37. Maddie
Maddie
I try to watch the game. I really do. Camera up. Clips rolling. Focus on the things I’m supposed to be focusing on.
Luka’s glove save in warmups. The boys hyping the crowd after first puck drop. Quick bench reactions for the first-period montage.
Normal things. Routine things. But my eyes keep drifting. Over and over.
To the Denver bench. It’s like my brain refuses to let him out of my line of sight. Like some primitive part of me has decided if I can see where Tyler is, I can control what happens next.
I know that’s irrational. I know I’m safe here. Safer than I could probably be anywhere else in the world.
There are security guards on every level, linesmen on the ice, staff everywhere, and an entire roster of Mustangs who would happily commit violent crimes if he so much as looked at me wrong.
Dean most of all. Still—my gaze keeps going back. Making sure. Tracking. Counting shifts.
Normally I stay closer to the Mustangs end of the ice for the first period. It gives me the best angle for Luka’s saves, the glass close enough to catch his glove flashes and any pileup in front of the crease. The rest of the media team spreads themselves out for the opposite end.
Tonight, though, my feet keep carrying me farther down. Closer to the Mustangs bench. I tell myself it’s for better content. Bench reactions always perform well. Coach shots. Line change energy. But deep down I know better.
I want Dean close. I want him in my sightline. Because some small, still-shaken part of me knows that if anything goes wrong, if this night tips sideways in even the smallest way, Dean will be the first person moving. And I want to be near that. Near him.
The game starts loud. Fast. Chicago loud. Fans on their feet every time Luka touches the puck. Jake barking at the guys from the ice. Grady throwing his body around like he woke up offended by oxygen.
The boys are more amped than normal. I notice it immediately. Checks are harder. Chirping at the Denver bench is sharper. Jasper keeps skating just a little too close on line changes.
But Jake’s speech was intense tonight. Heavy on protecting home ice and taking blood if necessary. I tell myself that’s all this is. They’re fired up. Nothing more.
Then Tyler hops over the boards for his first shift. My breath catches. I hate that it does. Hate that one glimpse of him still makes my body tense before my mind can remind it where I am. He’s twenty feet away. On the ice. Surrounded by players. He cannot hurt me here. I know that.
But my eyes lock on him anyway. Track him as he pushes off. As he glides toward center. As he—Something happens. So fast I don’t process the beginning of it. One second Tyler is skating. The next his body is airborne. He slams into the glass with a crack that rattles straight through my feet.
The arena erupts. I blink, trying to catch up, camera lowering uselessly because suddenly I’m not filming—I’m just staring. Everything blurs. A helmet spinning away. Players shouting. Linesmen rushing. Then I see it clearly.
Jake.
Jake’s fist draws back and connects square with Tyler’s face.
“Oh no.” My hand flies to my mouth.
Another punch. Tyler swings back. The crowd is losing its mind, screaming so loud the entire arena feels like it’s vibrating. I turn instinctively.
Toward Dean.
He’s behind the bench, absolutely livid, one hand braced on the boards while he screams something at the officials—at Jake—at everyone, I don’t know. His face is hard with fury, neck muscles straining, eyes darting between his captain and the officials trying to get control.
And for the first time all night—real panic slides into my chest.
Because this is not stopping with Jake.
Jake gets hauled backward by two Mustang players before he can climb back on top of Tyler.
At least—that’s what it looks like at first. But then my eyes narrow. Because it isn’t Grady. It isn’t Jasper. It should be one of them. They are Jake’s shadows in moments like this, the ones always first to drag him out before he gets himself suspended for life.
Except they aren’t touching him. They’re a few feet away, shoving Denver players back, keeping everyone else out of the pile while Jake gets in one more shot.
My stomach twists. Something isn’t right.
Jake finally lets the officials drag him away, and when he skates toward the penalty box he should look furious.
He should look wild. He should look like a captain who just lost his cool. Instead— he is grinning. Actually grinning. A big, unconcerned, almost smug smile as he steps into the sin bin like he doesn’t have a care in the world.
My pulse jumps. No. No, no. This was planned. Maybe not planned play by play. But an understanding between the four of them.
Denver heads to the power play. Four minutes. The arena announcer drones something I don’t hear because my focus is split between the ice and the Denver bench where a trainer is pressing a towel to Tyler’s nose.
He’s bleeding. Good. I hate myself a little for thinking it. Maybe not that much.
The puck drops. Denver settles into formation. We are barely a minute into the four-minute power play when Tyler comes back over the boards. My body goes rigid.
He pushes off toward center. And before he can even make it fully into the zone—Grady destroys him.
There is no other word for it. He slams Tyler into the glass so hard directly in front of the benches that the crowd gasps before exploding again.
The puck is nowhere near them. Not even close. This isn’t hockey. This is targeted.
Grady drops his gloves like he’s been waiting his entire life for permission and starts throwing punch after punch. Tyler gets his arms up this time, protecting his face enough to avoid the bloodbath Jake gave him, but Grady keeps going until officials are physically hanging off him.
My mouth falls open. This is insane. Absolutely insane. Grady skates to the penalty box. And he is smiling too. He taps the glass once as he goes in beside Jake. Jake fist bumps him.
I stare. We are now down five on three.
Dean is behind the bench screaming at Grady, face red, hands thrown wide in what I know is part real anger and part what the hell are you idiots doing?
But Grady just shrugs like he accidentally tripped.
Tyler stays on the ice. He turns and starts skating down toward our goal.
Toward me. He has to pass right in front of the section where I’m standing, and even knowing there are boards and glass and ten other players between us, I still feel every muscle in my body tighten.
