Whatever she wasn’t telling me—whatever was clawing at her from the inside—I’d tear it out by the roots if I had to. Because I wasn’t walking away. Not now. Not when everything was on the line.
When I got home tonight, she was going to look me in the eyes, and I was going to make her see that she didn’t have to do this alone.
Not anymore.
I stared down at my phone; the headlines blaring across the screen like warning sirens. Each one hit like a punch straight to the gut.
“Kennedy Hathaway Caught Out with Ex—Is She Cheating on Nick Maddox?”
“The Scandal Deepens: Caught on Camera!”
Click. Scroll. Swipe. Punch. Repeat.
And there it was—some low-res, grainy photo of Kennedy outside that café. Her expression was tired, distracted. Vulnerable. And some asshole with a long-lens camera had decided that was a green light to spin their garbage story.
She looked alone.
She was alone.
And that wasn’t okay.
I clenched the phone so hard my knuckles cracked, jaw set as the fury started to boil. This wasn’t just the media twisting things. Someone had followed her. Stalked her. Made her feel hunted when she already carried more weight than anyone should.
“Someone’s following her…” I muttered under my breath, the words jagged and low, barely holding back the growl behind them.
I tossed my phone into my locker like it had burned me. Fuck the team. Fuck the next drill. None of it mattered if Kennedy wasn’t safe.
I moved like a man with a target, storming toward Coach on the ice before I had time to talk myself out of it.
I pushed the door open and stepped out. “Coach.”
He looked up, half-annoyed, half-curious. “Maddox?”
“I need the rest of the day,” I said flatly, not leaving any space for argument. “You can bench me or fine me—I don’t give a damn. I’m not going out there while something’s going wrong at home.”
Coach studied me for a beat, those dark eyes narrowing like he could see the storm building just beneath the surface. “You wanna tell me what’s going on?”
I exhaled through my nose, trying to keep a lid on everything I wanted to say. “It’s my wife. She’s not okay. Someone’s been watching her. Following her. The press is twisting it, but this—this isn’t just rumors. It’s personal now.”
Coach leaned back, steepling his fingers. “You stepping off that ice means something, Maddox.”
I didn’t blink. “If I don’t do this, I won’t be worth a damn on the ice, anyway.”
He didn’t speak right away, but when he finally nodded, it was with the gravity of someone who understood. “Figure it out. You’ve got ‘til tomorrow.”
“Thanks, Coach.”
I turned and walked out with a fire in my chest. Not the kind that faded—it was the kind that consumed.
Whoever thought they could use her as bait… Whoever thought they could humiliate her for a headline… Whoever made her look that haunted in a goddamn photo… They’d learn real fast what happens when you come for what’s mine.
And this time, I wasn’t backing down.
I yanked my hoodie over my head; the cotton dragging against my skin like armor being strapped on. Every move was clipped, controlled, but my chest felt like it was caving in with the pressure of doing nothing. That ended now. No more waiting. No more walking on eggshells while Kennedy flinched in the dark, carrying something she wouldn’t say out loud.
I shoved my gear into the bag and slung it over my shoulder, the weight of it grounding me. Then I pushed through the locker room door without another word to anyone. I was done pretending everything was fine when it was unraveling right in front of me.
She needed me. She just didn’t know how to ask.
