Page 4

Hunter

The pounding in my head matches the rhythm of my phone buzzing against the nightstand. I crack one eye open and immediately regret it as sunlight knives through the blinds and into my skull. Every inch of me aches.

Last night was a blur after that third whiskey, though I vaguely remember Aleksi and Trey dragging me out of Oakley’s and something about me trying to recreate the Mighty Ducks speech.

I groan and blindly swipe for my phone. Seven texts from my agent, three from my mom, and—perfect—a push notification from a sports blog calling out my post-game attitude.

I squint at the screen.

REED’S RETURN TO THE NHL: IS THE ATTITUDE WORTH THE TALENT?

Because apparently, four years in the farm system wasn’t punishment enough for dating the wrong girl my rookie year. The same girl who my mother still calls “the daughter she never had.”

“Shit,” I mumble at the headline.

I sit up slowly, swinging my legs over the side of the bed. My head spins, and I’m not even sure I slept so much as blacked out. I wipe the dried residue of drool from my chin. The taste of whiskey and regret still coats my tongue, a bitter reminder from last night.

Still clutching my phone, I shuffle out of my bedroom and out toward the kitchen, the light from the hallway an assault on my retinas.

I yank open the freezer and grab the ice pack I keep there for bruises and hangovers alike, pressing it to my forehead as I lean against the counter, trying to gather my thoughts amidst the swirling chaos.

Another buzz.

Mom: Honey, you played well. Don’t let them get to you.

I type back with one thumb while keeping the ice pack balanced against my temple.

Hunter: Did you hear back from the doctor about the tests they ran? Do they think it’s coming back?

It’s been almost two months since she let it slip that her doctor wanted to run more labs. She brushed it off, but I’ve had a bad feeling about it ever since—one that gnaws at the edges of my mind like a persistent itch.

Her reply pings in.

Mom: Don’t worry about that. I’ll let you know when I hear back. No news is good news. Anyway, don’t think about me. I want you to focus on your comeback. That’s more important.

Hunter: My offer still stands to move you out here to Seattle. There are a lot of great doctors, and I’d be closer if you need anything.

Mom: Who would run the salon? Who would keep the a cappella group going? No, I’m good here.

Of course, she’d say that. My mom’s never been the type to burden anyone, especially not me.

She’s still in Jersey, won’t leave the salon, her friends, her doctors—even when I’ve practically begged her to move west. Says she’s “content.” But I know what that means.

She doesn’t want me to worry—which only makes me worry more.

I move to the couch and drop down with a grunt, still clutching my phone, the ice pack now resting on the back of my neck.

Only child. Single mom. We’ve always looked out for each other. She gave up everything to raise me. I owe her a lot.

The door swings open.

“Reed! You alive in here?”

Trey Hartley’s voice pulls me from my spiraling thoughts.

Thank God. If anyone gets the push-pull of family guilt, it’s the guy who gave up special forces to raise his niece after his brother and sister-in-law passed away in a car accident.

He’s seen the worst life can throw at someone, and still, he managed to walk on to the Hawkeyes team as a starting left winger after being off the ice since high school.

“It’s open,” I call out, wincing at the sound of my own voice.

Trey steps in, dressed in sweats for practice this morning, while Aleksi M?kelin, the Hawkeyes’ right winger, trails behind him, way too chipper for this hour.

“You look like shit,” Trey announces, crossing his arms over his broad chest and a teasing grin spreading across his face.

“Feeling the love, Hart,” I mutter, slouching deeper into the couch, wishing it could swallow me whole.

"Maybe next time don't try to drink your weight in whiskey," Aleksi suggests, his Finnish accent always thicker in the mornings. "Though watching you try to convince the bartender you could recite the entire Mighty Ducks movie was entertaining."

I groan. “Please tell me I didn't.”

“No, we stopped you,” Trey says. “Though you did try to challenge Wolf to a dance-off. Something about showing him your 'sick moves' from your middle school roller rink days?”

“Jesus Christ,” I mutter, running my hand over my face, genuinely embarrassed.

"Don't worry, he said no," Aleksi drops onto my couch next to me and grabs the remote out of my hand, changing the channel to some cooking show. “But you might want to apologize to Cammy’s friend from last night. Word is you were kind of a dick.”

Trey chuckles. “Kind of a dick?” he asks, shooting Aleksi a glance and then back to me.

“I’d say that’s an understatement. I was sitting next to you, and you were in rare form last night.

