Page 10

Chapter Ten

Hunter

I stand at the front of the players' lounge, arms crossed, gaze scanning the room as my warriors settle in. They’re locked in, focused. Every single one of them knows what tomorrow is.

War.

Vancouver flashes on the projector screen behind me—lines, stats, film footage rolling in slow motion. Their defensive structure, their top goal scorers, their weaknesses.

I've spent hours scouring the opposition, and now it's time for my final presentation. I keep my voice even, controlled, my laser focus on the game plan.

“This is their first line,” I say, tapping the screen. “High speed, quick on transition. Connor, they'll try to crowd your crease early. Push back hard. Make them earn for every inch."

I click to the next slide, footage of Vancouver's top line cycling the puck.

"Their wingers love the back-door play."

Connor nods, jaw set. "Got it, Coach."

That was a test. I know they're focused because there's no giggling at 'back door play'.

"Blake." I pause the video on their defense. "They're going to try to take away your time and space. Quick releases, no hesitation."

"Already on it." Blake leans forward, studying the screen. "That third pairing looks shaky on their transitions."

"Exactly. We exploit that." I tap my tablet, bringing up our power play formation. "They'll be physical, but we stay disciplined. Smart hockey wins playoff games."

The team hangs on my every word as I break down Vancouver's penalty kill. Twenty pairs of eyes locked on the screen, absorbing every detail. This is what I live for—the preparation, the strategy, the—

My voice catches.

There she is. Tucked in the corner, laptop balanced on her knees, coffee cup in hand. But it's not her presence that stops me cold.

It's my hoodie.

My hoodie.

My team-issued Icehawks hoodie with COACH brODY printed down the sleeve in gray letters against the dark green fabric. The one I thought was hanging in my closet.

The room spins for a moment.

Is she going through my things? When did she—

Her eyes lift, meeting mine. A tiny smile plays at her lips as she takes another sip of coffee, clearly satisfied that I seem to have noticed.

I force myself back to the presentation. "Their neutral zone trap—" My voice sounds strange in my ears. I click through the remaining slides on autopilot, much too aware of my hoodie draped over that sexy fucking body.

"Tomorrow, we take Game One." I clear my throat, addressing the team. "Nothing less than victory will do."

The room fills with determined nods and fist bumps. Blake's gaze meeting Connor's, Ryder's hand clasping Logan's shoulder, every player radiating the kind of focused intensity that makes my chest swell with pride.

"Now get out of here," I announce. "Relax today, and for the love of God, take it easy. Eli's expecting you at Ridgeview. Team dinner is on me."

Cheers erupt as the guys file out, their energy electric, ready for battle. But I barely notice. Natalie's looking at me with those questioning green eyes, clearly wondering if I'm going to react to whatever game she's playing right now.

I don't give her the satisfaction. Can't trust myself around her when she's wearing my clothes like that.

I turn and walk out the door. I've got somewhere else to be.

Somewhere that, just like my damn hoodie, probably smells like her too.

***

A few hours later, with my team happily distracted at Ridgeview Tavern, I grip the keys to Natalie's apartment in my fist, the cold metal sticking into my palm like a painful reminder that I probably shouldn't be here.

But she left them on my kitchen counter this morning, scattered amongst her endless trail of other belongings that she leaves laying around the fucking place.

I glance over my shoulder. It's dark, and I've waited until now to meet the guy I've lined up to help Natalie sort this place out.

The lock sticks as I push the key in, then with a jiggle and some creative cursing, it gives.

The second I step inside, it hits me.

Vanilla and jasmine and her . I close the door, breathing in that lingering scent of dampness that I ignore, instead choosing to focus on the smell of her shampoo that she always smells like after practice.

Then I see everything.

Water drips steadily from three different spots in the ceiling. Buckets catch what they can, but dark stains spread across the ceiling like bruises.

I drag a hand down my face, exhaling hard as I scan the space.

Jesus Christ.

It’s even worse than I thought.

My chest tightens. This is where she's been living? While I'm up in my mountain fortress with heated floors and smart appliances that talk to me… she's been dealing with this ?

The most stubborn woman on the planet had been sleeping here. Showering in this goddamn disaster. Coming home to a place that was actively sinking around her and pretending like it wasn’t a big deal.

She still thinks she has to wait three weeks for some half-assed contractor to maybe fix it. She has no idea I’ve already handled it.

Or at least, I'm about to.

I take another step forward, my foot catching the edge of a damp towel.

A framed photo catches my eye. It's a picture of a younger Natalie with an elderly woman, both grinning at the camera. Her grandmother. She told me about her. She's the one who left her this place.

I run my finger along a water-warped bookshelf. She told me once how she used to curl up in that window seat while her grandmother baked cookies, reading romance novels and dreaming of her own happy ending.

Now that same window seat is covered in towels, soaking up water from a leak above.

A glint of something pink catches my eye on the kitchen counter. Her Chapstick. Of course. Her whole life is scattered like breadcrumbs between here and my house.

I pick it up, rolling the tube between my fingers. Vanilla cupcake flavor. The same one that's probably buried in my couch cushions right now.

A smile tugs at my lips.

My phone buzzes and there's footsteps at the door before a gentle knock.

10:45 PM. Right on time.

I open the front door to find Mike Peters, Iron Ridge's best contractor, standing there in work boots and a weathered jacket.

"Coach Brody." His eyes widen. "Thanks for calling."

"Thanks for coming out so late." I extend my hand. "Really appreciate it, man."

"Are you kidding? After that win against Chicago?" Mike steps inside, then freezes. "Whew. That's... something."

"Tomorrow's the big one. Vancouver." I reach into my jacket, pull out an envelope with two tickets tucked inside. "Section 16. Right behind the bench. Take your son."

