Page 11

Chapter Eleven

Natalie

I wake with a start, my mind fuzzy around the edges.

I blink up at the unfamiliar ceiling, the heavy comforter wrapped around my body like a burrito. My muscles feel warm, relaxed. Like I slept well .

Which is weird, considering I had one glass of wine at Ridgeview last night. Maybe two if you count the one on the sofa when I got home.

I rub my face, exhaling slowly as I stretch my legs under the covers. A hazy warmth lingers in my bones, like a whisper of something soft. Something fleeting.

And then—

A voice.

Yeah, baby. Go back to sleep.

I roll over, pressing my face into the pillow. Fragments of a dream float through my consciousness—Hunter's voice, low and gentle. The brush of his fingers against my cheek. His lips, yes.. his lips.

"Get it together, Hayes." I groan into the pillow. "It's not like this is the first time you've had that dream."

And it's not. My subconscious has been torturing me with Hunter-themed dreams since I joined the Icehawks. Usually they're a lot steamier than this, though.

This felt different. Real.

I drag myself out of bed, my feet soon sinking into the heated floor tiles on the bathroom. The mirror shows my reflection, hair a mess and I'm… still wearing Hunter's team hoodie? No pajamas?

Come to think of it, I don't actually remember coming up to bed last night. Weird.

The shower starts with a push of a button, water streaming from multiple directions in a luxurious cascade. I step under the spray, letting the cold shock clear my head before I crank the heat up.

"Brain," I mutter, working shampoo through my hair, "I need you to get your shit together today. Game one of playoffs. Stay focused."

But the dream lingers, refusing to fade like dreams should.

So I do what any sane woman would do…

I grab the detachable showerhead, crank the water pressure up to high, and press it between my legs like I’m trying to rinse off every bad decision I’ve never even made.

I shift my weight, tilting my hips, and—

"Ohhhhh…"

A jagged breath escapes me as a tingling sensation starts at my pussy and races through my veins. My fingers tighten around the metal, suddenly clumsy, as I find the exact angle, the exact pressure I need.

It's been too long. Way too long.

My breath quickens as I press harder, starting to move it in slow circles against my clit. My toes curl as I let my head fall back, water raining over my face, washing away the remnants of last night's dreams.

That stupid, confusing dream. Hunter’s voice flashes through my head.

Yeah, baby. Go back to sleep.

A strangled moan escapes me, and my free hand grips the slick tiles behind me, my back arching as I grind my core against the relentless stream.

The water pressure is relentless, the sensation building and building. I bite my lip, moving faster now, chasing that delicious edge.

I squeeze my eyes shut, but the images come anyway. Hunter’s rough hands gripping my hips, his mouth at my ear, those goddamn intense eyes pinning me in place.

Fuck.

I bite down on my lip, a desperate attempt to stay quiet as my orgasm slams into me, sudden and intense. My legs shake, my head dropping forward as pleasure ripples through my entire body.

A choked breath shudders past my lips as I slump back against the shower wall, my limbs loose, my skin flushed, the water streaming over me.

My orgasm is still pulsing through me, my body still trembling, when—

"NATALIE! WAKE THE FUCK UP!"

Hunter’s voice booms from the other side of the bathroom door.

I freeze.

The showerhead drops from my hand with a thunk . While more banging at the door vibrates the entire fucking house, it whips around like an angry snake and sprays ice-cold water directly at my face.

I yelp, nearly slipping, scrambling to grab the damn thing while flailing like a newborn lamb.

"Natalie?" Hunter’s voice is sharper now. "What the hell is going on in there?"

"Go away! I'll be down in a minute!"

I slap the water off, press my hands to my face.

Yep, definitely a dream.

***

The Summit Café buzzes with an energy I've never felt before. Every surface gleams with Icehawks green and gray—jerseys, scarves, even face paint on the die-hard fans cramming into every available space. The line for coffee snakes out the door and onto the sidewalk.

Lucky for us, we get priority to Clara delicious house-made blend.

Which is great, because after the chaotic disaster of my morning, I need the strongest caffeine they’ve got if I've got any chance of shaking off the lingering embarrassment of nearly concussing myself in the shower while self-care-ing my way through a Hunter-induced situation.

Then there was the banging —and not the fun kind—on the bathroom door, followed by a very loud, very irate coach threatening to leave me behind if I wasn’t ready in five minutes.

To be fair, after that kind of wake-up call, I was in the car with four and a half minutes to spare.

A new record.

I squeeze past a group of college guys debating power play statistics to reach the counter, where Clara orchestrates the morning chaos like a highly trained caffeine conductor.

"Double shot for the coach?" Clara winks at Hunter, who's radiating tension beside me in his perfectly pressed game-day suit.

"Make it a triple." I lean against the counter. "He hasn't cracked a smile all morning."

Hunter's jaw tightens. "Both of you—shut up."

Clara laughs, already pulling the shots. "Someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed."

