Page 40

PEYTON

The smell of cinnamon and coffee greets me before I even open my eyes. I roll onto my side, blinking in the morning light pouring in through Hunter’s childhood bedroom window, the snow from last night dusted on the rooftops of the neighboring houses outside.

The new comforter is soft, the mattress firm, and I can hear the faint clinking of dishes from downstairs.

Hunter stretches beside me, shirtless, sleep-ruffled, and already smirking. “I think my mom’s trying to seduce us with breakfast.”

I laugh. “I’d fall for it.”

We eventually make our way downstairs where Carly is already dressed, dishes set out, and bacon sizzling on the stove. She greets us with a warm smile and a plate of scrambled eggs.

“Eat up, kids,” she says. “I’ve got a busy day ahead. Gifts to drop at the animal shelter and the salon. Then I’m heading over to the old folks' home to set up for the cookie exchange.”

“We won’t see you all day?” Hunter asks.

“I’ll be home after the cookie exchange, unless Bonnie decides she wants to go caroling with the rest of our choir group,” she says, loading a cookie tin.

“Ma, it’s Christmas Eve…”

“Yeah, I know…but you’re aware that I've packed my schedule to help others during the holidays ever since you left for college. And you only gave me a few weeks' notice that you were coming for Christmas. I already committed. And this family follows through on its commitments. I’ve already taught you that.”

“I think it’s great,” I pitch in.

Carly turns around from the counter and gives me a smile.

“See, a girl with a good head on her shoulders.” She sets the tin in a huge box that’s filled to the brim.

“Now, be a good son and take this box out to my car for me. It’s heavy.

You two have fun today, and I’m sure I’ll see you later tonight. ”

He takes the box, and I watch her follow him out to the car. He sets the box in the trunk of her minivan and then kisses the top of her head before opening her driver's side door, shutting it once she's inside.

My heart swells at how sweet he is with his mother.

After breakfast, Hunter leans close. “Get dressed into something comfortable. I have a surprise.”

A short drive later, we pull up in front of a massive tennis and sports complex. It’s the kind of place with tall glass windows, indoor courts, and a sleek sign that says “The Net Spot.”

“This place is huge,” I say as we walk in.

“Figured we could play a round. Or ten,” he says.

We change and hit the court. From the other side of the net, Hunter does some over-the-top stretches—groin lunges, arm flaps, even a twirl.

“Hope my thighs in these shorts don’t distract you,” he calls. “I know what you want, dirty girl, but I’m more than just a pretty face.”

I snort. “Pretty? Bold claim from someone about to get destroyed.”

“Confidence is key, baby.”

To his credit, Hunter’s actually good. His footwork is solid, his serves are wicked. But I’ve been playing since I was four, and by the third round, he’s sweating, swearing, and glaring at me in mock betrayal.

“You hustled me,” he gasps, winded.

“I told you I had Wimbledon in my sights before my injury.”

“Yeah, but you didn’t say you were the devil in a ponytail.”

We grab lunch at the on-site café, sitting at a small table tucked in the corner. Hunter orders a spinach fruit smoothie, a burger with extra bacon, and a large order of crinkle fries. I grin at the contrast.

“Balance,” he says, mouth full. “Athlete logic.”

After lunch, he drives us to an indoor hockey rink.

“Where are we?” I ask as he pulls into a parking spot.

“This is where my high school hockey team used to play.” A familiar sparkle lighting up his eyes.

The second we get out and meet up behind the car, he reaches for my hand.

It should feel foreign. But somehow, it feels like I’ve been holding it forever.

“Get out your phone,” he says as we walk toward the entrance.

I blink. “What?”

He shoots me a crooked smile. “Can you walk and talk? I’d bet good money you’ve already memorized the questions you want to ask me for our third interview.”

Of course I have them memorized. But there’s more riding on this than just the interview.

With everything between us shifting, I don’t want to push too hard and risk him shutting down—or worse, walking away.

Yet, I also know that my opportunity to snag the syndication deal and make my dad proud, is hanging in the balance too.

He squeezes my hand gently. “Record it. I owe you one more. I want you to have this.”

Something in his voice makes me stop questioning. I pull out my phone, hit record, and follow him through the front doors.

Hunter leads me through a side door, down a narrow hallway that smells like wet gear and sports tape, and into the heart of the rink. He’s relaxed here. There’s a bounce in his step I haven’t seen since before his injury.

