All Chapters of Divorced by the Hockey Captain: Chapter 111 - Chapter 120

Bradley’s POVI have skated out in front of twenty thousand screaming fans who wanted my head on a stick. I have played through torn cartilage and three broken ribs without flinching.Right now, I was standing in front of my bedroom mirror sweating through my third shirt like an idiot.The navy button-down felt too stiff, like I was heading into an arbitration hearing with the league. The black sweater made me look like I was attending a funeral. The dark gray Henley was comfortable, but maybe too casual? Did a Henley look like I didn’t care enough?“Oh, this is tragic,” a small voice echoed from the doorway.I spun around.Natalie was leaning against the doorframe, chewing on an apple, her electric-blue braids tumbling over an oversized hoodie. Her dark eyes were practically sparkling with malicious glee.“Don’t start, Natalie,” I warned, tugging at the collar of the gray shirt.“You’ve been in here for forty-five minutes, Brad,” she said around a bite of apple, walking in and floppi

Bradley’s POV I was not going to let Rachelle run my life.She could book whatever morning shows she wanted. She could pay every gossip blogger in North America to hype up her little media revenge tour. I didn’t give a damn. I had a team meeting at nine, an off-ice conditioning block at ten, and an eleven-year-old currently tearing through my walk-in closet like a hurricane in sweatpants.“Burn it,” Natalie commanded, tossing a slate-gray cashmere crewneck onto the floorboards with utter contempt. “Burn it right now, Brad. It screams sad suburban accountant whose wife took the dog.”I stood in the middle of the carpet, holding a pair of gym shorts, giving her a completely deadpan look. “Natalie, that sweater cost eight hundred dollars. And in case you forgot, I am divorced.”“Yeah, but you don’t have to look like it,” she scoffed, hands planted on her hips as her blue braids swung around. She aggressively shoved hangers across the brass rack, tutting under her breath like a French r

Bradley’s POV I have never been so fucking terrified in my entire life.The red light over Operating Room 3 had been burning for two hours straight. Every second that passed felt like someone was dragging a dull blade across my ribs.Natalie was on that table, cut open, her small body hooked to machines, and all I could do was pace the goddamn linoleum until the soles of my sneakers squeaked.Down the hall, a nurse was swabbing Julian’s inner elbow with iodine, sliding a collection needle into his vein to prepare the reserve units.I leaned against the wall, staring at the man like he was an alien dropped from the sky.He didn’t look like the smug, arrogant European who took Ava out for expensive scallops. He was slumped on a plastic waiting room chair, his face ghostly white, his chest heaving like he was suffocating on dry land. The way he was staring at that surgical door... it wasn’t the look of a good Samaritan doing a favor for a kid he barely knew.He looked like a man standi

Tabitha’s POV The morning light creeping through the pediatric ward blinds was that dull, pale gray that made everything look washed out.I was curled in a stiff vinyl armchair with my swollen feet propped on a plastic stool, my hand resting over the tight ache of my belly. Across from me, Bradley hadn’t shifted an inch. His elbows were dug into his knees, his chin resting against his folded hands, staring at Natalie’s face like he could keep her heart beating through sheer, stubborn willpower alone.Then, the small fingers under the white sheet twitched.A tiny, gravelly groan broke the steady hum of the cardiac monitor.Bradley was on his feet so fast the chair legs shrieked against the linoleum. “Nat? Bluey, can you hear me?”Natalie’s eyelids fluttered, squeezing shut against the fluorescent glare before cracking open. Her dark eyes were cloudy, unfocused, darting around the sterile ceiling tiles before landing squarely on the plastic tray table beside the bed, where a nurse had

Bradley’s POV I had spent two straight hours arguing with Marcus over the phone before the sun was even fully up.“I don’t give a damn about the HOA rules on the gates, Marcus,” I said, pacing the narrow space between Natalie’s hospital bed and the window. “I want two uniformed guards at the private entrance of the estate around the clock, and a private van with dark windows waiting at the Saint Jude’s ambulance bay the second the doctors sign her discharge papers.”“Brad, the press has already backed off since the hit-and-run driver was charged,” Marcus sighed. “You’re turning your house into a fortress.”“Good. Build a moat next,” I said, and hung up before he could start another lecture about money.“You’re pacing like a caged bear, Brad. It’s giving me motion sickness.”I turned around.Natalie sat propped against three pillows, her left leg in a big purple cast, arms crossed over her hospital gown. She glared at the plastic nightstand where I had put her laptop out of reach on