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It’s a huge gamble, and he might get up and walk out of this rink, leaving me here to walk back to his mom’s house, but I have to at least ask the questions even if he doesn’t answer them.

He stiffens just slightly, his jaw ticking. But he doesn’t look away.

“I don’t like thinking back on those days,” he says.

“It doesn’t do anyone any good. Bethany and I dated in college and into my rookie year.

It didn’t work out. That’s it. Nothing more to say about it.

Bethany and I grew apart—Richard made a business call regarding his team that I don’t agree with—end of story.

Now, I’m playing for one of the best teams in the league, and I feel like I’m right where I need to be. ”

It’s not the juicy detail I was hoping for. The truth is that I know what she did, but Hunter just gave me more on the story than anyone else has ever gotten out of him. This might be enough for the syndication deal.

And more importantly, he’s still sitting here. Still talking. And that comment he made about being where he needs to be…it feels like I’m part of that now.

I lower the camera just slightly and ask, “If you weren’t playing hockey, what would you be doing right now?”

Without missing a beat, Hunter grins. “That’s easy. Personal Speedo car washer.”

I blink. “You’re joking.”

“Dead serious,” he says, eyes gleaming with mischief. “I’d shave the ice, blast club music, maybe even throw in a little choreography. Make it a full experience.”

I laugh, shaking my head. “You’re unbelievable.”

“But admit it—you’d come watch.”

“I’d come for the soapsuds and stay for the tragic tan lines.”

He clutches his chest. “Wounded. But noted. No tan lines.”

I shake my head, grinning. “You’d make a fortune in tips.”

“Obviously,” he says, and then slaps the back of his thigh. “These glutes are money makers.”

We sit in silence for a beat, both of us watching a couple of players practice shots.

Then I ask the question I always save for last.

“If you could go back in time and fix a mistake, what would it be—and what would you do differently?”

Hunter’s shoulders go still. He doesn’t answer right away. Just watches the far end of the rink, the ghost of a dozen younger versions of himself skating in his silence.

Finally, he speaks.

“If I could go back...I’d redo the first night we met at Oakley’s.

I was drunk and angry and made assumptions about you that I had no right to make.

” He glances at me. “You didn’t deserve that.

I’d take it back in a heartbeat. And then I would have asked for your number so I could call you on a night I wasn’t plastered. ”

My throat tightens. It’s not the soundbite I was chasing—but it might be the most honest thing he’s ever said on camera.

“Thank you,” I whisper. “For letting me see this part of you.”

He shrugs, trying to play it off, and then straightens his back. “Don’t get used to it, Collins. I have a reputation to maintain.”

But the small smile pulling at his mouth says otherwise.

I end the video. I got enough and now I want the rest of him to myself.

“You shared a lot. More than you have in past interviews. Are you sure you’re okay with me sharing this?” I ask, tucking my phone into my pocket.

“I figured you could use some solid B-roll for your interview cut if you’re trying to win that syndication deal. This is what I agreed to, and now that Bethany has left Seattle, I owe you my end of our arrangement.”

“We’re a good team,” I tease.

He nods and then reaches over and gives my thigh a gentle squeeze, making my whole body react. God, do I love his hands on me. “C’mon. I’ll show you the snack bar that has the best nachos in town.”

“Oh God… this is your move, isn’t it? Is this how you convinced all the high school girls to kiss you under the bleachers?”

He looks over his shoulder with that troublemaker grin of his that has me laughing.

“The last time I tried it, I ended up spilling the entire tray in my lap, covering my crotch in spicy, hot nacho cheese. But if you want to make out under the bleachers, Collins, I’d happily oblige you.

I wouldn’t want to be a bad host,” he says, leading me out to the concessions that are getting ready for some Christmas Eve ice show.

“Slow down, Romeo. Wow me with these nachos first, then we’ll see where the night takes us.”

He laughs as I follow behind him, my hand in his.

And it occurs to me how much I wish I could have seen the Hunter before Bethany. What Carly said about him warming up has me wishing we had met earlier, but then I wouldn’t get the man he is now, and maybe that would be a shame too.

Maybe we met just in time.

By the time we pull back into the driveway, the last of the sunlight is slipping behind the neighbor’s roofline.

“I’m going to start dinner,” Hunter says as we step inside, dropping the keys on the entryway table. “You want to hang down here or...?”

“Actually,” I say, slipping off my coat, “would you mind if I went upstairs for a bit to edit the interview? I know it’s Christmas Eve, but the execs are waiting for all my final deliverables.”

