Page 56 of Trade It All

I snort, shaking my head.

“They’re eleven, man. That was already happening.”

“Yeah, but now it’s intentional,” he shoots back, a grin pulling at his mouth. “And somehow worse.”

The conversation moves easily after that, sliding into familiar ground without effort, the kind of back and forth that doesn’t require anything from me except showing up and not overthinking it. Langston shifts in his seat a few minutes later, muttering something under his breath that catches my attention.

“What?” I ask, glancing at him.

He drags a hand down his face, clearly irritated. “Sabrina picked up a shift here tonight.”

I raise a brow. “Didn’t you tell her she wasn’t working here anymore?”

His jaw tightens. “Yeah.”

“And?”

“And she said she wasn’t asking,” he mutters, taking a drink like that explains everything.

Nathan laughs immediately. “She’s got you wrapped already.”

Langston glares at him, but there’s no real heat behind it. “She is my wife. Of course she has me wrapped. She’s just not supposed to be here,” he insists, even though it’s clear he’s already lost that argument.

“Then go drag her out,” I tell him, leaning back slightly, watching the way his attention flicks toward the bar like he’s already thinking about it.

“She’d just come back,” he says flatly.

I nod once. “Yeah. Sounds about right.”

They keep talking. Keep pushing. Keep circling back to me in small ways, subtle questions wrapped in jokes, in side comments, in looks that say they already know something shifted even if they don’t know what it is yet. I don’t give them anything. Not because I don’t want to. Because I do. Every part of me wants to sit here and tell them about her. About the way she looks at me like she’s still figuring it out. About the way she fits against melike she was always meant to be there. About the way she calms something in me that’s been running tight for years without me even realizing it. But she asked for this. For it to stay quiet. And I’m not breaking that. Not for them. Not for anyone. So I sit there, listening, giving just enough to stay in the conversation without letting anything slip, even as my mind drifts back to her again and again. To whether she’s settled. To whether she’s still thinking about that note. To whether she’s lying in a bed that isn’t mine wishing I was next to her.

My jaw tightens slightly at that thought. Because I know I do. And no amount of noise in this room is going to drown that out. Not tonight.

A week shouldn’t feel like this much. Not when I’ve spent years running on routine, on structure, on the same cycle of practices and games and film that never really shifts no matter how many seasons pass. But this week… it doesn’t settle into anything familiar. It bends everything just slightly off center, enough that I notice it in ways I can’t ignore. Mostly because of her.

Every morning, like clockwork, Maddie shows up at my place. Not early enough to feel forced. Not late enough to feel like an afterthought. Just… there, like she’s been part of that space longer than a week should allow. She moves through my kitchen like she belongs in it, barefoot half the time, hair still messy from sleep, stealing coffee before it’s even finished brewing like she’s daring me to say something about it. I don’t. I just watch. Take it in. Memorize it in ways I’m not even trying to hide from myself anymore.

We sit at the counter. Eat. Talk about nothing and everything at the same time. Sometimes she leans into me without thinking about it, her shoulder brushing mine, her hand finding my arm like it’s something she does without realizing it.

And every time—I have to remind myself not to shut the world down around that moment and keep it there. Because it doesn’t last. By the time we get to the arena, everything shifts back into place. She’s Maddie. I’m Coach.

We move around each other carefully, not avoiding, not distant, but aware. There are lines we don’t cross here, looks we don’t hold too long, touches that don’t happen even when I can feel the absence of them like something physical. And then night comes—and she leaves. Every single time. Back to Addy’s. Back to a place that isn’t mine. I don’t like it. Not the distance. Not the quiet after she’s gone. Not the way my place feels too big again the second the door shuts behind her.

But I understand it. Tyler’s still around. Still close enough that it matters.

Harvey changed the locks the same day I called him, didn’t even blink at it, just got it done and handed me the keys like it was nothing. But Maddie hasn’t gone back. Not once. She says she will before we leave for the away games in a few days, says she needs to, like it’s something she has to face before she can move on from it.

I don’t push her. Doesn’t mean I like it. Doesn’t mean I don’t think about walking into that apartment with her and making sure there’s nothing left in there that reminds her of him. But this—this part is hers. So I let her handle it the way she needs to. Even if I hate standing on the outside of it.

The arena is loud today. Not game loud, but close. The energy is there, the guys feeding off it as they run through drills, the rhythm of it settling into something that should feel normal. It doesn’t. Because my attention keeps pulling in one direction.

Her. She’s down by the glass, camera in hand, moving along the boards as she films Luka and Grady, both of them trying to outdo each other in some half-coordinated dance move that has no place on a sheet of ice. Luka’s all confidence, like he thinks he’s actually pulling it off. Grady’s worse. More dramatic. Bigger movements. Like he’s performing instead of just messing around.

And Maddie—she’s laughing. Not the polite kind. Not the one she gives when she’s trying to stay in control of a moment. The real one. Head tipped back slightly, shoulders loose, completely in it like she forgot anyone else is watching.

Jasper is doubled over at the boards, Jake leaning against the glass beside him, both of them losing it as they watch the disaster unfold in front of them.

“Jesus Christ,” Jasper mutters, shaking his head. “We’re gonna lose if this is what we’re doing now.”