Page 7

Hunter

Bethany Richards.

My ex-girlfriend and the reason I spent the last four seasons on a farm team instead of playing for the New Jersey NHL franchise.

Of course, she’d show up here when life keeps kicking me in the ass.

I watch her glide into the room like she owns it. Same confident stride. Same smug smile. Same overpriced perfume that somehow still triggers something bitter in the back of my throat.

She’s wearing a silk dress that probably cost more than my first car—clinging to every curve like it was stitched on.

Hair swept up, lips lacquered in that same power-hungry red.

Bethany always did know how to make an entrance—elegant on the surface, but just polished enough to hide the claws beneath.

And just like that, it’s like I’m twenty-three again.

Standing on New Jersey’s ice, unaware that the woman I was planning a future with was already planning her engagement party with someone else.

Someone with more power. More pull. More money.

Someone who could erase me from a roster with a single call… and did.

Because in his mind, I was his biggest threat. He was blind to the idea that Bethany was setting him up to take half his wealth.

Oh, the irony.

I grind my teeth, forcing myself to breathe through the memories that I’ve tried hard to leave in that New Jersey stadium where they belong.

It’s been four years of clawing my way back to the NHL—through injuries and rehab, brutal mornings and sleepless nights, while reporters questioned whether I was still worth the ink on my new contract.

And now she’s here. Waltzing into the world I rebuilt without her, like it’s something she left behind and has every right to reclaim.

I’ve gotten her calls and texts—all thirty-two of them—saying she wants to talk. I haven’t returned a single one.

Her eyes scan the room, slow and deliberate, until they land on me.

She smiles.

God, I forgot how manipulative that smile is. Sweet enough to fool a billionaire. Sharp enough to end a pro hockey player's career.

The fact that my mother still claims to "see" the good in Bethany has me demanding she see an Optometrist—or quit microdosing hallucinogens. Honestly, either one tracks.

"Hunter." Bethany's voice slides over me like ice water down my spine as she heads for me, weaving through tables, chairs, and other guests. "I've missed you."

I force myself to turn, to face the woman who derailed my NHL career with a smile and a wedding ring from a man twice her age and three times as delusional.

She looks exactly the same—bleach blonde hair falling in calculated waves, red lips, and perfect teeth curved in that predatory smile.

The only difference is now, she’s not wearing the five-carat diamond ring Richards bought her.

The sight of her here, in my new life, makes my stomach turn. I've worked too hard to rebuild everything she destroyed to let her maneuver her way back in now.

"What are you doing here, Beth?"

"Can't a girl support a good cause?" She steps closer. "Besides, I heard you were up for auction. Couldn't pass up the chance to remind you how good we were together."

The memory of finding out about her engagement to Richards still burns.

One minute, we were celebrating my newly minted NHL contract and planning a life together, the next I was being sent to the farm team to "develop my skills"—code for get me out of the way. Richards didn’t like the idea of his new bride having access to her ex-boyfriend on the team. And from what I’ve heard from old teammates who still play for New Jersey, she made do with the other twenty-three players on the roster.

"We were never good together. You made that clear when you married Richards."

Beth rolls her eyes. “God, Hunter. I did it all for us, and now I’m going to have more money than either of us know what to do with. When are you going to get over it?”

“When your shrink finally diagnoses you as a raging sociopath. That’s when.”

She tilts her head condescendingly, not hearing a word I said. My point exactly—sociopath.

"Marrying Kevin Richards was a mistake I'm rectifying." Her perfectly manicured fingers trail up my arm, leaving goosebumps in their wake—not from desire, but from pure revulsion.

"The divorce will be final soon. The prenup gives me half the team, including player roster decisions."

Her smile is calculating. Cold. How the hell didn’t I see this in college? She’s always been this person—but all I saw were the big tits, the perfect smile, the pretty girl with a backstory that sounded like mine. I thought we were climbing together.

I didn’t realize I was just her stepping stone to a bigger life. One that never included me.

My own personal Helen of Troy, burning my city to the ground.

"Once I pitch Everett Kauffman a trade deal too good to refuse, you’ll be headed home. Back to New Jersey. Where you belong. We can pick up right where we left off."

Pick up where we left off?

She thinks she can just walk in here and destroy everything I’ve established here—and I’ll thank her for it?