"Don't mind him. He's always like this on game days. And most other days."

I watch Hunter scan the room, completely ignoring me, probably counting his players and mentally reviewing plays instead.

His game-day intensity hits different today. There's something raw beneath the surface, something personal.

Vancouver. The team that stole his future.

The café erupts in cheers as Connor and Blake walk in, both sporting their lucky playoff ties. Ryder trails behind them, already wearing his game-day suit and looking every bit the part.

"Coach!" A little boy in a tiny Icehawks jersey tugs at Hunter's sleeve. "Can you sign my jersey?"

For a split second, Hunter's game face cracks. He crouches down, pulling a pen from his jacket. "What's your name, buddy?"

"Henry. I'm gonna play for the Icehawks one day!"

"Yeah?" Hunter signs with a big movement of his hand. "You better work hard then."

"I practice every day! Just like you did!"

I watch Hunter's shoulders tense, just slightly. But his voice stays gentle. "That's the way to do it, kid. You got a ticket, bud?"

Henry bounces on his toes, shaking his head. "Mom couldn't get tickets. But I'm gonna watch on TV and cheer super loud!"

Hunter reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out two tickets. "Section 70, row F." He hands them to the wide-eyed boy. "Make sure you wear that jersey."

"Really? Mom! Mom! Look what Coach gave us!"

Henry's mother appears, looking flustered. "Oh no, we couldn't possibly—"

"I insist." Hunter stands, straightening his suit. "We all get tickets for family and friends. My parents are watching from their home in Boston. Every kid deserves to see their first playoff game in person."

My chest tightens watching this exchange. The way Hunter's eyes soften when he talks to Henry. How his usual intensity melts into something warmer, gentler, despite how nervous I know he is inside.

It's a side of him I've only caught glimpses of. So rare and pure, like I'm staring right into Narnia.

Henry throws his arms around Hunter's waist. "Thank you, Coach! I'm gonna be just like you when I grow up!"

Hunter's hand hesitates for just a moment before patting Henry's back. "Better. You're gonna be better."

Heat pools in my stomach. This man who can silence a room with a look, who drives his players to excellence through sheer force of will, is completely undone by a kid's pure joy.

Clara slides Hunter's coffee across the counter. He stands, ruffling Henry's hair before taking a long drink and watching the kid disappear into the crowd.

His eyes meet mine over the rim of his cup, and for a moment, I see past the stern coach facade to the player he used to be. The one who had his dreams ripped away on Vancouver ice.

God, I want him to win today.

Not just for the team or the town, but for that younger version of himself who never got his shot at glory.

I take a sip of my coffee, still watching Hunter. He’s locked in now, shoulders squared, fully in Coach Mode . But something about him today is different. And it can't just be the game.

"You good?" I nudge him, expecting him to grumble about Vancouver or double-check the time.

But instead, his eyes cut to mine.

"Yeah. You slept okay?"

His voice is lower than before. I assume it's because we're not telling anyone I'm staying at his house.

My brain stutters.

"Uh… yeah. Great, actually." I force a grin, waving it off. "Your mattress is like sleeping on a cloud."

He nods once. Just a simple, short movement. But I don’t miss the way his jaw shifts. The way his eyes drop to my mouth.

Almost like he’s remembering something I should remember, too.

"Alright!" Hunter's deep voice cuts through the café chatter. "To all my boys! Bus leaves in twenty. Anyone late runs suicides tomorrow."

Through Summit Café's window, Main Street is electric with a carnival like atmosphere. Fresh snow dusts the sidewalks, and Icehawks banners flutter from every lamppost.

The whole town sparkles like a giant playoff snow globe.

It's picture perfect, but that's when I hear it. The low rumble of a diesel engine.

The café goes eerily silent, soft murmurs and whispers replacing the shouts of excitement and confidence. Every set of eyes turns to the window.

The Vancouver team bus rolls down Main Street.

My stomach drops as those familiar orca logos pass by, frame by frame, through the café's windows.

The entire café is silent. Forks freeze mid-bite. Conversations die mid-word. Even Clara stops wiping down the counter.

Those jerseys. That logo. They're here, in our town, on our streets.

This isn't just another game anymore.

This is war.

I watch Hunter's reflection in the window. His jaw clenches, and his knuckles go white around his coffee cup. Twenty years of buried history written in the lines of his face.

The Vancouver players file off their bus, all swagger and confidence. They've been here before. Done this before. Ended dreams before.

But they've never faced our Hunter Brody.

I want to reach for him, to squeeze his arm, to remind him he's not that injured rookie anymore. He's the coach who took an underdog team to the playoffs. The man who literally just made a little boy's dream come true with playoff tickets.

The man who carries his old wounds like armor.

Henry presses his face against the window, his signed jersey wrinkled against the glass. He's silent too, staring in awe at the sight before the entire town.

As the bus comes to a halt, Hunter's voice carries through the silent café.

"Icehawks. Let's go."

Holy shit. This is real.