Page 29

Hunter

The studio lights feel hotter this time, but the tension that hung thick in the air during our first interview is gone. As I settle into the chair across from Peyton, I can feel the difference—a sense of ease, a shared understanding that we're both here to do a job.

Peyton flashes me a warm smile as she adjusts her headphones. "Welcome back, Hunter. Thanks for being here again."

"Thanks for having me," I reply, my voice steady. No more defensive walls, no more snapping at her questions. This time, I'm ready.

The questions flow more naturally, her voice steady but warm, like she’s not just interviewing me—she’s trying to understand me.

She starts off with softballs.

“How do you feel like this season is shaping up?”

“What’s the weirdest pre-game tradition you’ve seen from a teammate in the years you’ve played?”

I’ll give it to her, she did a good job warming me up before she gets into the deeper questions.

“When’s the moment you realized hockey wasn’t just a sport for you? That this was something you really wanted to do. That it was the NHL or bust?”

“Honestly, I can’t remember when the moment clicked for me.

As cliché as it sounds, it feels more like hockey chose me,” I tell her, thinking as far back as when my mom started me in a hockey league when I was four.

“When I first started in the league as a kid, I was just happy to get out and screw around with some other kids my age. I took to ice skating instantly—turned out I had really good balance, so after a few weeks of practice, the ice wasn’t a factor like it was for some kids. ”

“A little skating protégé…”

I chuckle. “Yeah, something like that. But then, my second year on the team, we got a new coach—Coach Murphy,” I tell her. I can still remember the lime green windbreaker he wore to practice every day and the handlebar mustache that I always thought was funny.

“And Coach Murphy turned you into a superstar?” she asks.

“No. In fact, he was just an assistant coach—one of my teammates' dads who volunteered to help out to keep the league open—his coaching technique wasn’t anything special, and his understanding of the game was basic, at best.”

“So what did he do that was so special to have this kind of impact on you as a five-year-old kid who didn’t care all that much for hockey?” she asks.

She shifted in her chair and adjusted her mic in front of her.

“There’s this little tradition, I guess you could call it, that happens before practice starts.

All the kids on the team would line up on this bench and their dads would lace up their skates,” I tell her.

“Growing up without a dad, I couldn’t help but feel left out.

I tried not to let my mom see it. I never wanted her to think she wasn’t enough or that I was ungrateful to her, so I’d always ask her to lace me up well before practice so that I wouldn’t have to feel that void.

And then the first week into the new season, my mom had to use the restroom—or take a call—or something, and I wasn’t laced up.

Coach Murphy didn’t even say a single word when he walked up to me, standing away from the other boys whose dads were lacing them on the bench.

He knelt down and laced up my skates for me.

It was the first time that I realized not having a dad doesn’t make me incomplete.

That there was someone else to make me feel included.

He must have noticed how much it meant to me because he started lacing up my skates for the entire season. ”

“And that’s what made you want to play hockey for the rest of your life.”

“No…not exactly. It made me want to play my heart and soul out on the ice for Coach Murphy. I think I wanted him to notice me…or maybe I wanted him to be proud of me. Whatever it started out as, it turned into me outperforming all my teammates. I was a standout, and a coach from a town over with a better hockey program begged my mom to give him a year with me on his team to see what I was capable of. My mom sacrificed a lot to make sure that I got across town to the other team for several years, and it paid off because I kept excelling. It turned out I was good at hockey, but not because I started out loving the sport.”

“It was because of the simple act of kindness that changed your entire trajectory in life,” she says. And she’s right, though I never thought about it like that before now.

“Yeah, pretty much. It’s crazy though. I’ve never told anyone that story before, until right now.”

Peyton smiles over at me, and I smile back.

“Have you seen Coach Murphy since that fateful year of Little League hockey?”

“No,” I say, shaking my head, wondering where he is now and if he even knows what he did for me. I bet he doesn’t.

“Well, in case he’s listening…would you like to say anything to him?” she asks.

Fuck, yeah… There’s a lot I’d like to say, but I’ll keep it simple.

