Page 12

Chapter Twelve

Hunter

E very seat is filled, thousands of voices merging into one deafening hum.

The Nest is packed—fans standing shoulder to shoulder, jerseys tight over winter layers, green and gray scarves held high.

A single spotlight illuminates center ice, where a lone singer grips the microphone.

"Oh, say can you see…"

My hand finds its way over my heart as the National Anthem blares around the arena.

I scan the rafters, taking in each banner. Names and numbers immortalized in green and gray. Not a single empty seat. Twenty years I've chased this dream, first on the ice, then behind the bench.

Now we're here. My team, my shot.

Natalie stands in the tunnel, arms crossed over her chest. Even from here, I can see the stress in her shoulders, the way she's biting her lower lip.

Our eyes meet across the distance. The air changes, everything else fading away for a split second. Her lips part, and I know that look. She wants to say something, probably something that'll shake my focus right when I need it most.

Or maybe she'd wish me good luck.

After last night, I'm not sure what the hell is going on.

My knee throbs like hell tonight. Like it knows who’s on the other side of the ice. Like it remembers what they did to me.

I press a little more weight onto my good leg, shifting so no one sees.

I won’t give them that.

Won’t let them see what still lingers after all these years.

The final note of the anthem soars. The crowd explodes to life, drowning out whatever might have happened between us as I laid her down in that bed.

The moment is gone. The puck is about to drop. The battle is about to begin.

I turn, game face locked in.

The puck drops.

The roar around the arena hits me hard. Years of coaching, and I've never heard anything like this. The sound reverberates through my chest, rattles my bones, drowns out everything but the clash of bodies and steel on ice.

Blake wins the face-off clean, but Vancouver's defense pounces. Their forwards are everywhere, like sharks circling prey. The speed of their forecheck catches us off guard.

"Move your feet!" I bark as Connor scrambles to cover his post. The puck ricochets off the boards, a blur of black rubber and flashing blades.

My fingers curl around the barrier, knuckles white. These aren't the same Canucks from twenty years ago, but watching their jerseys swarm my zone sets my teeth on edge.

Ryder takes a hit to make a play, buying time for Logan to clear the zone. The crowd surges with each collision, every near-miss making them lean forward in their seats.

"Reset! Reset!" I call out line changes, tracking Vancouver's patterns.

They're faster than our game tape showed, their transitions smooth as silk. They're here to play. My mind's already racing through adjustments – shorter shifts, tighter gaps in the neutral zone.

Blake battles for position, muscles straining as he pins their center against the boards. The puck squirts free to Connor, who sends it up the wing with a flash of his stick.

My system is solid. We've drilled these plays until they could do them in their sleep. But Vancouver keeps coming in waves, testing every seam, every connection.

The game clock ticks down. Five minutes gone, and we're already in the fight of our lives.

In a flash, Vancouver are on the offense. Three dead-eye passes and they've got a wrist shot right on target.

But Connor explodes across the crease, his glove flashing up like lightning. The puck disappears into leather, and the arena erupts.

That's my goalie.

I feel movement behind me, catch a whiff of vanilla that doesn't belong in a hockey arena.

Natalie works the bench like a maestro, her hands quick and sure as she re-tapes Ryder's wrist. A line change happens before me and Logan rolls his shoulder, and straight away, she's there, working out the knot without missing a beat.

She's incredible at what she does. Professional. Focused.

Everything I should be right now, instead of remembering how she felt in my arms last night. The way she nuzzled into my chest when I carried her upstairs. That sleepy kiss that she hasn't even mentioned.

My jaw clenches.

Focus.

Something behind the bench catches my eye – Mike waves from his seats, his son glued to the action on the ice with hearts for eyeballs. Mike shoots me a wink, the arm around his son and the pride in his eyes saying thank you more than words ever could.

I give him a quick nod, forcing my attention back to the ice where it belongs.

The horn blares, signaling the end of the first period. Twenty minutes down, scoreless. Vancouver's shown their hand – now it's time to counter.

"Connor!" I call out as he skates past. "Hell of a save, kid."

He taps his mask with his blocker, that quiet confidence I've worked to build in him shining through. We head down the tunnel, and I feel Natalie fall into step behind me, close enough that I can sense her presence but careful to maintain that professional distance we've agreed on.

I give the team a quick rundown in the locker room. Short, direct. No time for speeches - they know what's at stake.

Back on the ice, the crowd's thundering in my ears. The energy's different now. Vancouver's showing their teeth, and my guys need to match that intensity.

They're nervous. The fans are nervous.

And I'm fucking terrified.

Logan positions himself for the face-off, solid as always. The puck drops, and then—

The hit comes out of nowhere.

Number twenty-seven launches himself at Logan's blindside, catching him high and late. The sound of impact cuts through the arena noise like a gunshot. Logan crumples.

"That's fucking boarding!" I'm at the boards, blood pounding in my temples. "Open your eyes, stripes!"

The refs wave it off. No call. The game continues while my enforcer's down on the ice.

Logan tries to push himself up, but his body betrays him. He's hunched over, one arm wrapped around his ribs, face twisted in pain.

This isn't Logan being dramatic. He's a touch guy. If he's stayed down… he's hurt.

