33. Maddie
Maddie
Dean and I barely left my apartment the next day.
He had to go to practice for a few hours, barking orders and pretending he wasn’t “dying” to get back to me—I know he was because he called twice in the span of one drill just to “check in”—but other than that, the world stayed outside and we stayed in.
Inside my bed. Inside my kitchen. Inside little pockets of quiet that felt almost dangerous because of how normal they seemed.
Like this was what we had always done. Like I had always woken up with him tangled around me and always ended my nights with his chin on my shoulder while he whispered things that made my chest ache.
At some point while he was gone, I started on the boxes in my bedroom.
He offered to help. Of course he did. Dean offered in that steady way of his, like if I said yes he would have emptied every single one without complaint, hung my clothes, made my bed, carried every reminder of Tyler straight to the dumpster if I asked.
But I didn’t. Because this… this felt like something I needed to do myself.
Needed to touch. Needed to sort. Needed to prove to myself that my home was mine again.
So by the time he came back from practice, there were empty boxes stacked by the door and my dresser looked like my dresser instead of some halfway abandoned life.
He kissed my forehead when he saw it. Didn’t make a big deal out of it.
Just looked at me with that soft pride that somehow means more than words.
Now it’s game day again.
The arena is already buzzing by the time I finish the pregame hallway clips. Guys walking in with headphones. Luka chirping anyone who makes eye contact. Grady pretending he doesn’t love the camera when he absolutely does.
I lower mine for a second and exhale. One more shot. I know exactly which one I want. My feet carry me there without me thinking about it, through the tunnel and toward the section that always seems to pull me in no matter how many times I tell myself I’m just here for content.
The family section. The seats are filling quicker now.
The Rizzoli family section is impossible to miss as always—too many bodies, too many voices, too many kids climbing over chairs while someone is inevitably yelling at someone else to sit down.
Adrianna is trying to wrangle one child while Lacey is laughing at something CeCe says.
Mia has food spread out like she bought for a week instead of one game.
It’s chaos. Warm, familiar chaos. My eyes move past them automatically and land on another set of seats.
Jake’s seats. There are three now. He told me once—on a road trip when everyone else was asleep—that he bought the original two because he kept hoping his parents would come.
Every season he thought maybe this would be the year they’d care enough to show up.
They never did. Now those seats belong to the people who chose him anyway. Penelope. Paxton. And their dad. Except today—one of them is empty.
Paxton’s.
My chest pulls a little at the sight of it.
He’s packing up today. Headed to the AHL.
Headed toward the thing he’s wanted since Jake brought him into our crazy world.
I already got Mark’s okay to make the post. A congratulations clip.
A little something about the Mustangs believing in building the next generation and always pushing kids to chase the dream all the way.
I lift the camera and zoom in slowly, catching the empty seat between Penelope and her father.
Letting it linger for just a second because it says enough without anyone needing words.
This is what leaving for your dream looks like.
A missing chair. People proud enough to miss you.
I lower the camera and glance at the footage. Perfect. A small smile touches my lips before I turn away. And it’s impossible to resist the pull of the overflowing Rizzoli family section now that the noise over there has somehow doubled in volume, so I head that way.
The closer I get to the family row, the louder it gets.
I should be used to it by now. Every home game this section somehow finds a way to become even more packed, even more chaotic, even more obnoxiously alive than the game before.
What started as the Rizzoli's claiming an entire chunk of seats for their son has slowly turned into the designated place for everyone who loves a Mustang.
Addy is folded into it. Penelope and Matty always end up there for Jake. Now Lennon has found her place too. Every time one of these men lets someone into his life, this row seems to grow another body. Another loud voice. Another person banging on the glass like the players can hear them.
Lorenzo and Leonardo are climbing over chairs while Gio tries to follow behind them.
Layla is half standing on her seat already screaming Luka’s name during warmups.
Samantha keeps swatting little hands away before someone dumps popcorn everywhere.
CeCe is laughing. Adrianna is yelling. Lacey is trying to get all three boys to sit down for five seconds.
Penelope has Matty balanced on her hip while his little hand waves at the ice every time Jake skates by.
And Lennon is tucked between Addy and CeCe, smiling in that way women do when they realize they’ve somehow been absorbed into something bigger than themselves.
It is chaos. Pure, loud, affectionate chaos.
The kind fans online love because it makes the Mustangs feel human.
Like they aren’t just hockey players. They’re husbands.
Fathers. Men with entire armies cheering for them.
I lift my camera and start filming, sweeping slowly across the row to catch all of it.
The yelling. The kids. The women waving.
Luka shooting Addy a puck and Layla nearly falling over the railing trying to catch it.
Perfect content. The arena lights dim a few seconds later, and the roar that rises from the crowd makes every tiny hair on my arms stand up.
Showtime. I move closer toward the glass as the announcer’s voice booms through the speakers, introducing players one by one.
Every single name gets some sort of reaction from this row.
Luka’s gets Addy screaming. Grady’s gets Lennon on her feet. Jake’s gets Penelope smiling while Matty claps because everyone else is clapping.
I’m filming all of it. Quick pans. Fast zooms. Little pieces I already know I’ll splice into tonight’s recap.
And then—“Head Coach Dean Kincade.”
My pulse jumps. I turn the camera toward the tunnel, expecting the same thing I always catch: Dean stepping onto the bench, face unreadable, already locked into the game.
Only that’s not what I find. Because Dean isn’t looking at the ice.
He isn’t looking at the players lining up.
He isn’t looking at the giant camera aimed straight at him.
He’s looking directly at me. My breath catches.
The screaming around me dulls into background noise.