"Right where we left off?" I snap. "You mean right before your husband tried to ruin my career by sending me to the farm team?"

She rolls her eyes. “Water under the bridge.”

Then she leans in, lips brushing my ear, her voice turning to poison-laced sugar.

"No one’s ever been as good as you, you know. In or out of bed. The sex was incredible—you can’t deny that. I got a place at The Commons. Two months to remind you what you’ve been missing.”

She got an apartment in my building? What the fuck?

Typical Bethany move. Hit you where it hurts, then act like it’s a gift. Though, this one catches me off guard. Before I can respond, she turns on her heels…but not without sliding her hand down to slap my ass.

“I’ve always loved you in a tux,” she purrs. “See you on stage, baby.”

I watch her sashay toward the VIP table, panic rising in my chest. This isn't happening. This can't be happening. Four years of rebuilding my life, my career, my reputation—all at risk because Bethany Richards is bored with her billionaire husband.

My eyes scan the crowded ballroom desperately for a way out of this when I spot Peyton at the bar.

The blue beading on her dress catches the light, making her glow like a beacon to my salvation. And damn if she doesn’t wear that dress like it was made for her—elegant, understated, but cut low and sexy, making every guy around her take notice.

Including me.

A really bad idea jumps to mind, and I don’t think.

I just move.

Bethany’s scent still clings to my jacket, and I need it gone. Need her out of my line of sight, out of my brain. And I need someone to outbid her. And lucky for me, Peyton despises me enough that she's the perfect person to not twist this into something more than a simple deal—no strings.

She’s at the bar, standing behind two men in suits. She’s half-turned away, studying the crowd, completely unaware that she just might be my only shot at salvaging tonight.

The line moves. She steps forward, delicate fingers wrapping around the edge of the marble bar.

“Peyton,” I say, my voice low. Controlled. A warning and a plea.

She doesn’t even turn her head.

The bartender nods at her. “What can I get for you, ma’am?”

“Surprise me. Just no whiskey… It’s triggering,” she says, her voice smooth and cool.

I wince.

She said that loud enough for me to hear, yet she has no idea what kind of surprise I’m about to drop in her lap.

“Peyton,” I try again. “I know you don’t like me right now. We got off on the wrong foot, but I need to talk to you.”

Nothing. Not even a blink in my direction.

Screw it.

I reach into my jacket, pull out my wallet, and slap two crisp hundreds on the bar—despite the fact that this is an open bar and nobody’s paying for a damn thing.

“Keep her drinks coming,” I tell the bartender.

He freezes, eyes bouncing between Peyton and me like he’s trying to assess if I’m a stalker or just tragically stupid. Right now…I might be considered both.

Peyton finally turns her head toward him and lifts one brow. “Well, if he’s just going to burn through money for no reason, you might as well take it.”

The bartender takes the tip with a nod and then heads off to mix whatever chaos she just ordered.

She shifts just enough to glance at me out of the corner of her eye. Her mouth is a perfect, unimpressed line.

“What do you want, Reed?”

There’s no warmth in her voice. None of the body language I’m used to from the opposite sex. No leaning in to touch my arm, no breathy laugh, no playing with her hair like she’s waiting for me to make the next move.

She’s becoming colder toward me the longer I stand here, her stiff posture making it evident that she’s only interested in this conversation ending as soon as possible.

And yet somehow, there’s this soft, unexpected scent—vanilla and honeysuckle—that doesn’t match her closed-off stance. It’s inviting in a way she isn’t. And that messes with me more than it should.

The most important thing?

She hasn’t walked away.

And right now, that’s all I’ve got.

I lean in closer, quickly glancing around us to make sure no one is close enough to eavesdrop on our conversation. “I need you to bid on me tonight.”

Peyton blinks slowly, like I’ve just asked her to help me bury a body. “I’m sorry, I think I must have blacked out just now, because I could have sworn you just asked me to bid on a date with you.”

“Yeah, that’s right.”

She makes a scoffing sound and looks around like everyone nearby should be cracking up right along with her at the absurdity of my request.

I get it. I wasn’t expecting to ask her either, but here I am, and I just so happen to know that she wants something from me too.

An interview.

“You’re kidding, right? I can’t think of anything I’d like less than to go on a date with you.”

Her insult should sting, but it doesn’t. I’m too focused on my goal.