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Chapter Two

Natalie

I 've seen weddings with less effort than whatever the hell Eli has done to Ridgeview Tavern tonight.

The place is decked out. And I mean, decked the hell out .

A massive Icehawks banner stretches across the bar. It's only slightly wrinkled from what I can assume was Eli’s last-minute attempt to staple it up after one too many pre-game beers. Over the top, in very questionable spray-paint handwriting, he’s scrawled:

PLAYOFFS, BABY!

As if the entire town isn’t already losing its collective mind over the Icehawks making it this far. As if every person here isn’t still riding the high of last night’s win.

Now we get to have the entire place to ourselves while we watch the final game of the regular season play out, the winner determining who the Icehawks will face in the first round of the playoffs.

It's just the Icehawks team packed into the tavern tonight, all decked out in their special edition playoff jerseys, beanies, and the kind of chaotic, barely-contained energy that comes when you’ve been celebrating for twenty-four straight hours and somehow still have adrenaline to burn.

And then there’s me.

Sitting at the bar, sipping my Hat Trick - Eli’s very tequila-heavy signature playoff cocktail - doing my best to act normal. Like I didn’t spend last night tangled up in a very naked, very off-limits hockey coach.

Like I don’t have a rule about keeping things professional. Like I didn’t work my ass off to get here, earning my place on this team - not because of my hometown connections, not because of luck…

But because I’m damn good at what I do.

And because I love this town.

Because no matter how many offers I got to move somewhere bigger, somewhere 'better,' nothing could ever make me leave Iron Ridge.

It’s home. Always has been.

Connor slides onto the barstool next to me, stroking that new monstrosity on his face like it's a beloved pet. His 'playoff beard' has suddenly reached epic proportions, and the playoff campaign hasn't even begun.

We're talking full-on mountain man status. The auburn mess practically has its own zip code at this point.

"I'm telling you, Nat, the thicker this thing gets, the more goals I save. And the more goals I save…"

He gives me a look, flashing his eyes at me as if I'm jumping at the chance to finish his sentence like some kind of kindergartener.

I take a sip of my drink, grateful for the distraction from my Hunter-related thoughts. "Connor, you're looking more and more like a lumberjack who lost a bet every day that passes with that thing growing on your face."

" Pfft. " Connor puffs up his chest, clearly proud of the facial disaster he's cultivating. "It's called commitment. You should try it sometime."

"It's called a cry for help." Sophia appears at my other side, sliding onto the barstool. Her engagement ring catches the light - because of course Blake would pick out something that sparkles like the ice under arena lights.

I force a laugh at Connor’s beard antics, grateful the conversation has veered away from the dreaded 'commitment' word he slid in there. Again. My mind's been a hamster wheel of Hunter Brody and his damn 'one last time' declaration all day.

Commitment. Ha. That’s rich, considering I grew up watching my parents treat their marriage like a joint business venture. No passion. No love. Just a shared mortgage and barely polite, surface-level conversation over dinner.

Sophia’s hand lands gently on my shoulder. “You okay, Nat?”

I nod too quickly. “Yeah, just tired. It’s been a long week.”

Not a lie. But not the whole truth either.

Because as much as I tease her, a small part of me wants what she has. Not just the ring, not just the big, over-the-top proposal.

I want the certainty. Someone to look at me like I'm the best damn thing that's ever happened to them. Show the love that I never got to see growing up, but have seen blossom between my newest best friend and Blake Maddox.

Sophia doesn’t look convinced at my answer, but thankfully, Blake appears, sweeping Sophia into a kiss that could melt the snow frosting the windows of Ridgeview Tavern.

I can’t help but smile at their happiness, even as a pang of envy hits me square in the chest.

Connor nudges me with his elbow, leaning in conspiratorially. "Ah, don't be jealous of those two. Blake can't grow a beard to save his life."

Blake's hands move from the back of Sophia's head to smack Connor around the back of his.

"Honey, Blake's facial hair situation is perfect exactly as it is." Sophia says to Connor and flags down Eli for another round. "Unlike whatever wilderness preserve you've got going on."

