, grounding in a way I didn’t realize I needed until right now.
“Too long,” I mutter against her, my voice rougher now, less controlled.
She laughs softly, the sound warm and light against my chest. “Dean… it’s been like eight hours.”
I tighten my hold on her slightly, not enough to hurt, just enough to make my point. “Eight hours too long.”
She shifts in my arms, her hands sliding up my chest, and I pull back just enough to look at her, my hand coming up automatically to brush a piece of blonde hair away from her face.
I love it like this. Down. Loose. I don’t get to see it often—not at the arena, not when she’s working, not when she’s keeping everything neat and tucked away like she’s supposed to.
But on travel days—it falls around her shoulders like she forgot to control it.
Like this version of her is just a little more real.
My thumb lingers for a second longer than it should, tracing lightly along her cheek before I force myself to focus.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t there last night.” The words come quieter now, heavier—something in my chest I haven’t been able to shake since she told me about the dream.
Her expression softens slightly, but I don’t let it go.
“It guts me,” I admit, my jaw tightening, “knowing you were hurting and I wasn’t there to fix it. ”
To hold her. To stop it before it even got that far. I don’t give myself time to sit in it.
I lean in instead, closing the space between us, my mouth finding hers in a kiss that’s anything but careful. It’s not rushed, not frantic, but there’s something deeper in it—something that pulls from everything I held back last night, everything I didn’t get to do when she needed me.
She meets me just as hard. Just as certain. And when I start to pull back, just enough to breathe—she bites my lip.
A slow smile spreads across my face, something darker slipping in without permission. “Oh… you want to play before we leave?”
I don’t wait for an answer.
My hand slides behind her head, steady and protective as I guide her back until her shoulders meet the wall, my body following, pressing in just enough to hold her there without trapping her.
“You have to be quiet, Baby,” I murmur against her lips, my voice lower now, rougher at the edges. “Think you can do that?”
She nods, that smile still there, something teasing in it that hits me exactly where she knows it will.
And that’s all I need as I kiss her again.