Page 31 of Something’s Brewing

Players in navy Blizzard jerseys darted across the ice in coordinated drills—passing, shooting, talking without saying much. Efficient. Focused. Fast.

And then, out of the group, one figure peeled away and coasted toward them.

Maverick Monroe.

Madison recognized him instantly, even before Garrett lifted a hand in greeting. He skated with the easy confidence of someone who was born on skates. Controlled power and effortless grace. She’d watched enough NHL games back when Maverick played for Arizona to recognize the way he carried himself.

But this time, he wasn’t on a screen. He was thirty feet away. And getting closer.

You’ve met generals. Diplomats. One foreign intelligence chief who tried to recruit you over cocktails. Hold it together.

Still, her stomach flipped.

“Monroe,” Garrett called as Maverick coasted to a stop at the boards, the sharp bite of his blades carving a spray of snow against the glass.

“Reid,” Maverick said, tugging off one glove and resting a forearm on the top of the boards. “Ready to wrangle a bunch of twelve-year-olds on the ice?”

“Always. I wanted to introduce you to someone.”

Maverick’s gaze flicked to Madison, curious but unreadable.

“This is Madison Mitchell,” Garrett said. “She’s working with me on the Northern Lights launch.”

Maverick nodded. “You skate?”

“I can hold my own,” she said.

It wasn’t bragging—it was truth. Years of figure skating under her mother’s watchful eye. She’d spent most of her childhood perfecting double Salchows and spins when all she wanted was to wear a helmet and crash into someone fully padded. Eventually, she quit the ribbons, rhinestones, and competing, to her mother’s disapproval.

Maverick looked like he appreciated the answer. “Good. You’ll fit in fine around here.”

Before she could reply, a burst of noise filled the tunnel behind them. A dozen young voices, all talking at once, bounced off the walls as Roman entered with his twin daughters and their youth hockey team in tow.

Garrett smiled. “Looks like it’s time.”

Maverick gave the girls a quick wave. “We’ll be ready in five,” he said to them. “Tell your goalie she owes me a rematch.”

The girls erupted in laughter as they skated past, chattering about drills, jerseys, and whether Maverick would sign their sticks. Madison stepped back as they spilled onto the bench, the energy contagious.

A small, unexpected smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.

She sat alone near center ice, hands wrapped around a cup of lukewarm coffee she’d grabbed on the way in. Below her, the ice buzzed with movement and laughter as the youth team darted across the rink, cheeks flushed and eyes bright beneath their helmets. It was barely controlled chaos, but it was beautiful in its own way.

The Blizzard players were scattered across the ice, giving instructions and tossing out encouragement. Maverick Monroe looked exactly as composed and intimidating as he had when he was a captain in the NHL—only now he had a pint-sized defenseman hanging off his arm and didn’t seem to mind.

And then there was Garrett.

He had removed his sling, keeping his arm close to his body as he skated backward and called out instructions to a cluster of girls working on passing drills, his voice low but confident. When one of the smaller players wiped out during a pivot, Garrett was there in seconds, crouching to help her up without making a big deal of it.

He was good with them. Patient, calm, and steady.

Not exactly the man she’d first met with his dry sarcasm and untouchable shell.

He gave a girl a fist bump after she nailed her crossovers, and then skated down the rink to set up cones for the next drill.

He’d be a good dad. The thought slid uninvited into Madison’s mind before she could stop it.

Sophie had said as much once—how much she loved the year she’d spent hovering around Mason and Garrett, back when they started the brewery and Mason was dating Eve. Sophie said Garrett always made time for her. Made her feel safe and seen.