I snort into my drink, grateful for their banter.

It's easier to focus on Connor's questionable grooming choices than on the way Hunter's been avoiding eye contact since he walked in ten minutes ago. Or how his jaw clenches every time he glances in my direction. Or how my skin still tingles when I remember his hands all over me last night.

Urgh. Not going there. Not now.

Eli saunters over, his energy radiating off him like one of those old space heaters that never dies. "Alright kids, who's ready for the spread?"

I lean over the bar to peek at his masterpiece and - holy hell .

The man has transformed his usual bar food into an actual work of art. Nachos tower like the Swiss Alps, drowning in melted cheese, jalapenos, and what looks like his secret recipe ground beef. Silver platters line the bar, loaded with perfectly golden sliders. Ridgeview's Special Wings gleam with sticky sauce, and there's definitely some kind of bacon-wrapped situation happening over there that's making my mouth water.

"Eli, you've outdone yourself." I gesture at my empty glass. "But I might need another Hat Trick to soak up all that grease."

He winks, already mixing the cocktail. "Only the best for playoff season, sweetheart. This beauty's got three different kinds of tequila - hence the name."

"The more the merrier."

"And merry you shall be."

Eli passes me the cocktail as Blake and Connor crowd around the bar, diving into hockey talk as the pre-game show starts on the massive screen behind us.

It's Chicago against Vancouver tonight. Winner will face the Icehawks next week in the first game of the playoffs.

"We've beat Chicago threes time this season," Blake grunts from behind me.

I sip my fresh Hat Trick as Ryder materializes beside Blake, sporting what appears to be... oh God.

"Please tell me that's not permanent marker on your forehead." I point at the red letters spelling 'ICEHAWKS'.

Ryder puffs up his chest. "Ruby Red lipstick. Mia's idea."

He jerks his head towards Mia, who's near the fireplace keeping warm with bright red lipstick on her smiling lips.

I smile back and wave, her hazel eyes sparkling as she adjusts the oversized Icehawks jersey she's clearly stolen from Ryder's closet.

The sight makes me smile. Those two have been friends forever, I just wish they would see what everyone else does.

"Vancouver's defense is swiss cheese this season." Blake leans against the bar, eyes fixed on the screen, completely ignoring the conversation. "But Chicago's got that new center from Finland-"

"Nieminen." Connor's fingers drum against his glass. "Guy's got hands like butter."

"Yeah, but their power play is garbage." Ryder swipes a handful of nachos the moment Eli lifts them onto the bar. "Twenty-sixth in the league."

"Says the kid who couldn't score on a power play if the net was empty." Blake reaches over to ruffle Ryder's hair.

"Hey, I scored against Vancouver already!"

"On a deflection." Connor and Blake say in unison.

I catch Eli's eye and tap my glass. "Don't go too far. I'm gonna need another one of these before long."

"Aw come on Hayes, you've been our PT long enough to know I'm right."

Ryder attempts to steal more nachos but Blake smacks his hand away.

Then, their voices fade into background noise as I feel it again - that familiar heat crawling up my spine.

I don't need to turn around to know Hunter's watching me. His stare burns into me from across the room, making my skin tingle like I've been struck by lightning.

When I finally risk a glance, the darkness in his eyes steals my breath.

Hungry . That's the only word for it.

I grab my fresh drink, taking a long sip to cool the flush rising in my cheeks. This push and pull between us isn't new. The way he tracks my movements like I'm the only person in the room, even when he's supposed to be focusing on the biggest game of the season.

The way I pretend not to notice, even as every cell in my body hums with awareness of exactly where he is, what he's doing, how many steps it would take to close this distance between us.

It's always been like this between us. Ever since the moment I stepped into Icehawk HQ a few years ago.

The crowd on screen roars as Chicago buries the first goal, and the tavern erupts with groans and curses. Eli smacks the bar with a towel, showing us who he wants in the playoffs, while Connor swears under his breath and shoves an entire chicken wing into his mouth, bones and all.

But I barely register the noise.