Mike's face lights up. "Hunter, you didn't have to-"

"Least I could do. Consider it a bonus for coming out so late." I gesture at the ceiling. "So what are we looking at here?"

Mike moves through the apartment, poking at walls and frowning at water stains. "Jesus. Place should've been condemned years ago. Whole building's got issues."

My jaw tightens. "Can you fix it?"

Mike exhales, rubbing a hand over his beard as he steps further inside, assessing the damage. He toes at one of the soaked towels near the window seat, shakes his head.

"Yeah, but..." He taps a particularly nasty wet spot. "If it were me? I'd be looking for a new place. What is this? Some kind of investment for you?"

I look around, seeing Natalie's life in ruins before my eyes.

"Yeah. Something like that."

Mike pulls out a small notebook, scribbles something down, then points toward the ceiling. “Leaks are coming from old pipes in the unit above. I’ll need to cut into the drywall, probably replace a few beams.”

“Do it.”

He nods, stepping into the kitchen. “Cabinets are buckling from the moisture. Flooring’s shot. You sure you want to save this place?”

I stare at the photo of Natalie and her grandmother, at the worn bookshelf, the stacks of paperbacks she obviously refuses to throw out. This place isn’t just some shitty apartment to her. It’s home.

“I'm sure,” I say. “Just make it livable.”

Mike scribbles in his notebook. "Well, alright. I'll replace the plumbing, probably redo the whole bathroom..."

"Do it. Whatever it takes." I pause. "And while you're at it... maybe upgrade a few things. New fixtures. Better insulation. I'll send you a list."

"Sure, but that'll add-"

I wave him off. "Just make it right."

He pauses, pen hovering over his notepad.

"And Mike?" I meet his eyes. "Keep this between us. It stays anonymous, all these repairs."

He nods, understanding. "Not a word, Coach."

Mike and I step out into the cold night air, locking up behind us.

"Good luck tomorrow, Coach. We'll all be watching."

"Thanks for this, Mike."

I slide into my Ferrari, watching his truck pull away before heading up the mountain road toward home. The dashboard clock reads 11:30 PM. Less than twenty-four hours until Vancouver.

I need some sleep.

Once I'm parked inside the garage, I kill the engine and head inside. The roller door hums shut behind me as I punch in the security code. My shoulders ache. Twenty hours until puck drop against Vancouver.

Grabbing a beer from the fridge, I pause at the window. The Nest glows in the distance, stadium lights creating a beautiful halo over downtown Iron Ridge.

Tomorrow those seats will be packed. The ice will be perfect.

And Vancouver...

I roll my neck, trying to shake off old ghosts. Time to get some sleep.

But when I round the corner to my living room, I stop dead. There on my leather couch, curled up so delicate and cute looking, is Natalie.

And she's still wearing that damn hoodie.

I move over, seeing how her dark hair spills across the armrest. She's completely passed out, one of my expensive wool throws twisted around her like a cocoon. The TV remote dangles precariously from her fingers, and an empty wine glass sits on the coffee table—without a coaster, I might add.

My gaze travels down to her feet, where one sensible work sock remains while its partner has apparently gone AWOL in my living room.

The sight of her here, making herself so thoroughly at home in my carefully ordered space, would usually infuriate me.

Instead, I find myself fighting back a smile.

Her face is peaceful in sleep, dark lashes fanned against her cheeks, and there's a tiny spot of drool on my thousand-dollar throw pillow. Fantastic.

My villain origin story, she'd called it earlier. Looking at her now, peaceful and perfect in my space, I'm starting to think she might be mine instead.

I should wake her. Tell her to go upstairs to the guest room where she belongs.

Instead, I do something insane.

I step forward and slide one arm beneath her knees, the other supporting her back. She weighs nothing as I lift her against my chest.

Natalie shifts, nuzzling closer. Her cheek finds my shoulder, and her breath whispers across my collarbone, warm and sweet. The scent of vanilla fills my head and I think back to the mess back at her apartment.

"Fuck," I mutter.

This is bad. This is catastrophically bad.

But I'm already moving, carrying her up the stairs with careful, quiet steps. Her fingers curl into my shirt, and I nearly stumble.

The guest room is dark when I shoulder open the door. Moonlight spills through the windows and I manage to press the button on the nightstand to close the blinds.

I lay Natalie down on the bed with more care than I've shown anything in years.

Quietly, I pull the blanket over her, tucking it around her shoulders. My hand hovers near her face, wanting to brush back that wayward strand of hair that's trapped under her chin.

"Mmm." She stirs, those green eyes fluttering. "Hunter?"

My stomach plummets. Her voice is sleep-soft, barely there.

"Yeah, baby," I whisper roughly. "Go back to sleep."

Her eyes flutter open, unfocused and dreamy in the dim light. For a moment, she just stares up at me, confusion softening her face. My heart hammers against my ribs as I try to step back, to put distance between us.

No touching.

But then her hand lifts, and her fingers brush my jaw. The touch is feather-light, devastating in my attempts to step back.

"Hunter, I missed you tonight."

Fuck. Is she even awake? Her eyes are hazy, caught between sleep and consciousness.

I can't breathe. Can't move. Can't think past the warmth of her fingers on my skin.

Pull back. I need to pull back.

But Natalie shifts closer. The blanket slides down her shoulder, and I catch a glimpse of my team logo across her chest.

My hoodie. My bed. My Natalie.

Then her lips find mine.

Just the softest brush. Barely there. But it's enough to taste the vanilla Chapstick, enough to feel the warmth of her breath mingling with mine again.

I let it last a second too long, memorizing the sensation before I force myself to pull away.

Natalie blinks up at me, those green eyes clearing slightly. "I'm dreaming, aren't I?"

My voice comes out wrecked. "Go back to sleep, baby."