“Yeah.”
She’s quiet for a long moment, and I think maybe she’s fallen asleep. Then I feel her hand—small, warm—fist in the fabric of my shirt. Holding on tight, like she’s afraid I might disappear if she lets go.
“I’m not going anywhere, Maze.” I press a kiss to the top of her head. “You’re stuck with me, remember?”
“I remember.”
Her breathing slows, evens out, and eventually, she sleeps. But her hand stays fisted in my shirt, and I don’t move. Don’t even try to untangle myself and go to my own bed.
I just lie there in the dark, my daughter holding onto me like I’m the only solid thing in her world, and I make a promise I have no idea how to keep.
I’m going to fix this.
I don’t know how. I don’t know when. But someday, she’s going to know what it feels like to have someone choose her first. To be loved without conditions, without cameras, without having to perform for an audience.
She deserves that.
She deserves everything.
And I’m going to spend the rest of my life trying to give it to her.
11
IN THE QUIET
Tori
The training facility is quiet at five o’clock on a Monday.
Most of the guys cleared out after practice, heading home, to dinner, or wherever hockey players go when they’re not practicing or being poked and prodded by medical staff. The hallways have an empty echo, with lights dimmed in the sections no one is using.
I should’ve gone home too. But Zayden texted, asking if we could push his session to late afternoon—something about Maisie’s school pickup—and I said yes without thinking.
I’m trying not to think about what that means. The fact that I rearranged my entire schedule for him. The fact that I’m still here, alone, waiting.
He walks in at 5:07, and I immediately know something’s wrong.
It’s not obvious. He’s dressed for a session—athletic shorts and a fitted black T-shirt that does things I’m not going to acknowledge—and he nods at me like everything’s normal. But there’s a tension radiating from him.
“Hey,” I say. “How’s the shoulder feeling?”
“Fine.”
One word. Clipped. No banter, no jokes, no almost-smile.
Okay then.
“Let’s start with mobility work,” I say, keeping my voice neutral. “Then we’ll move to the resistance exercises.”
He nods and gets on the table without argument, which somehow feels more alarming than if he’d pushed back. Zayden Bishop always pushes back. It’s our thing.
I work through his shoulder in silence, feeling the knots beneath my fingers. He’s tight everywhere—traps, deltoids, the muscles along his spine. Like he’s been clenching his entire body for hours.
“You’re holding a lot of tension,” I say.
“I’m aware.”
Still nothing. No smartass comment about my hands, no raised eyebrow, no heat simmering beneath the surface. Just... flatness.
