Page 23

Hunter

The third-period clock ticks under a minute. The crowd is on their feet, roaring like the game’s already won, but we’re not there yet. Not until that horn sounds.

Slade snags the puck behind our net and launches it toward Aleksi, who flies up center ice like a man on fire. I push off hard, legs burning as I keep pace, scanning the ice as we transition.

Aleksi dodges a defenseman and slips the puck to Trey, just as a guy from the other team barrels toward him. “Heads!” I shout, but it’s too late.

The hit comes hard—shoulder to chest. Aleksi goes down, skates first, sliding out of frame.

I cut hard to the left, eyeing the bastard who leveled him.

Before he can peel off, I angle myself just right and slam into him from the side.

Not enough to draw a penalty, but enough to make him think twice.

His balance wobbles, and he goes down—ice scraping up beneath him as he skids into the boards.

The ref doesn’t whistle. It’s been the theme of the night.

Good. I like games like these.

Trey still has the puck. He winds up, shifts, fires.

Their goalie reads him perfectly—glove snapping the shot out of the air like it’s nothing.

Damn it.

But we’re still in the lead. As long as we defend, this game is in the bag, but with time on the clock, nothing's a sure thing.

Before the puck even drops from his glove, their left wing is already moving. I spin on my heels, sprinting backwards as they haul ass up the ice. They’re as hungry for this win as we are.

Olsen’s ready in the net, crouched low.

Their right wing takes the shot, but Olsen blocks it, only the puck gets pushed out to their center who scrambles to make another shot. He does, but it’s not good enough. Olsen pounces on the puck, covering it with his entire body.

Wolf and I are in the thick of it, ramming our way through the opposing team to keep them off our goalie.

Slade gets the puck and starts hauling ass the other direction, a one-second delay before anyone realizes he’s got it. But before he gets a chance to take the shot, the final horn blows—and the relief is immediate.

We won three to one. A dirty, scrappy, but solid game.

My shoulder held up—through cheap shots and more bullshit than a rodeo. But these are the games I live for as a defenseman, especially when there’s a "W" on the board at the end.

The second we step off the ice, though, that relief fades. Because I know what’s coming next.

The media circus.

By the time I hit the locker room, there’s already a crowd of reporters gathering outside. Trey claps me on the shoulder as he passes. “Good luck, lover boy.”

I roll my eyes, but the joke lands closer to the truth than I’m comfortable admitting.

Things with Peyton have started to feel different lately. But I’m in no place to offer anyone a relationship—especially not her.

Peyton’s the kind of woman you marry. Settle down with. Build a life around.

Watching her with her family over Thanksgiving dinner told me everything I needed to know—because that’s what she wants.

And I get it. Spending Thanksgiving with them felt easier than it should’ve.

Jesse’s a good kid, her mom’s an actual saint, and Abby.

.. well, Abby and I are cut from the same cloth.

I’d probably get along with her brother too.

And honestly? I don’t even know if Peyton would give me a chance, even if I asked for one. I’ve screwed up more than once since the day we met. And after everything that happened with Bethany—the first person I ever let in—I’m not sure I have it in me to risk that kind of vulnerability again.

I don’t know if I ever will.

Still...sitting on the couch with Peyton?

It was the most at peace I’ve felt in a long damn time. I know what the media wants tonight. Gossip. Headlines. They’re not here for the game recap. They want stories about the player and the podcaster riding off into some carefully curated, fake sunset.

But if it keeps Bethany at bay—even a little—and Peyton’s podcast keeps climbing like it has since this all started…then yeah, I’ve got to do my part to keep this thing going.

And yeah, I’ve been keeping tabs on it—checking her sub numbers once…maybe twice a day. Would I do that for anyone else? Probably not, but her success feels like I’m winning too.

After I’ve showered and dressed in my suit, the media liaison is already motioning me toward the gauntlet.

It starts the way it always does—questions about the game, about the team’s performance, my shoulder.

And then—

“So, Hunter, the big question of the night isn’t about your game—it’s about your relationship. Can you tell us how things started between you and Peyton Collins?”

I school my expression, force a polite smile. “That’s private.”

Another reporter jumps in. “But there's a video of you two at the charity auction. And at the Open House. Fans are dying to know how the NHL’s most notorious bachelor got tamed.”

Tamed.

I bite back a laugh. If only they knew.

“We met through mutual friends,” I say smoothly. “One thing led to another.”

“And now you’re living together?” another reporter presses.

I glance at the cameras, knowing full well that whatever I say will be replayed a hundred times by morning.

“We’re figuring it out,” I answer simply, keeping my voice even.