I hate that. Hate that he can still do that to me. He doesn’t look at me. He doesn’t even know I’m here. His focus is on the puck moving into our zone.
Right before he reaches the crease—Jasper shoves him. Hard. From behind. Not a hockey shove. Not a fight-for-position nudge. A full-force launch. Tyler goes flying straight into Luka and the net.
The goal frame rattles off its moorings. The whistle blows. Chaos detonates. And Luka—sweet psychotic Luka—takes one look at Tyler sprawled in his crease and starts wailing on him.
I actually bark out a stunned laugh. His blocker hand is coming down. His glove hand too. Tyler curls up trying to protect himself while Denver players rush in and officials throw themselves over the pile.
That’s when it hits me. All at once. They know. Not just about today. About weeks ago. About what he did to me. And this—this absolute circus of violence unfolding on my ice—is not random.
This is protection. This is four furious hockey men showing Tyler in front of an entire sold-out arena that he is not untouchable.
That if he hurts one of theirs, they will make him pay in pieces. I should be horrified. I am horrified. I am also so overwhelmingly aware of how loved I am that my throat burns.
Tyler gets yanked out of Luka’s crease by two Denver teammates and shoved toward their bench while the refs try to sort through what is now basically a riot.
Luka pulls off his goalie mask. His eyes find me instantly. And that asshole winks.
I choke on a laugh. Jasper skates by the glass on his way to the faceoff circle and gives me the slightest tilt of his head.
I press my fingers to my lips. My eyes lift one final time.
To Dean. He looks stressed enough to stroke out.
Pissed enough to murder every player he coaches.
But when his eyes lock on mine—he smiles.
Small. Disbelieving. Like he cannot believe these idiots just did this.
And maybe he should be furious. Maybe he is.
But underneath it—I can see it.
He is proud as hell of every single one of them.
Winning against Denver still feels a little unreal. Mostly because half of our starting line spent more time glaring from the penalty box than they did actually touching the ice, and yet somehow the Mustangs still pulled it off.
Luka played out of his mind. Jake came back from his penalties skating like a man possessed. Grady nearly got into two more fights. Jasper chirped the Denver bench every chance he got.
And Tyler? Tyler never came back out after first intermission. Denver must have realized something was going on. Realized keeping him on the ice was only going to turn the entire game into a bloodbath.
Good. I’m not upset about it.
The flight to DC Stars territory and the bus ride to the hotel blur together in that exhausted, half-foggy way away trips always do. By the time we pile into the elevators, everyone looks dead on their feet and it’s still early.
Jake has Matty’s stuffed dinosaur shoved under one arm because Penelope sent it for good luck. Luka is still bitching about the refs. Dean stands beside me close enough that our shoulders brush every few seconds, but he keeps his face neutral because Jake is right there and Luka notices everything.
Same routine. Same little secret dance we’ve done every away game. At least that’s what I think.
Until the elevator dings on my floor. I step out with Luka and Jake, turning automatically because Dean should be following.
He doesn’t. He stays where he is. One hand braced on the elevator rail.
“I’m heading to the floor above you,” he says casually.
My brows lift. Jake and Luka don’t think anything of it. Why would they? But disappointment sinks into me immediately, heavy and irrational.
The doors close before I can question him with my eyes.
Well. That sucks.
Luka waves and disappears down his hallway. Jake heads in the same direction while texting Penelope something that has him smiling like an idiot.
I make my way to my room alone. And for the first time in days, the thought of sleeping without Dean beside me feels… wrong.
I have been spoiled. Hopelessly spoiled. By his arm around my waist. By his chest at my back. By the way he sleepily drags me closer if I shift too far away in the middle of the night like even unconscious Dean refuses to let me out of reach.
I toss my bag onto the luggage bench and make a mental note to text him in a bit. Maybe get his room number before walk through. Maybe accidentally show up. The thought makes me smile.
I start unpacking the bare minimum—laptop on the desk, charger by the bed, camera batteries plugged in—before deciding I need a shower before I do anything else.
Airport air always makes me feel gross. I strip as I walk. Shirt. Leggings. Bra. Panties. Leaving a trail of clothes across the carpet while steam from the bathroom starts filling the room.
I’m fully naked by the time I step toward the bathroom—and that’s when I notice it.
The adjoining door. I stop. Blink. Actually back up a step.
No way. A little laugh escapes me. Most hotel suites have them, sure, but I never pay attention because they’re always dead bolted and useless.
Still…Curiosity immediately starts clawing at me.
I grab the hotel robe from the hook and slide it on, tying it loosely around my waist as I stare at the door. My side is obviously unlocked.
I should lock it. I know I should lock it. But now my brain has latched onto a different question. Is the other side unlocked too?
I bite my lip. This is ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous. And yet my hand reaches for the knob anyway.
Just to check. Just because I’m nosy. Just because maybe—I slowly twist it. My pulse jumps. I pull the door open.
And freeze.
Dean is standing on the other side. His shoulder resting against his open door like he was just waiting for me to open mine.
He looks up. Sees me. And the expression that takes over his face makes every ounce of oxygen leave my lungs.
Pure hunger. Pure relief. Like he has been dying of thirst and I am the first drop of water he’s seen in days.
His eyes drag slowly from my wet hair to the loose tie on my robe and back to my face. “Hi, Baby.”
My mouth parts. “You’re on the floor above me?” I ask.
Dean’s lips twitch. He pushes his door wider. “No,” he says, voice low and sinful. “I said I had to head there.”