For one second, maybe two, this entire arena disappears.
Because the way he looks at me from across all this distance doesn’t feel accidental.
It feels intentional. Like the first thing he needed before this game started was to find me. To make sure I was here.
My fingers tighten around the camera. He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t wave. But there’s something in his eyes that feels entirely too private for a building full of people. Something warm. Possessive. Almost hungry. And it hits me so hard my chest actually aches.
I love him. God, I love him.
Then he turns toward the bench and the moment is gone, swallowed back up by fifteen thousand screaming fans. But I stand there for one extra second trying to remember how to breathe.
The plan had been simple.
Dean was going to grab dinner on the way back to my place while I stayed behind long enough to finish sorting footage and grab a few extra clips of the younger guys screwing around after the game.
Then I would head home, crawl into bed beside Dean, and listen to him complain about how I took too long getting there while he wrapped himself around me like he hadn’t seen me in weeks instead of hours.
Simple. Easy. Except now I’m standing halfway between the locker room and the arena exit with my bag hanging from my shoulder and my chest so tight it feels hard to breathe.
The arena always changes once it empties out. During the day it feels alive. Loud. Fast. Full of movement and voices and music and hockey pucks slamming against boards hard enough to rattle through the walls.
But late at night? Late at night it becomes something else entirely. Quiet in a way that makes every sound echo.
The rookies are still out on the ice, their laughter drifting faintly through the hallway while sticks scrape against the rink and someone yells about a terrible shot.
A speaker somewhere overhead is still playing music low enough that it blends into the building itself, and every once in awhile I hear the heavy slam of the bench doors opening and shutting.
I should leave. I know I should. I packed up almost forty minutes ago. But every single time I get close to the doors, my feet stop moving. Because the second I walk out of this building, my mind starts spiraling into places I can’t seem to control.
What if something happens? What if one of them gets hurt?
What if someone needs help and I’m not here?
The thoughts hit so fast they almost make me dizzy.
It’s stupid. I know it’s stupid. These are grown men.
Professional athletes. Half of them are built like they could survive getting hit by a truck and walk it off afterward.
But none of that matters to the part of my brain that still remembers blood. Still remembers finding Luka on the ground. Still remembers the terror of realizing something horrible had happened while I was inside finishing an edit.
That moment changed something inside me. Ever since then, leaving before the guys are safely out of the building feels impossible. Like if I leave first, I won’t be there if something goes wrong. Won’t be there to help. Won’t be there to save them.
My fingers tighten around the strap of my bag. One rookie jogs past me toward the exit, tossing me a distracted “Night, Mads,” over his shoulder before disappearing through the doors.
I watch until they close behind him. My chest loosens slightly. One gone safely. Three still inside.
God.
I squeeze my eyes shut, frustrated tears burning unexpectedly behind them. This is insane. Absolutely insane.
My phone buzzes in my hand, and the second Dean’s name lights up the screen guilt crashes through me.
I stare at it for a second before sending the call to voicemail and typing out a quick response.
Leaving soon. Sorry.
The little typing bubble appears immediately. Disappears. Comes back. My throat tightens. Because Dean knows me too well now. He’s going to know something’s wrong from three stupid words.
The phone starts ringing again almost instantly. I can’t answer it. Not because I don’t want him. God, I always want him. But because the second he hears my voice, he’ll know. And I can’t explain this without sounding completely ridiculous.
So I send him to voicemail again and type:
I’ll call you back.
The second I hit send, regret settles heavy in my stomach. Because now he definitely knows.
I lean back against the wall and press my hand against the center of my chest, trying to breathe through the panic creeping higher and higher while the sounds from the rink echo faintly through the empty arena.
Then suddenly the main doors slam open hard enough to make me jump.
Fast footsteps echo through the hallway. My head jerks up.
Dean.
Still in his suit. Hair messy like he dragged his hands through it the entire drive back here. His eyes sweep the hallway once before landing on me, and the second they do, his expression changes completely.
Concern softens every hard edge of him instantly. “Baby.”
That one word nearly undoes me. “I’m sorry,” I whisper before he can even get close. “I know this is dumb, I just—”
“No.” His voice stays low and steady as he closes the distance between us. “Don’t do that.”
I look away because suddenly I can’t stand the idea of him seeing how irrational this is. “I can’t leave yet,” I admit quietly. “I know they’re fine. I know nothing’s wrong. But…” My throat tightens painfully. “What if something happens and I’m not here?”
Dean doesn’t interrupt me. Doesn’t brush it off. Doesn’t tell me I’m overreacting. He just listens.
“I keep thinking about Luka,” I whisper, my eyes burning again. “What if someone gets hurt and I leave before they’re okay? What if I’m not here when they need someone?”
His face softens so much it physically hurts to look at him. “Maddie.”
His hand slides gently under my chin until I finally meet his eyes. “There is nothing crazy about caring about people.”
A tear slips free before I can stop it, and he wipes it away immediately with his thumb. Then he glances toward the rink where the rookies are still yelling loud enough to echo through the arena. He nods once like the decision is easy.
“Then we wait.”
My brows pull together. “What?”
He steps beside me and leans back against the wall like he has absolutely nowhere else in the world he needs to be. “We wait until everyone’s gone.”
Emotion climbs so fast into my throat it aches. “Dean…”
His fingers find mine, hooking our pinkies together softly. “I’ve got time, Baby.”
So we stand there together in the quiet arena while the last of the guys slowly trickle out for the night. And when the final rookie finally disappears through the exit doors, Dean pushes away from the wall, takes my face gently into his hands, and presses a kiss to my forehead.
“Let’s go home, Baby.”