All Chapters of Divorced by the Hockey Captain: Chapter 51 - Chapter 60

Bradley’s POV The door yanked open so hard the hinges groaned. Ava stood there blocking the entrance like she’d been waiting for an excuse. Her eyes narrowed into slits, jaw locked tight enough to crack. If looks could throw a two-hundred-pound hockey player down a stairwell, I’d already be a smear on the ground floor. “You have five seconds to turn around and walk away, Bradley,” she hissed, not even giving me room to breathe. “Before I call the cops, the building superintendent, and every press contact you’ve ever smiled at. Clock’s ticking.”  “Ava, wait. Please.” I kept my hands out, flat against my coat so she could see I wasn’t reaching for anything. “I’m not here to fight. I’m here because someone’s following her.” She let out a dry, mocking laugh and crossed her arms.

Bradley’s POV Sleep was a complete joke. Having Tabitha under the same roof was the closest thing to peace I’d felt in months, and it was still torture. She was right above me—just one flight of stairs away, breathing the same air, sleeping behind the same walls. I could reach her in ten seconds if I took the steps two at a time. Yet she was farther away from me emotionally than she’d ever been when she lived in another zip code. Around two in the morning I heard the faint, soft creak of floorboards on the second floor. A slow, hesitant rustle near the landing. My chest tightened. She’s awake. I knew why. She was carrying our daughter, sleeping in a strange bed, surrounded by the ghost of a man who’d broken every promise he ever made to her. I sat on the edge of the coffee table in the pitch-black living room, staring at my

Rachelle’s POVI hurled my crystal tumbler across the penthouse sitting room.The glass shattered against the fireplace, dark amber bourbon splashing across the limestone hearth in an ugly jagged stain.“Fucking pathetic!” I screamed at the empty room, chest heaving beneath my silk robe, manicured hands trembling with rage.The entire media campaign was supposed to corner Bradley. It was supposed to force him to issue a polished joint statement confirming our future together, sweeping his quiet, drab little ex-wife under the rug where she belonged.Instead the entire city had turned into a nauseating cheering section for Bradley Norwood’s tragic redemption arc.His live broadcast had gone viral across every major platform. The comment sections weren’t roasting him for abandoning his marriage—they were swooning over his vulnerability. Millions of brainless sports fans were praising him for admitting his faults, calling him a changed man, and rooting for him to win back the pathetic wom

Bradley's POVI wanted to put my fist straight through the drywall.The entire afternoon had been a fucking nightmare. The gossip blogs had moved past calling Tabitha a gold digger—now they were running hit pieces on where she came from. They were sniffing around the state social registry, dropping clickbait about "the dark history of Norwood's hidden wife" and trying to dig up her sealed juvenile records."Brad, if those sealed custody files leak, this turns into a bloodbath," Marcus said over the phone, his voice ragged from arguing with PR reps all day. "The media won't care about the legal boundaries. They will pick apart every single group home she ever slept in just to get clicks.""Then block the filings!" I roared, pacing the study so hard the floorboards groaned. "Call the county clerk, drop an emergency injunction, pay whatever retainer they want! I don't give a damn about my sponsorship deals, Marcus. Her childhood has nothing to do with my failed marriage! She was a kid! Y

Bradley's POV"If you walk out of this room right now, Brad, you forfeit thirty-five million dollars in brand equity and hand the media the exact match they need to burn you to the ground."Marcus's hand clamped down on my bicep like a steel vise, his voice a frantic, desperate whisper right beside my ear.We were standing in the corner of the boardroom on the fortieth floor of the Global Sports Management tower. Across the long conference table, six senior vice presidents in charcoal suits were watching me, their fountain pens poised over multi-year endorsement renewal contracts.My phone was buzzing against my thigh. Marcus had just pulled me aside to show me the encrypted ping from Ava: Frank Miller just messaged Tabby. Sent a photo from her childhood. She's spiraling.My vision went red. Every muscle in my body coiled, screaming at me to shove Marcus out of the way, kick the glass doors open, and tear through downtown traffic until I had my hands wrapped around that bastard's thro