Natalie's already moving, medical kit in hand. She glides across the ice with urgency, dropping to her knees beside him. Her hands are steady as she checks his ribs, her lips moving as she talks it through.

I watch every movement. The way she guides Logan to take shallow breaths. How she tests his range of motion. The gentle but firm way she assesses the damage to his ribcage.

My fingers dig into the boards. Twenty-seven's smirking on the Vancouver bench, and I'm cataloging every second of this.

That hit wasn't hockey - it was intent to injure.

Logan shifts, testing his movement one last time. Natalie's hands guide him through the motion, and when she turns to give me a thumbs up, the knot in my chest loosens slightly.

"He's good to continue, Coach," she calls.

I spin toward the refs, my voice cutting through the arena noise. "That's textbook boarding! You gonna wait until someone's carried off on a stretcher?"

The ref skates past, dismissive. "I called play on. That's the call."

"Bullshit! Twenty-seven left his feet!"

My blood's boiling as Vancouver takes possession. The game flies by and nothing I change is working. We're down by one in the third, and these zebras are letting them get away with murder.

"SHORT SHIFTS!" I bark, pacing behind the bench. "HIGH PRESSURE! DON'T GIVE THEM AN INCH!"

Natalie appears at my side, her voice low and steady. "Logan's ribs are bruised but intact. He can play through it."

I nod, eyes locked on the ice where Blake's fighting for position. Vancouver's defense is starting to crack, their movements getting sloppy with fatigue.

The Nest is behind us all the way, and finally, their screaming pays off.

Blake intercepts a lazy pass at center ice. He's got speed, burning past their defenseman like he's standing still. The Vancouver D-man reaches, desperate, but Blake's already gone.

He dekes left, pulls right, and the goalie bites hard.

Blake shoots.

The puck hits twine.

The arena explodes.

My fist slams the boards as the goal horn blares. Tie game and we're heading to overtime to decide this one.

Blake circles the arena, blows kisses to his girl up in the corporate box and slaps our hands as he skates past the box.

I'm stone-cold at the bench, every muscle locked. No more yelling. No more pacing. Just pure focus as overtime begins.

The crowd's deafening, but I filter it out.

One mistake. One shot. That's all it takes in overtime.

My mind catalogs every detail. Vancouver's defense is gassed, their passes getting sloppy. But they're still dangerous - maybe more so now that they're desperate.

Blake takes a hit along the boards but maintains possession. Logan, still favoring his ribs, positions himself perfectly to clear the zone. The pieces are moving exactly where they need to be.

Vancouver's getting cocky. Their D-man pinches too hard at our blue line, trying to keep the puck in. Fatal mistake.

Ryder sees it. He's already moving before the puck squirts free. Kid's got wheels - he blazes up the wing like he's been shot from a cannon.

Vancouver's scrambling to recover, but they're too late. Ryder's got a clear lane, and Blake's streaking up the middle.

"Yes! Go!" I shout, heart pounding.

The pass is perfect - tape to tape.

Blake catches it in stride. He's one-on-one with their goalie now.

Goalie bites again. To his left. Just like before.

Blake's all over him, he's in his head and he pulls it right.

The puck leaves his stick, hitting top shelf.

Game over.

The Nest erupts. My players pour over the boards, mobbing Blake at center ice. The sound is physical now, a wave of pure joy and relief washing over everything.

But I'm still standing there, perfectly still.

And my knee?

It’s screaming like it did that night in Vancouver when I knew I’d never play again. Knew I’d never have this moment as a player.

It's throbbed painfully all damn night, but I just beat the team that ended my playing career.

Game One is ours.

The team's still celebrating when Natalie materializes in front of me, her smile brighter than the arena lights. She's beaming at me like I just performed a miracle instead of coaching a hockey game.

Before my brain can process what's happening, she launches herself at me.

I catch her, pulling her close. Too close.

That fucking scent of her shampoo, her apartment, her clothes… it all hits me, and her body molds against mine as I bounce her up and down with excitement. My throat constricts as I breathe her in.

She pulls back just enough to meet my eyes, hers sparkling with joy as we celebrate together. "You did it, Hunter! You did it!"

"No, we did it." I smile, my hands suddenly down on her hips. "Including you."

Her fingers dig into my shoulders. "I just tape ankles and massage shoulders."

"You've kept this team healthy. You keep me sane." The words slip out before I can stop them.

She raises a brow, and that dimple appears in her left cheek. "Coach Brody, was that almost a compliment?"

"Don't let it go to your head, Hayes."

She’s still in my arms, laughing with me. I should let go. Should step back. But I don’t.

Because for one night—just one fucking night—I let myself have this.

Camera flashes explode around us. The crowd's roar becomes deafening.

For the first time in twenty years of coaching, I let my guard down.

Let myself smile. Really smile.

In the locker room, chaos reigns. Beer sprays everywhere as the boys whoop and holler. The bass thumps through speakers while they belt out victory songs off-key.

I hang back, watching them celebrate as Big Mike demands we continue the party at his mansion on the hill.

My team cheers, and for just one night, two decades of weight starts to lift from my shoulders.

Natalie bumps my hip as she comes to stand beside me. She's holding a fresh towel, that smile lifting her chapped lips that still somehow overpowers the smell of Deep Heat on her hands.

"Still grumpy?"

I exhale, shaking my head.

"Not tonight."