Page 20 of Trade It All

“They did.”

He shifts closer, his hand settling at my waist in a way that should feel normal. Familiar. “Thanks for the tickets,” he says. “The guys loved it.”

“Yeah, of course.”

“We’re heading out after this,” he continues. “You should come with us.”

The words land easily. Like they should. I open my mouth to answer and pause. Just for a second. It’s small enough that no one would notice.

“I might need to finish some stuff first,” I say, lifting the camera slightly. “But I can meet you after.”

“Yeah?” he says, already smiling.

“Yeah.”

“Good. Text me.”

“I will.”

He squeezes my side lightly, then steps back, turning toward his friends like nothing paused at all. And I stand there for a second longer than I should. Just long enough to feel it. Something off. Not wrong. Just… not quite right. Then I lift the camera again and keep moving. Because that’s easier. Because that makes sense. Even if something in my chest doesn’t settle the way it should. I don’t question it. I just keep going.

The tunnel empties slower after a win, the kind of slow that stretches time just enough to make it feel like the night isn’t quite ready to end. The energy doesn’t drop all at once. It lingers, clinging to the walls, to the voices that echo a little louder than usual, to the way the guys move like they’re still carrying something from the ice with them. Laughter comes easier. Shoulders are looser. Conversations overlap in a way that feels lighter than it did an hour ago, like whatever weight they were holding onto out there finally gave.

I move through it at first, the way I always do—camera up, catching what I can while it’s still real. The smiles that aren’t for anyone but each other. The exhaustion that hasn’t settled yet. The quiet moments that matter just as much as the ones the crowd sees. This part is instinct now. Muscle memory. I don’t have to think about where to stand or what to capture because I already know.

And then the work ends. Not all at once. Not in a way that anyone else would notice. It just… fades, leaving me standing there with the camera still in my hand and nowhere left to point it.

That’s when it starts. I don’t mark it. I don’t think, okay, now I stay. It doesn’t come with a decision or a reason I can name out loud. It settles into me the same way it always does—quiet, steady, impossible to ignore once it’s there. The awareness that I’m not leaving yet. That I can’t.

So I drift back toward the far end of the tunnel, toward the stretch of hallway that leads from the locker room to the exit, the place where I can see everything without being in the way of it. It’s always this spot. Close enough to watch. Far enough that no one asks questions.

My camera hangs loosely in my hand now, forgotten, but I keep it there anyway. Something to hold onto. Something that makes it look like I have a reason to still be standing here.

Guys start to filter out in small groups, one or two at a time, voices still carrying pieces of the game with them. A few of them nod when they pass me, tossing out easy goodbyes that I return without thinking, the interaction automatic, natural.

“Good stuff tonight, Mads.”

“See you next game.”

I smile. I nod. I answer back. Everything about it looks normal. It feels normal. Until it doesn’t. My phone buzzes in my hand, the vibration sharp enough to pull me out of the rhythm of it.

Tyler:

Where you at?

I stare at the message longer than I should, my thumb hovering over the screen before I finally type back.

Me:

Just finishing up. I’ll be there soon.

The reply comes almost immediately.

Tyler:

You said that 20 minutes ago.

My stomach tightens, not sharply, not enough to stop me from breathing, but enough that I feel it settle there like something waiting.