More dick-ish than I’ve ever seen you towards anything with two X chromosomes.

I watched a ninety-year-old woman blush and give you her number once on a napkin at 5th Avenue Cafe.

.. So I don’t know what crawled up your ass and died, but Cammy’s friend sure as hell didn’t do anything to deserve what you said to her. ”

I try to pull the memory from last night, but everything seems blurry post-media and walking down to Oakley’s from the stadium. “Cammy’s friend?”

Aleksi glances over at me, his brow furrowing in thought. “The hot blonde from Bleacher Report . Her name is Peyton, I think. I don’t know why she didn’t just ask me to be on the show. I’d do it.”

Peyton? The name doesn’t sound familiar, but now a vague memory of exchanging heated words with a woman at the bar is starting to come into focus…though hazy at best.

“She didn’t ask you because she’s heard your post-game rambles,” Trey says, casually tossing a protein bar from my cupboard into his gym bag. “Nobody’s tuning into The Bleacher Report to listen to you talk about your nighttime facial routine and your moisturizing sock tips.”

Aleksi stuffs a throw pillow in at his side, trying to get comfortable, unbothered by Trey’s dig. “Don’t knock it, man. The ladies love a guy in bed who doesn’t scratch them up with callused hockey feet.”

Trey huffs a dry laugh. “M?k, no woman sleeping with you is getting anywhere near your feet. I guarantee it.”

“Is that right, Hart?” Aleksi grins. “Then why don’t you go ask your mom?”

Trey scowls and then grabs a pillow and chucks it at Aleksi’s head.

Aleksi dodges it easily, still grinning like he just lit the lamp in overtime.

Trey’s not offended. He never is. Not about stuff like that.

Probably because he hasn’t spoken to either of his parents since he was seventeen, back when he forged their signatures to enlist and left home for good.

Whatever scars he’s carrying, he keeps them buried under layers of military-trained resilience and loyalty to those who return it.

“She walked up and talked to me?” I ask, my memory still failing to remember a blonde that I rejected harshly enough that the team is gossiping about it.

Trey walks over to the fridge and starts filling his water bottle with ice. We’ve got morning skate in thirty minutes.

“She tried, but you said that you weren’t in the mood to fuck her…I’m paraphrasing, but the word fuck definitely came out of your mouth,” he says, topping off his water bottle and then screwing on the lid.

The memory crashes back—her face. That flash of surprise, of hurt. The way she blinked once, covered it, then fired back like she’d been waiting for a fight all night.

If I’d been sober, I probably would’ve found it refreshing. She wasn’t simpering. She didn’t cling. She didn’t ask for a selfie or an autograph or the name of my hotel.

She was sharp. And I was an asshole.

Whether she was there as a fan or a podcaster—hell, even if she had been looking to flirt—I shouldn’t have treated her like that.

I was pissed about the loss, worried about Mom, and feeling the pressure of proving to Everett Kauffman that he made the right choice to sign me.

The last place I wanted to be was in that bar, surrounded by noise, pretending to be fine.

And when she approached me, I went straight into defense mode. Sharp words. Crude assumptions.

Though, in fairness, most women who approach me at a bar after a game are looking to hook up with me or one of my teammates.

Cammy won’t let this slide. Not when it’s one of her people.

I sit up, hanging my head for a second.

Aleksi slaps my back. “Don’t worry about it. You’ll get another chance to make an ass out of yourself in front of her at the auction in a couple of days.”

The auction—I almost forgot.

Kids With Cancer is a foundation started by Briggs Conley and his now-wife, Autumn, years ago when he used to play for the team.

The Hawkeyes co-host two events each year to raise money for the families whose children are going through treatment, and this year, Cammy and JP convinced me to auction off a date with me to earn money.

I would have been happy to have just written a check, but where’s the fun in that?

Luka and I have a bet to see who gets the highest bid. He hates to lose, so I wouldn’t put it past him to cheat and show up in a breakaway suit with a man thong under it to get higher bids. That crazy Russian.

Though technically, this is a family event, so the new owner of the team, Everett Kauffman, would probably toss him out for indecent exposure.

Everett Kauffman is still a question mark in everyone’s mind since the first owner, Phil Carlton, sold the team to him this year.

But he wanted me signed while he was in negotiations to buy the team when Phil almost passed on me for another player.

I need to prove to Everett that he didn’t make a mistake.

“Great. Looking forward to it,” I say sarcastically—though inside, I feel a flicker of excitement.