Page 35

Hunter

Another week has passed since I sent Peyton on her sexy scavenger hunt. We only have three weeks left in our fake relationship.

Now, I’m back on home ice.

We’re tied with three minutes left in the third, and the puck’s a fucking magnet for disaster.

Missouri’s top line is bearing down hard, their winger digging in, and Olsen is crouched in the crease, ready to make the save if I don’t clear it first.

I don’t hesitate.

I throw my body in front of the shot.

The puck ricochets off my pads, but before I can even wheel around to clear it, I catch a flash of blue and white barreling toward me out of the corner of my eye.

No time to brace.

The hit slams into me, a freight train straight to my side, and I hear the sickening pop before I feel it.

My shoulder wrenches back at a brutal angle, my feet flying up over my head. Fire explodes down my arm, and then I hit the ice, headfirst.

The world tilts, and then everything cuts to black.

When I come to, I’m flat on my back on the ice, the rink lights spinning above me.

Kendall’s crouched over me, her face sharp with worry, and one of the medics is already peeling my glove off.

"Hunter, look at me," Kendall says, voice steady but firm. "Can you hear me?"

I grunt, trying to nod, but the motion sends a jolt of pain so sharp through my shoulder that stars dance in my vision.

"Yeah," I rasp out.

"Good," she says. "You dislocated your shoulder. Don’t move. And you blacked out when you hit the ice.”

Fuck.

“How long was I out?” I ask.

“Seconds, but I’m still checking you for a concussion. You took a hard hit.”

My heart kicks into overdrive, and it has nothing to do with the pain.

If Everett hears about this—if he thinks I’m a liability—it’s one more excuse to trade me. Or even more reason if anything ripped when it dislocated.

I force my eyes open wider, trying to shake off the dizziness.

I need to get up. I need to show them I’m fine.

I—

My gaze flickers past Kendall, scanning the glass.

And there she is.

Peyton.

Standing, hands pressed against the plexiglass, eyes wide—her face almost ghost white—concern coating her beautiful face.

Not moving. Not blinking.

Just watching me.

And for a split second, the only thing I want to do is be next to her, comfort her, and tell her that I’m going to be okay, though I can’t promise that until Kendall looks at my shoulder.

Trey and Wolf skate over, dropping to their knees on either side of me.

"We’ve got you, Reedman," Wolf mutters under his breath.

They help lift me carefully, supporting most of my weight as I stumble toward the bench, cradling my arm to my chest.

Every step is agony, but worse is the sick, twisting panic in my gut. I can’t be sidelined. I can’t lose this team.

Not now.

Not after four years fighting to get back to the NHL. This can’t be my last game.

The crowd buzzes in my ears, loud and distorted, but I don’t look away from Peyton.

She’s still there, still watching, her hands curled into fists against her chest now.

In the locker room, Kendall doesn’t waste time.

"Sit down," she orders, already snapping on a pair of gloves.

I drop onto the bench, grinding my teeth as she examines my arm.

"This is going to suck," she says almost kindly.

"No shit," I grunt.

Before I can brace myself, she grabs, twists, and with a brutal pop, my shoulder slides back into place.

I grunt out a curse, sweat beading on my forehead, but I don’t black out.

Small miracles.

"The good news, I think your shoulder is going to be fine, but I want to see you tomorrow before early morning skate. We’ll take X-rays if something seems off tonight. The bad news…you’re out for the rest of the game," Kendall says, her tone leaving no room for argument.

"I can play," I snap, already trying to stand. Somehow proving to Kendall that I’m ready to get back out there.

But she’s a hard ass as the Hawkeyes doctor, and she doesn’t let anyone push her around.

"You can’t," Coach Wrenley says from behind her, arms crossed. "She’s the doctor here. If she says you’re done, you’re done."

I glare at both of them, breathing hard, but deep down, I know they’re right.

Still. Doesn’t make it any easier to swallow.

Kendall tapes me up quickly and efficiently, hands steady.

"Practice tomorrow," she says quietly. "Come see me first thing. I want to reevaluate it after you’ve iced it all night."

I nod stiffly.

It’s not good for my shoulder, but not career-ending.

I’ll take it.

Back on the bench, I watch my team.

I sit on the far end, shoulder throbbing under the ice pack tucked into my jersey.

The guys are gassed, scrambling for any chance to pull ahead. Every shift, every shot, I want to be out there helping. Instead, I sit and watch.

My eyes drift up into the crowd.

Peyton’s sitting again, but she's wringing her hands, her eyes locked on me, her eyebrows downturned with concern like she’s willing me not to fall apart.