Because he’s still watching me.

Or, at least, he was.

I turn my head just in time to catch our Coach looking away, his expression unreadable, his grip on his beer tight like it’s the only thing keeping him from walking across this bar and ruining me.

God, how did we get here?

Three years ago, I walked into his office, fresh out of my residency, clutching my physio credentials like a lifeline.

Eager. Determined. Ready to prove myself.

And he was exactly what I expected - a strict, disciplined man who expected perfection. Of course that's what I expected. This is a professional hockey unit and they don't settle for anything less than the best.

I should’ve been intimidated.

Instead, I was… fascinated.

Hunter Brody is the ultimate NHL top-tier coach. The kind of man who thrives on control, on pushing his players beyond their limits, on never letting emotions interfere with business.

And yet, behind closed doors? He’s handsy as hell.

He grips my hips like he owns them. Lays his rules out in that deep, no-room-for-argument voice and then breaks them himself every time we’re alone.

But that’s just it. This sneaking around?

Deep down, it’s not who he is.

And watching Blake and Sophia, seeing how the media ripped them apart this season… maybe Hunter is right.

Maybe I do need to move on.

Maybe it’s time to stop waiting for a man who refuses to choose me back . That's exactly what got my parents into the situation they are. They chose convenience over love.

And I don't want that.

I take a long sip of my drink, forcing myself to focus on the game, snagging another handful of Eli's nachos at the same time. The cheese pulls in perfect strings, and the jalapenos hit just right. Just spicy enough to make my eyes water.

"These are insane." I lick sauce off my thumb.

Sophia nods and grabs a handful too.

The clock ticks down in the third period. Ten minutes. Five. Two. The tavern falls silent except for the crunch of chips and occasional curse words at the questionable commentary blaring from the big screen.

Chicago's defense tightens up, blocking shot after shot. They're playing for overtime, but Vancouver keep pushing for a winner.

Every set of eyes is on the TV. Except for Ryder's. He's shielding his eyes in the crook of Mia's shoulder.

"I can’t watch. Someone tell me when it’s over."

Mia pats him on the head like one of the shelter dogs at her clinic. "Ryder, you literally play in these games."

"Yeah, but I don’t have to watch myself screw up in real time!"

Thirty seconds.

The puck slides to Vancouver's Pettersson. He dekes past two defenders, crosses the blue line-

The entire bar holds its breath.

Shot-

Goal!

Final horn blares.

"Holy shit!" Connor's beer sloshes as he jumps up. "We're playing Vancouver!"

The tavern explodes. High fives crack through the air. Eli starts pouring victory shots like some kind of bartending wizard.

"Get your passports ready, boys!" Ryder bounces on his barstool like an overexcited puppy. His lipstick 'ICEHAWKS' smears across his forehead as beer splashes around us and he swipes his arm across it.

Blake grabs Connor in a headlock. "First round's on me!"

I can't help grinning as the team erupts around me. The energy is electric, infectious. Everyone's shouting playoff predictions and travel plans over each other.

And yet…

Through the chaos of celebration, I catch a glimpse of Hunter.

He isn’t celebrating. Isn’t even smiling.

The color has drained from his face, his usual confident stance crumbling. His fingers curl into white-knuckled fists at his sides, and before I even register what’s happening, he’s slipping toward the door.

No victory shots. No high fives. No shouting predictions with the rest of the coaching staff.

Shit.

This isn't the Hunter Brody I know. The man who barks orders during practice, who commands respect with a single look, who faces down the media without flinching.

The Hunter I know doesn't run from anything.

But right now? He's running.

In fact he's run so fast, he's gone.

The tavern door swings shut behind him, a blast of cold air cutting through the warmth of celebration led by none other than Eli who is now serving jug after jug of beer, tossing them at whoever grabs it first.

Through the frosted glass, Hunter's silhouette disappears into the night.

My stomach twists. In three years of working with Hunter, through losses and injuries and media storms, I've seen him frustrated. I've seen him angry. I've even seen him disappointed.

But I've never seen him scared.

Until now.