I sound like a teenager trying to impress his crush. Which, if I’m being honest, might not be that far off.
“So, Tuck…”
Damn it.
The reporter who’s been digging a little too enthusiastically into my personal life leans forward, snapping me back into the room. “Still the NHL’s most eligible bachelor, I see.”
Here we go.
I’m already preparing to shut that down when she turns, flashing a grin at Rip. “I mean, we never thought Rip would get married before you. Or Roman, for that matter. Yet here we are—both off the market—and you’re still the single one.”
Rip nudges me, like he can feel the irritation rolling off me in waves. And yeah, part of me wants to shut it down. Hard. But I stop myself because this is part of the job too. The media, the fans, the image.
So I paste on a grin.
“No time for a family when it’s my full-time job keeping these two clowns in line,” I say, giving Rip a solid slap on the back.
Laughter ripples through the room right on cue.
The reporter smiles like she’s just getting started. “Maybe we can talk more about that later.”
Yeah…hard pass.
“Sure,” I say, flashing just enough charm to sell it, while mentally drafting a plan to pawn her off on Nicklas the second I get the chance. The interviews finally wrap, and the second it’s over, I’m on my feet.
We head out, but freedom is short-lived. The hallway outside is chaos, fans everywhere. Phones shoved in our faces. Jerseys. Sharpies. And yeah…the occasional room key slipping into my hand. I play it up. Smile. Flirt just enough to keep the legend alive. When the crowd finally thins and I can breathe again, there’s only one thing on my mind?—
Getting back to my room.
Getting my phone.
And calling home.
Once we’re on the bus, the noise settles into something softer—low conversations, the occasional burst of laughter, the hum of the engine beneath it all. I sink into my seat and glance around, catching glimpses of the guys on their phones. A few are already on video calls, grinning like idiots. Wives filling their screens. Kids popping into the frame.
Home.
Judging by the backgrounds, some of the women are already back at their houses, and some are still at mine.
My place.
And for some reason, that hits me right in the chest.
Because Maria’s there.
And she’s not just there—she’s hosting. Laughing. Letting people in. I like that. Hell, I love that. Because for the longest time, she always felt just a little on the outside of this world. Not because anyone pushed her there—but because of how she got here in the first place. Connected to us through absolute bullshit.
Her ex-husband’s secret life. The affair. The baby with Gina—who, to make it even worse, had no clue the guy was married. A complete disaster wrapped in betrayal and collateral damage.
I can’t even begin to imagine what that did to Maria…or her boys. No wonder she packed up and left California like it was on fire behind her. No wonder she’s careful. Guarded. Selective about who gets access to their lives.
She let you in.
Yeah. She did. And I don’t take that lightly. Not for a second. Because the truth is…I tried. I really fucking tried to keep some distance. Keep it casual. Keep it temporary.
And I failed. Spectacularly.
I love having them in my space. The noise. The chaos. The way the house actually feels lived in instead of just…occupied.