Something in my chest squeezes tight.

Bethany used to hate coming to games unless there was press coverage involved. Whereas Peyton’s here for me. Not the team—not the win.

I can see it in the way she’s not watching anything but me across the ice—concern in her eyes, her fingers clamped together tight, almost like she’s praying for me to be okay.

We lose three to five.

No one’s fault. We played hard, and so did they. But the weight of it feels crushing. Another uneasy feeling that Everett could have a reason to trade me. Especially if this injury is worse than Kendall thinks it is.

The buzzer sounds, and I skate out for the handshake line. I’ve played with or against most of these guys over the years, and respect for their hard-fought win is how it’s done.

Breathing through the ache in my shoulder, I let the sting of the loss sink into my bones.

And still—when I glance up one last time...

Peyton’s looking at me. Not disappointed. Not angry. Just...there. And that means more than she’ll ever know.

The locker room is a graveyard after a loss like that.

Nobody says much.

I just sit there, jersey peeled halfway off with an ice pack strapped to my shoulder, letting the frustration burn through me like acid. I feel like I let down my team tonight, though there was little I could have done after Kendall and Coach Wrenley took me off the roster.

A few guys mumble curses under their breath.

And then Aleksi strolls in singing some oldies song, breaking the dark cloud hovering over most of us.

Then chirps start flying, guys start laughing.

There's still an uncurrent of disappointment, but our team is getting back to its normal locker room rumble of lighthearted shit talking and funny YouTube videos making their way around the players.

I head for the shower, ready to get this night behind me and head home with an ice pack, Peyton’s couch sounding pretty damn good about now.

I’m freshly showered and headed for my locker to grab my duffel bag to head home when I hear JP’s voice.

“Reedman…you’ve got a visitor.” He’s standing at the locker room door, smiling and nodding, and just past him, I’d know that blonde hair and smile anywhere.

Peyton stands there, shifting on her heels, my jersey wrapped around her.

The second our eyes meet, her face softens with something achingly close to relief.

I yank my duffel bag off the bench and head straight for her.

"Hey," she says, voice low. “How’s your shoulder?”

“It’s been better. Nothing a night with an ice pack won’t fix,” I tell her, keeping it to myself that it hurts like hell.

My neck doesn’t feel all that great from crashing down on top of it either, but I’d still like to hold on to some remnant of my pride.

I’m a defender on an NHL hockey team—complaining about getting served up on the ice won’t do well for my reputation.

“Are you going to tell me I’m a sore loser, and that you’re going to avoid me on the night that I…how did you put it again? ‘Suck a big L?’” I say.

The first night we met.

When I’d been an absolute dick to her after a loss, and she’d promised she’d avoid me like the plague next time I blew it.

"You remember that, huh?"

“Hard to forget it when the most beautiful woman in the room just called out your bullshit.”

“Keep going with that compliment, Reed. You’re almost out of the doghouse.”

Despite the knot of pain in my shoulder, I huff out a laugh.

"Yeah... sorry about that. Again."

Her eyes soften even more. "You’re forgiven. You were drunk, emotionally stunted, and hangry. Triple threat."

A real laugh escapes me this time—gravelly, but real.

"I’m still emotionally stunted, by the way," I say. "And continuously hangry."

"Good to know," she teases, stepping closer. "I'll tread carefully."

There’s something easy between us now, something that wasn’t there before.

Something that feels dangerously close to real.

She looks down at my gear bag.

"You want me to carry that for you?" she offers, reaching for the strap.

I snort. "It’s fine. I’ve got it on my good side."

But Peyton’s stubborn. She yanks at it anyway—and immediately lets out a surprised "oof!" as the weight nearly topples her forward onto her face.

I laugh, stepping in and yanking the bag back up off the ground.

"Jesus, Collins. You’re going to dislocate something yourself," I tease, slinging it back over my shoulder.

She glares at me, cheeks flushing, but there’s laughter dancing in her eyes too.

"I just watched you have your entire clock rung out on the ice, suffer a dislocation and a low-grade concussion, and you're swinging a thousand-pound bag over your shoulder as if it’s nothing," she mutters. “Are you even human?”

"Nope. I’m a hockey player," I shoot back easily.

She bumps her shoulder lightly against my good arm as we walk toward the exit.

The simple, casual touch nearly undoes me.

Outside, the night air is sharp against my flushed skin.

Peyton shivers slightly, but doesn’t complain.

"What’s on for tonight? Are we headed to Oakley’s?" she asks.