Page 21

PEYTON

I fiddle with the hem of my sweater, my nerves buzzing like I’m about to walk into a final exam unprepared.

It’s ridiculous. I’ve survived press scrums and radio interviews and a million awkward first dates.

But nothing quite compares to the stomach-knotting anxiety of driving to my mom’s house with Hunter Reed behind the wheel.

He’s casual about it, one hand resting on the steering wheel, the other flipping through radio stations like he owns the airwaves.

We’ve been driving for almost twenty minutes, and the silence has been…

comfortable, mostly. Until he pauses on a classic rock station, and I immediately reach over and change it to an indie folk channel.

Hunter glances at me sideways, smirking. “Seriously? What is this? Sleepy banjo music?”

I grin and prepare for the war about to rage over the radio. “Excuse me, but I am the passenger princess. That means I control the music.”

He huffs a laugh, checking over his shoulder before switching lanes smoothly. “Passenger what?”

“Passenger princess,” I repeat, teasing him like he’s dense. “My dad used to call me that on long drives to tennis tournaments. I got to pick the music, the temperature, the snack stops—full control. He said it was only fair since I was the one doing all the winning.”

His smirk softens, and he shoots me a quick glance before focusing back on the road. “You two were close.”

I swallow around the lump that always forms when I talk about him. “Yeah. Some days it’s really hard to accept that he’s gone. I keep thinking he’s going to call any second to ask me what he should get mom for their anniversary, but then my phone never rings.”

The smile fades from Hunter’s face, his jaw tightening ever so slightly. “He sounds like a good dad.”

“He was,” I murmur, turning my gaze out the window. “I miss him every day. Especially when something exciting happens and I want to call him…or around the holidays.”

Silence settles over us again, heavier this time. I glance at him, trying to shake it off. “Do you ever wish you would have grown up with a dad?”

His thumb taps against the steering wheel three times, then stops. “Sure. But my mom did her best.”

The answer is short, clipped. His entire posture shifts—shoulders rigid, jaw clenched. It’s clear that’s all I’m getting, so I let it go.

I reach for the climate control dial and crank it up a degree, flashing him a playful smile. “So, you’re not going to bite my hand off if I turn it to seventy-two?”

That earns me a real smile, the corner of his mouth twitching like he can’t help himself.

“Nah. You’re my passenger princess now.” A stupid little flutter takes up residence in my chest at the way he says it—like it’s a title he’s happy to give me.

I shove the feeling down before it can root itself too deep.

“Just don’t make me sweat through this button-up before I meet your mom for the first time.

First impressions are important, and I have no idea what you told her about our first meeting.

I might have some damage control to do.”

“She’s already in love with you. She and Jesse watch every televised game you’re on.”

Hunter just laughs and shakes his head. “Good to know.”

And for the first time since we left my place, the weight pressing on my chest lightens.

The second we step inside my mom’s house, it smells like cinnamon, roasted turkey, and the faint trace of the lemon cleaner she always uses when company’s coming over. It’s warm and chaotic—the way every holiday gathering has been since I was a kid.

Mom’s already at the door, wiping her hands on her apron as she grins at us. “There you are! I thought you two got lost.”

Before I can respond, Hunter holds out a hand. “Thank you for having me, Mrs. Collins.”

My mom blinks at him like she wasn’t expecting manners from a six-foot-two, muscled hockey player, then shakes his hand warmly. “None of that Mrs. Collins business. Call me Shari.”

I glance over at Hunter, catching the flicker of amusement in his eyes.

A soft whirl cuts through the noise behind us, and I turn just in time to see Jesse rolling toward us, a wide grin on his face.

“Hunter Reed’s coming to Thanksgiving? No way! No one told me,” Jesse’s eyes light up like it’s Christmas morning.

Hunter’s entire face softens, and he crouches down so he’s eye-level with Jesse without hesitation. “You must be Jesse. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

Jesse beams, immediately launching into a ramble about his favorite players and how he’s working on his wrist shot.

Before I know it, Hunter’s asking about Jesse’s wheelchair modifications and if he’s ever tried adaptive sled hockey.

He doesn’t even blink at the chair, like it’s just another part of Jesse’s gear.

By the time we make it to the living room, Jesse’s already out of the chair, sitting cross-legged on the floor while Hunter shows him how to properly hold a hockey stick using the old ones my mom keeps tucked in the hall closet from past Christmases.

It hits me then, like a sucker punch to the chest—how easy he makes this look. How quickly he slipped into my family like he’s always belonged here.

