Page 34 of Trade It All

And the way he says it—the way he holds me when he does—I don’t argue. I don’t pull away again. I let myself settle back into him, the tension easing out of my body piece by piece, my breathing slowly matching the steady rhythm of his behind me.

The memory doesn’t disappear. It never does. But it fades just enough that it doesn’t take over everything else.

And for the second time tonight—I let myself stay.

Chapter 14

Dean

Idon’tsleep.Notreally. Time moves, but it doesn’t settle into anything that feels like rest. It stretches and folds in on itself, marked only by the steady rise and fall of her breathing against me, by the way my arm tightens every time she shifts like some part of me is checking without asking if she’s still there.

She stays. Curled into me, softer now, the tension that lived in her body earlier finally giving way to something quieter, something closer to peace than anything I’ve seen from her in a long time. I hold onto that. Because the alternative—The alternative is everything I didn’t let myself do.

It sits just under the surface, waiting for space I’m not giving it. Morning comes without asking. The light shifts first, subtle at the edges of the room, then stronger, creeping in through the windows until it settles across the bed pulling me out of the half-state I’ve been sitting in all night. I don’t move right away. Idon’t want to. Because the second I do, I have to let go. And I’m not ready to do that yet. My gaze drops to her. She’s still asleep, her face turned slightly toward me, her hair a mess of damp waves that have dried overnight into something softer. For a second, I let myself look without thinking about anything else.

Then I see it—the bruise. Faint last night. Not anymore. It’s darker now. Defined. It stands out against her skin in a way that makes something in my chest tighten so fast it almost feels like it snaps.

The red doesn’t rise. It sharpens. Clean. Focused. Controlled in a way that’s worse than losing it. My jaw tightens, my teeth pressing together as I hold still, because if I move too fast, if I let myself react the way I want to—I won’t be in this room anymore. I force a slow breath out instead. Careful. Measured. My arm loosens just enough for me to slip out from behind her without waking her, my movements deliberate, controlled in a way that feels like I’m holding something back with every step.

She doesn’t stir. Doesn’t wake. I step out into the hallway, the door closing quietly behind me. The space feels different without her in it. Too open. Too quiet. My phone is in my hand before I think about it.

I text my assistant coach first.

Not coming in. Family emergency.

Light practice. Tape and drills.

No explanation. No room for questions. He’ll handle it. He always does. The response comes through almost immediately, but I don’t read it. I’m already moving to the next thing.

Luka. The call barely rings once.

“How is our girl?” The question comes out fast, like he’s been waiting for it, like he hasn’t slept either.

My grip tightens slightly around the phone. “She’s not your girl,” I bite out, my voice low, controlled, but there’s an edge to it I don’t bother smoothing over.

There’s a beat of silence. Then Luka laughs. Not surprised. Not even a little. “But you’re not denying that she’s yours.”

Something in my chest tightens again, different this time. Not anger. Not quite. But I don’t answer him. I don’t need to. The silence says enough.

Luka exhales on the other end, the sound shifting, losing the humor as something more serious settles in behind it.

“How is she?” The question lands differently now. He’s not joking anymore. He’s asking as someone who knows her. Who cares about her. Who was there long before any of this crossed whatever line it’s crossing now.

I glance back toward the bedroom door without thinking. “She’s sleeping,” I say, quieter this time, the edge still there but pulled tighter. “She needed it.”

A pause. Then—“She’s special, Dean.” There’s no warning in his voice. No threat. Just truth. “And I respect you,” he continues, steady, “but don’t fuck this up with her.”

The words sit there. Heavy. Not because I don’t like them. Because I already know. “I won’t,” I say, and it comes out simple, without hesitation, without anything added to it.

Because there’s nothing else to say.

“I’m not coming in today,” I add. “I’ll make sure she calls you later.”

“Yeah,” Luka says, softer now. “Do that.”

The call ends. And I stand there for a second longer than I should, the phone still in my hand, the quiet of the space pressing in around me again. But it’s different now. Sharpened. Focused. Because I know exactly what I’m doing today. And it has nothing to do with hockey.

I don’t go far after the call. The kitchen sits open and quiet, the city moving somewhere beyond the windows, but none of it really reaches me. I’m at the table without remembering sitting down, my phone still in my hand for a second longer than it needs to be before I set it aside. The place feels different this morning. Not empty. Just… aware. Like everything in it knows she’s here.