I lean a little closer toward the desk and stare at the mic in front of me. Suddenly, I’m no longer speaking to her, but hoping that Coach Murphy is a listener of her show, or at least someone who knows him might hear this and tell him what I said.

“I’d just like to say, Coach Murphy…if you're listening…thank you for doing something as seemingly insignificant as tying the skates for a kid you barely knew, on a Wednesday night, in a cold-ass rink in New Jersey. You couldn’t have anticipated the impact it left…but you saved my life.”

I look up and Peyton’s eyes are welling with tears.

She takes a deep inhale and looks away from me, using the sleeve of her oversized sweater to wipe her eyes quickly, like she doesn’t want me to see it.

“That was a beautiful story, and my listeners are amazing. I guarantee someone is going to know Coach Murphy, and that message is going to get to him.”

There's a softness in her expression that makes me want to keep talking, to show her all the ways that I’m different from who she thinks I am, but there’s a mic recording in front of me, and a strong sense of self-preservation holding me back.

It’s just her and me in a recording studio. She’s recording all of this for her podcast.

"Speaking of people who make an impression on athletes in their earlier years. What kind of advice would you give to young players trying to make it in the NHL?" she asks, her tone genuine.

I pause, considering the question carefully.

"Stay dedicated. Don't let setbacks define you.

Everyone faces challenges but it's how you push through them that matters.

" My eyes meet hers, and I hope she can see the sincerity there.

"And surround yourself with the right people. That makes all the difference."

Peyton nods, a small smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. "That's great advice. I wish I'd had someone like you to look up to when I was younger."

"Right, you were a young athlete too,” I say, though it feels like I’m spinning the hot seat around and putting her in it.

"Yeah," she says, her voice quieter now. "A lot of my listeners already know, but for those of you who don’t,” she says, addressing the listeners who will hear this after she tweaks and posts it.

“I was a competitive tennis player. Had dreams of going pro—Wimbledon, the whole deal.

But then I suffered a career-ending injury and everything changed. "

The air shifts, and I feel a pang of understanding. Injury. The crushing weight of shattered dreams. I know that feeling all too well.

"That must have been tough," I murmur, and I can see the flicker of pain in her eyes.

"It was," she admits. "But I found my way back somehow. Podcasting became my new outlet. I get to share stories and connect with athletes. It's not the same, but it's fulfilling."

I nod, a surge of admiration rising in my chest. "I get that. You've got a good thing going here. It's not about the trophies, it's about the passion."

"Exactly," she says, the tension easing from her shoulders. "And I still get to be a part of the sports world, even if it's from a different angle."

"Right. And who knows—maybe you'll be the one to break the next big story." I can't resist a teasing grin. "Or maybe you'll just end up writing about how your roommate is the hottest player in the league."

Peyton rolls her eyes, but I catch the smile she's trying to hide. "Please, the last thing I need is another headline about you and me."

"Why not?" I tease, leaning in. "We'll give them something to talk about."

The tension shifts again, but this time, it feels lighter—almost playful. Peyton shakes her head, a spark of amusement in her eyes.

"Let's focus on you. The listeners want to hear about you."

"I’m an open book. What would you like to know?" I tease, settling back into my chair as we continue the interview.

By the time we wrap up, I feel a sense of satisfaction. She skated around some of the bigger questions she wanted to ask. I have a feeling that in the next interview, she’s going to dive deeper. But at least this time I didn’t storm out.

Progress.

Half the team’s already gathered around our usual table by the time Peyton and I step into Oakley’s.

The familiar din of laughter, the clinking of pint glasses, and the thrum of classic rock vibrating from the old jukebox settles something in me.

Warm lighting glows overhead, and the scent of beer and fried food wraps around us like a worn-in hoodie.

Cammy spots us immediately and makes a beeline, looping her arm through Peyton’s. “I’m borrowing her from you,” she says with a grin.

The look on my face must give me away, because Cammy smirks and adds, “I’ll give her back. Promise.”

Reluctantly, I let go of Peyton’s hand.

Trey catches sight of me from across the room and raises his beer. “Look who finally decided to show up.”

I grin. “Yeah, yeah. Where’s the rest of the crew?” I ask, glancing around the bar.