My mom stands beside me, her hands on her hips as she watches them. “He’s good with Jesse,” she says softly.

“Yeah,” I agree, folding my arms tight across my chest. “He really is.”

Too good.

Which is dangerous.

Because I know exactly how temporary this is.

After a bathroom break, I step back into the kitchen, and the sound of laughter hits me.

I pause in the doorway, taking in the scene.

Hunter’s at the counter with Jesse propped beside him in his chair, both of them peeling potatoes under my mom’s supervision. Mom’s laughing so hard she’s wiping tears from her eyes, and Jesse’s grin is huge, like he’s never heard anything funnier in his life.

“I swear to God, Shari,” Hunter is saying, “if I had a dollar for every time Aleksi M?kelin’s skincare routine has held up team meetings, I wouldn’t need my player salary.”

“That man does not use night cream,” my mom giggles.

“He travels with an entire toiletry bag dedicated to moisturizers,” Hunter replies with a straight face. “And another one for serums. It’s a problem.”

Jesse snorts, nearly dropping a slippery peeled potato.

I lean against the doorframe, watching this ridiculously domestic scene unfold. Hunter’s sleeves are rolled up, there’s a streak of potato peel on his wrist, the ink of his tattoos just barely visible, and he looks so damn at home that it’s almost disorienting.

Mom catches sight of me hovering in the doorway. “Hey! You and Abby can set the table. I’ve got these two wrapped around my finger already.”

Abby breezes past me, nudging my shoulder as she passes. “Come on, lovebird. Let’s go.”

I roll my eyes but follow her anyway, casting one last glance back at the kitchen.

Hunter says something I can’t hear, but whatever it is makes Jesse laugh so hard he nearly tips backward in his chair.

That sound is the best thing I’ve heard in a long, long time.

Abby tosses a stack of napkins onto the dining table as I follow behind her, grabbing plates from the cabinet. The laughter still drifts from the kitchen, Hunter’s voice blending in like he’s been part of this family for years instead of hours.

Abby sets a fork down and glances at me. “So…how’s it going?”

I raise an eyebrow. “You’re going to have to be more specific.”

She shrugs, arranging silverware like she’s not prying. “You know. Living with a hot hockey player. Sharing a bed. Fake dating him in front of the entire city.”

I blow out a breath, setting plates around the table. “It’s fine.”

“Fine?” She snorts. “That man is currently peeling potatoes in Mom’s kitchen and making Jesse laugh so hard he’s about to fall out of his chair, and you’re telling me it’s fine ?”

I glance back toward the kitchen, where the three of them are still talking, the rhythm easy and natural. Too natural.

Abby bumps her shoulder into mine, dropping her voice. “I’m just saying…if you don’t want him, I think Mom might finally be ready for a boyfriend.”

I roll my eyes and wad up one of the napkins, lobbing it at her head. “Stop.”

She laughs but sobers quickly when she catches my expression. “You know I’m kidding, right?”

“Yeah.” I press my lips together, smoothing out another napkin. “It’s just…he fits here better than I expected. But he’s temporary.”

Abby doesn’t argue. She doesn’t have to.

We both know that’s the part that’s going to hurt.

Dinner is loud and warm, exactly like it always is at Mom’s house. It still doesn’t mask the fact that my dad isn’t here and that my brother Will is still overseas, but this Thanksgiving is turning out to be better than I anticipated it would be.

Abby is making snarky comments about the sweet potatoes being too sweet, Jesse keeps trying to sneak extra rolls when no one’s looking, and Mom is laughing at everything like she hasn’t had a reason to smile this big in years.

But when Mom finally taps her fork against her glass and says, “All right, before dessert—what’s everyone thankful for?” the whole room quiets.

Jesse starts first, grinning shyly as he says, “I’m thankful for my family. And that Dad gets to come home in a few months.”

Abby says she’s thankful for Jesse and Mom, and for strong coffee on her night shifts at the hospital.

When it’s Hunter’s turn, he clears his throat, eyes flicking over to me.

“I’m thankful,” he starts, voice deceptively casual, “for my passenger princess. Because apparently, I’ve been driving around my whole life without knowing the right temperature setting.”

There’s a beat of silence before the table bursts into laughter.

But me? I freeze.

Because I feel her eyes on me. Mom’s. Sharp, knowing.

She doesn’t say anything, but when I glance over, she’s wearing a small smile that says she heard every word and understood exactly what it meant.