We make our way to the bleachers and sit on the cold aluminum bench overlooking the ice. The hum of the overhead lights fills the space, the rink eerily quiet without players slicing across it.

He leans back on the bench, elbows resting on the seat behind us, his eyes scanning the ice like he’s watching ghosts from the past.

“You’re smiling,” I say. “Take me through what you’re thinking.”

“This place is where it all really clicked for me. But it didn’t come easily.

High school hockey was a different animal than what I had been used to playing,” he says.

“Freshman year was the first time I was on the third line. Couldn’t land a hit to save my life.

Coach joked that I skated like a baby deer on a trampoline. ”

I smile behind the camera. “Hard to imagine. You're one of the most physical players in the league.”

“That’s what happens when you’re a big fish in a tiny pond, and then they drop you in the ocean with hungry piranhas all looking to catch the eye of scouts.

That hadn’t been a factor in middle school.

There were still kids playing just for the fun of it, but high school hockey isn’t for the faint of heart.

I’ve seen more kids lose chiclets in one single game than I had in the years I’d played the sport up until then. ”

I grin behind the camera. “Sounds brutal. But you clearly adapted.”

“Yeah, well, turns out growing six inches in one summer helps with that too.” He grins. “By sophomore year, I was big enough to make an impact.”

“Cheating,” I tease. “You basically leveled up overnight. Meanwhile, I spent all of high school trying to convince recruiters I wasn’t too short to return a serve.”

He chuckles, that familiar spark in his eyes. “You? Short? You serve with murder in your heart.”

I muffle back laughter thinking back on our earlier game and how much I love that he’s not the sore loser I called him back at Oakley’s that first time we met. A time that feels so far away, almost as if it didn’t happen.

“Did you used to dream about playing in the NHL here?”

He nods. “Every damn day. I’d sneak in during open skates and pretend I was scoring the game-winner in a playoff series. Right there—” He points toward the far side of the rink. “Bottom left corner. Coach used to stay late so I could practice that shot.”

Something swells in my chest. This isn’t just a location—it’s a living memory. And he’s letting me inside it.

“Is this where you fell in love with hockey?”

“This is where I fell in love with who I was when I played. Before the contracts. Before the agents. Before it all got complicated.”

“You didn’t get recruited out of high school,” I say, knowing his history.

“My mom was going through chemo then, and I didn’t want to go far. I had a couple of junior league scouts reach out, but I stayed close and went to college instead. It meant I could still get her to treatments. Cook dinner once in a while. Her best friend Bonnie was a big help too.”

My chest tightens.

“And you don’t regret it?”

“Not for a second.” His voice is steady. “We had a stacked team—I learned a lot in college. And eventually, Jersey picked me up.”

He stares back out onto the ice as a few high school players skate out for practice.

“So, no big drama? No rebellious phase? No high school scandal?”

“Oh, there was drama.” He smirks. “One time, I broke into the opposing team’s locker room before a game and replaced all their warm-up playlists with Celine Dion’s greatest hits.”

I choke on a laugh. “You didn’t.”

“They came out to ‘My Heart Will Go On.’ It backfired though because they were so fucking pissed that they whipped the ice with us.”

“So you regret it?”

“Hell no. It was still funny as shit. My coach didn’t like it much, though.”

“You can take the prankster off the rink…” I say.

He nods toward the far goal line.

“See that crease?”

I follow his gaze.

“That’s where I scored my first high school goal. Triple overtime. My stick flew out of my hands, and I tackled my own teammate in celebration. Sprained his wrist. Coach benched me for the next game.”

“You don’t know when to quit,” I tease.

“I never quit,” he replies, and then his voice softens. “I haven’t been back here in years. But I wanted you to see it.”

I lower the phone slightly, feeling that familiar warmth rise in my chest again.

“Why me?”

He doesn’t look away from the ice.

“Because this...was sacred. And you make everything feel like it matters again.”

I want to shut off my phone and just be present for this moment between us, when he’s sharing all of this with me. Unfortunately, I have an interview to turn in, and a part of me is looking forward to having all of our original agreements behind us so that we can move on.

“When you were signed by New Jersey, how did that feel?”

“Looking back, that was a rollercoaster ride. I’ve never been so high and then hit a low so quickly in my life.”

“When they transferred you to the farm team?” I ask.

“I only got to play half a season on professional ice. I thought I might not ever make it back here.”

I nod slowly. “There were rumors. About your attitude. About Bethany.”