The questions keep coming, but all I can think about is how fast this thing has snowballed. And how much harder it’s going to be to keep this under control.

Because the more they ask, the more I realize…

Everyone’s watching.

And the longer I keep playing this game, the harder it’s going to be to remember it’s not real.

I’m halfway through unwrapping the tape from my wrist when I spot her.

Bethany.

Leaning casually against the wall outside the locker room exit, like she’s got every right to be here. Like she isn’t the reason I’m technically a rookie in the NHL since I never finished a full year with New Jersey before they shipped me off to the farm team.

She’s dressed in black, understated but expensive. Hair curled perfectly. Lips painted red like a damn stop sign.

The second she sees me, her smile curves upward like she knows a secret.

I should keep walking. I should ignore her completely. But I already know she’ll find another way to corner me if I don’t get this over with now.

“Beth,” I greet flatly, coming to a stop a few feet away.

Her smile deepens, like we’re old friends catching up instead of…whatever the hell we are.

“You looked good out there tonight,” she says, her voice all sweet edges. “You always did play better when you had something to prove.”

“What do you want?”

She tilts her head, eyes sweeping over me like she’s taking inventory. “Dinner.”

I blink. “You’re kidding.”

She steps in closer, lowering her voice. “Just dinner, Hunter. We used to have fun, remember? It doesn’t have to be complicated.”

“I have someone at home waiting for me. And unlike you, I’m not the cheating type,” I remind her.

She reaches into her clutch and slips something into my hand.

A hotel key card.

“She doesn’t have to know,” she says, like she’s the one doing me a favor. “Skip dinner. Just dessert. You’ve always needed a release after a game. I remember how worked up you used to get, and Peyton’s not here to take care of your needs. But I am.”

Then, without waiting for an answer, she brushes past me like she’s already won.

Aleksi rounds the corner just as she disappears down the hall. His brow lifts at the sight of me still holding the key card.

“What the hell was that?”

I shake my head, and walk over to the trash can nearby, dropping the key into it. “A reminder of all the reasons I don’t trust anyone.”

His gaze sharpens. “She’s persistent, isn’t she?”

“Yeah,” I mutter. “Something like that.”

Aleksi doesn’t say anything, but I can feel his eyes on me the entire way back to the locker room, like he’s trying to figure out what kind of mess I’ve signed up for.

And if I’m being honest…

I’m wondering the same damn thing.

By the time I make it back to the team hotel, the weight of the game, the interviews, and Bethany’s lingering shadow feels heavier than it should.

I toss my gear bag onto the hotel room chair and sink onto the edge of the bed, scrubbing a hand over my face.

My phone buzzes on the nightstand.

Peyton.

Peyton : Good game tonight. Your shoulder looked solid out there.

I can’t stop the smirk that tugs at the corner of my mouth. It’s such a simple message, but it hits harder than it should.

Hunter : It felt solid. You watch the post-game interviews?

The typing bubbles appear almost immediately…then disappear.

They pop up again. Then vanish.

I watch, amused, knowing she’s probably overthinking every word.

Finally, her message lands.

Peyton : I did. Looked like you handled yourself well. Even with all the “relationship” questions.

I lean back against the pillows, thumb hovering over the keyboard.

Hunter: We’re the new "it" couple of the Hawkeyes. How do you feel about that?

There’s a pause before her reply.

Peyton: I feel like you owe me royalties for how many headlines my name’s in today.

That makes me laugh for the first time all night.

Hunter: You want royalties, Collins? I’ll pay up when I get back. Dinner’s on me.

Three dots appear.

Disappear. Then her reply:

Peyton: Fine.

Peyton: By the way…the bed was delivered today.

Hunter: How do you like it?

Peyton: I love it. It’s gorgeous but it takes up half the room, and you shouldn’t have spent that much.

Hunter: You’re sharing your bed with me. It’s the least I can do. And the pillow walls need more room to grow.

I tease, staring at the blank space, anticipating where I know her text will come up soon.

But she’s stalling…the dots appearing again and then disappearing. Did I say something wrong? Why is she having trouble coming up with a response?

Peyton: So the bed is to keep me further away?

Fuck no. The last thing I want is her further away. If it were up to me, I’d be waking up every night to her sneaking over the pillow wall to be closer to me. Though it’s probably best that I don’t tell her that.

Hunter: I just thought you’d be more comfortable. And a queen bed is small even when I’m all alone in one.

Peyton: True. Well, thank you. I’m looking forward to testing out the bed tonight.

Hunter: You’re welcome.

I set my phone on the nightstand, but I don’t fall asleep right away.

Because the truth is…I’m not sure which part I’m looking forward to more—the next game or getting home to test out that bed with her.