Hunter nods without hesitation. “Go ahead. I’ll holler when it’s ready.”

I head up to his room, slipping onto the edge of the oversized bed with my laptop.

An hour passes in a blur as I cut together clips, keeping the edit light and natural.

I leave in the echo of the rink, the squeak of his shoes against the floor, the way his voice softened when he talked about taking care of Carly when she was sick.

But I take out his final answer—the one about Oakley’s bar and the apology. That part is just for me.

Once I’m done, I hover over the publish button, then tap it without second-guessing. I mute my notifications—no one’s watching a sports interview on Christmas Eve anyway, and honestly, I don’t want to be tethered to my phone tonight.

Not when I’ve got this.

Downstairs, the house smells like garlic bread and spaghetti sauce. Hunter’s at the stove, sleeves rolled up, wooden spoon in hand. I lean in the doorway for a moment, watching him hum along to the holiday music playing low on the speaker, like this is just any regular night.

Dinner is warm and easy. We linger over second helpings, share stories from childhood Christmases, and laugh over the fact that neither of us can remember all the words to “Frosty the Snowman.”

Later, we curl up on the couch with a wool blanket and an old black-and-white holiday movie that Hunter says he and his mom watch together every year.

I love that he’s bringing me into his traditions—showing me this side of him.

Hunter answers a call from his mom.

“Carolers,” he says with a grin as he puts her on speaker.

“I couldn’t say no,” Carly says cheerfully. “The ladies from my choir group showed up at the old folks’ home and demanded. I’ll be back late. Don’t wait up.”

Hunter laughs. “Stay out as long as you want. We’re good here.”

We hang up, and I shift closer, feeling his arm slide around my shoulders. He looks down at me, eyes warm, lips barely parted like he’s about to say something—or kiss me—

When my phone buzzes on the arm of the couch.

I glance at the screen and frown. “It’s Rebecca.”

He lifts his eyebrows. “On Christmas Eve?”

I answer, and Rebecca launches in without preamble.

“Peyton, your video is blowing up. Like, network-level viral. One of the senior producers just called me. They’re talking about fast-tracking the contract.”

“Wait, how is it going viral? No one’s watching my podcast on Christmas Eve.”

Hunter hears my words and then grabs his phone out of the pocket of his sweats. I watch as he quickly pulls up the video, my eyes widen at the number of views.

“That’s where you’re wrong. It’s had over five hundred thousand views, and you only posted it a couple of hours ago. Besides, the network is my life, and the other execs are the same. We never take a day off. Media doesn’t sleep.”

“Oh my God,” I whisper.

My eyes flash back up to Hunter’s, and he’s smiling wide.

Rebecca’s voice comes back in, and I almost forgot that she’s still on the line.

“You’ll probably be asked to head into the Seattle office the day after Christmas.”

My pulse spikes. “You’re serious?”

“Absolutely, the comment section is blowing up. The authenticity, the intimacy—people are eating it up. I’ll be in touch but prepare yourself for coming into the network’s office the day after Christmas. You’ll have contracts to sign.”

She hangs up before I can respond, and I stare at the phone like it might vanish.

“Was that real?” I ask, still breathless.

Hunter leans in, his voice low and warm. “That was very real.”

He’s still holding his phone, screen tilted toward me, showing the growing number of views, the flood of heart emojis and fire icons in the comments. I watch the count tick up again—five hundred twenty thousand now.

My heart leaps.

“Peyton,” he says, setting his phone aside and taking mine too. “You did it.”

Before I can second-guess myself, I lunge at him, laughing, arms wrapping around his neck.

“We did it,” I whisper against his jaw, giddy and a little stunned.

“Yeah, we did,” he says, pulling me closer. “Bethany left Seattle, and you just got your syndication deal. And we did it with time to spare.”

He presses his lips to mine and my mouth opens for him, his hot tongue searing against mine, each of us fighting to get closer, to have our hands all over each other, to touch everywhere we can.

Soon, his hands slide down to my waist, gripping tight as he lifts me clean off the couch. I gasp, instinctively wrapping my legs around his hips, anchoring myself to him as he straightens to full height.

“Where are we going?” I ask.

“To celebrate the end of our arrangement and the start of something permanent."

Our lips never leave each other as he carries me up the staircase and down the hall to his bedroom.

And I know that he’s right. We’re on to something so much better.