Bonus Scene

Maddox

1 year later

The front door creaks like it knows I’m broken.

My knees pop, my shoulder’s on fire, and I’m pretty sure my lower back gave me the finger somewhere between the parking deck and the elevator. 

I smell like sweat and rubber and overpriced hot dogs. There’s a scuff on my coaching sneakers that wasn’t there this morning, and I’m walking like I’ve just gone three rounds with a Zamboni.

Hell of a way to spend a Saturday.

I drop my gear bag just inside the door and brace both hands on the entryway table, sucking in a breath before I even try to move again. 

Every muscle in my body screams, but the second I catch a whiff of vanilla and orange peel—her signature candle, the one she lights when she’s nesting—I feel something loosen in my chest.

Home.

“Hey, sweetheart,” I call, my voice still hoarse from yelling over a hundred screaming kids. “If you’ve ever wanted to trade me in for a younger model, now’s your chance. I’m officially washed up.”

Her voice floats from the kitchen like a melody, full of laughter. “Washed up? You lasted a whole hour longer than I expected.”

“You wound me.” I wince as I limp toward the kitchen. “I think my hip dislocated trying to demonstrate a slap shot.”

She’s at the counter in one of my old Vipers hoodies—faded black, sleeves rolled up, her legs bare underneath. She’s slicing strawberries into a bowl of whipped cream, face glowing in the warm light of the pendant lamp above the island.

And just like that, everything hurts a little less.

“You knew you weren’t twenty anymore,” she says with a teasing smile. “I warned you.”

“You also said it was a great cause.”

“It was. And it raised a ton of money.”

I grunt, easing onto a barstool and dropping my head to the counter. “Tell that to my spine.”

She turns to me, eyes softening, and walks over, brushing a kiss to the top of my head. Her fingers trail through my hair, gentle and familiar. “Poor old man. Want me to call your nurse?”

“I want you to be my nurse.”

She laughs. “Oh, you’re going to regret that.”

“I hope so.”

Her palm slides down my back, pausing just above my ass. “Shower?”

“Can’t move.”

“Bath?”

I lift my head. “Only if you get in with me.”

She bites her lip, clearly tempted, but shakes her head. “Massage first. Come on.”

She takes my hand and leads me to the living room, flipping on the fireplace even though it’s not that cold. I don’t argue. I never do when she touches me like this—like she already knows where I hurt.

“Strip,” she says, voice soft but firm.

“You trying to seduce me, Carrington?”

“I’m trying to keep your back from locking up, Lasker. Clothes off.”

I peel off my shirt, and she frowns at the old scar across my shoulder, fingers ghosting over it.

“You pushed too hard,” she murmurs.

“Always do.”

She doesn’t reply. Just kneels on the couch behind me, straddling my hips and digging her knuckles into the tight muscle under my scapula. I groan low in my throat, eyes closing.

“God, your hands are magic.”

“I should’ve been a physical therapist.”

“You already fixed me.”

Her hands slow. “Did I?”

“You loved me when I didn’t think I deserved it. You still do. That kind of healing? Only you could’ve done that.”

For a moment, she doesn’t move. Then her mouth brushes the shell of my ear. “You’ll always be the only man I want. Gray hair, old bones, retired or not.”

I twist, catching her around the waist, and pulling her down into my lap. Her laugh spills out as she lands against my chest, arms circling my neck.

“Careful,” she teases, “your back—”

“Screw my back.” I kiss her hard. “I need you.”

Her mouth curves against mine. “Then take me.”

Her mouth tastes like strawberries and cream and forever.

Sweet, cool, addictive. The kind of kiss I’ll chase to my last breath.

She shifts in my lap, knees bracketing my thighs as her fingers tunnel through my hair, tilting my head so she can take me deeper. 

My hands slide under the hem of the hoodie—my hoodie—and fuck if that doesn’t do something primal to me. She wears it around the house like it belongs to her, like I belong to her. 

Because I do.

All of me does.

I push it higher, fingers tracing the curve of her spine, the dip of her waist, until I feel nothing but bare skin.

“You’re naked under this,” I rasp.

Her grin is wicked and pure sin. “Why do you think I wanted you on the couch?”

I groan. “You trying to finish me off?”

“Thought I’d let you go out with a bang.”

“You think I can’t still keep up?” I grab her hips and roll, laying her back on the couch and bracing myself above her. “Old dog, sweetheart. Still got all the tricks.”

Her laugh catches as I dip my head to her neck, tongue tracing the line of her pulse before I suck, slow and deep. 

She arches beneath me, body already trembling, and I drag the hoodie up over her head, baring her to the firelight.

Still the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.

Her skin’s flushed, eyes dark, lips parted just enough to make my control slip a little.

“Maddox…”

“I got you.” I kiss my way down her chest, lingering at the soft swell of each breast, the taut peaks of her nipples. She threads her fingers into my hair, thighs widening, welcoming me closer. 

My hand trails down her stomach, sliding between her legs where she’s already warm and wet and waiting.

“Jesus,” I whisper, voice cracking. “How do you still do this to me?”

“Because you love me.”

“Too much.”

She reaches for me, tugging my sweats low, and I let them go, let everything go—my doubts, my scars, my age. None of it matters when I’m here. When I’m hers.

I sink into her in one slow, perfect stroke, and we both groan—together. Her legs wrap around my back, and I press my forehead to hers, holding still, just breathing her in.

She whispers, “I missed you like this.”

“I never left.”

We move together, slow and deep, no rush. Just skin and sweat and whispered I love yous that fill the quiet between the crackling of fire pops. 

She trembles beneath me, and I feel it too—how close she is, how close we are.

I slide my hand between us and circle her clit with the pad of my thumb, and she gasps, her body clenching around mine as she falls apart with my name on her lips.

The second she does, I follow—grit-teeth hard, voice wrecked, heart wide open. I bury my face in her neck and stay there, chest heaving, body heavy, wrapped up in the only place that’s ever felt like peace.

She strokes my back as our breathing evens out.

After a while, I feel her smile against my temple. “Still think you’re washed up?”

I laugh, low and rough. “You tell me, nurse.”

“I think you’re still my favorite patient.”

We lie there tangled up, heat humming between us, firelight flickering across the walls.

And in this moment—scarred, spent, and sore as hell—I’ve never felt more alive.

I might not be on the ice anymore, but this…this is the win that matters.