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Chapter Twenty-Six

Hunter

N atalie is staring at me like I just told her I ran over her childhood dog.

Seriously. The joy at my renovation reveal has drained from Natalie's face so fast it's like someone flipped a switch. Her eyes are wide, pupils dilated with shock.

“…Baby?” I frown, stepping closer, because what the actual fuck is happening right now?

She sways slightly, like she’s about to collapse.

“Oh my God. Oh my GOD .” She presses a hand to her chest, like she’s about to faint. “This is it, isn’t it? You’re leaving. You’re leaving me.”

What. The. Fuck.

I blink. Hard. “Excuse me?”

“I knew it.” She throws her hands in the air, spinning in a frantic circle before jabbing a finger at me. “This was your goodbye gift. The apartment. The whole you deserve everything speech .”

Okay.

Not what I was expecting. But I can deal with this.

“Natalie—”

“No. No, don’t try to soften the blow.” She shakes her head, swallowing hard. “I get it. It’s a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. I mean, I’d be crazy to expect you to stay when you could have that. ”

Her voice pitches higher, faster, like she’s running out of air. She starts flapping a hand in front of her face. I'm pretty sure she's looking for a fucking brown paper bag to help her breath.

“Fuck, Natalie,” I mutter, gripping her jaw gently and tilting her face up to mine. “You really think I’d just renovate your entire apartment, tell you I love you, and then pack my shit and leave?”

She swallows.

“I don’t know! You haven't exactly been open about what is happening, have you?”

Fuck this . Enough is enough.

One swift move and I snag her wrist, spin her, and pin her against the kitchen counter before she even knows what’s happening. She gasps, her chest rising and falling fast, hands flattening against my shirt.

Her lips part, but I don’t let her get a word out before I kiss the ever-loving hell out of her.

She melts instantly. Of course she does. She always does.

One hand grips her waist, the other tangles in her hair, and I kiss her until she forgets every single word of what was bordering on a full-blown ridiculous meltdown.

She’s moaning into my mouth, pressing closer, clutching me like I’m not going anywhere.

Because I’m not.

When I finally pull back, her eyes are glassy, her breath shaky, but her brain is finally on pause.

I cup her jaw, wiping a stray tear from her cheek with my thumb. “Natalie. Baby. I’m not leaving you.”

Her brows furrow. “You’re… not?”

I smirk. “No. I'm feeding you.”

She blinks and her tiny nose crinkles in confusion. “Wait. What?”

I stroke my thumb across her bottom lip and laugh. "What I need to tell you is about your parents. I invited them for dinner. They'd be on their way over now to see the apartment and meet me."

Silence. Total, complete silence.

Then I feel her stiffen in my arms, her expression shifting so fast it’s almost impressive.

"YOU DID WHAT?!"

Oh, fucking hell.

Natalie is still frozen, blinking up at me like I just announced my intention to move to Mars.

"You invited my parents? For dinner?!" she echoes, her voice about two octaves higher than normal.

"Yep," I reply smoothly, stepping past her in the kitchen. "They should be here soon. You got, oh… about thirty minutes."

She doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Just stands there, hands clutched in her hair like I just personally rearranged her entire existence.

Which, to be fair… I kind of have.

"Thirty minutes?" she finally chokes out, spinning around to follow me. "Hunter, are you insane ?"

I smirk as I pull out a bottle of wine and place it on the counter.

"If you ask the boys in the locker room… yes. Certifiably insane ."

Natalie groans, pacing in the open space between the kitchen and living room. "This is not happening. I’m not ready. I’m wearing leggings, Hunter! LEGGINGS!"

I glance over my shoulder, dragging my gaze down her body.

"You look good to me."

She lets out a sharp breath, pointing at me like I’m her personal villain of the day. Forget the Ferrari joyride. Forget the apartment makeover. I've become enemy number one.

"This is not funny, mister." Her hand shakes in my face. "You don’t understand."

I turn, leaning against the counter, arms crossed casually on my chest.

"Then explain it to me, Natalie."

She stops, staring at me, her eyes wide with genuine, borderline existential panic. "Did you bump your head or something? Have you forgotten everything I told you about my parents?"

I lift a brow. "Clearly."

"They're not normal!" she blurts, throwing her hands in the air. "They don’t fight because they care too much. They fight because they stopped caring twenty years ago and now it’s just… what they do!"

I frown, processing.

"They have nothing in common," she continues, breathless. "Except for three things. Passive-aggressive insults, making me question every life choice I’ve ever made, which yay, probably now includes you… and an unwavering ability to make any room they enter feel like an emotional wasteland.”

I blink. "Jeez. That bad?"

She levels me with an unimpressed look that's utterly adorable.

"Hunter, the last time I had dinner with them, they had a full-blown argument about laundry cycles. Laundry cycles!"

I can't help the laugh that vibrates in my chest.

Natalie? Not so amused.

"They hate each other, Hunter. Hate each other. But instead of getting a divorce like normal people, they just keep pretending everything is fine and I sit there trying not to drink my way through the entire evening!"

I let out a low whistle. "Damn . "

For nothing more than good measure, she throws her hands up in the air again.

"And now, you have to meet them, which means I also have to watch my mother scan you like a barcode and my dad grunt in a way that makes me question if he even remembers how to form full sentences!"

She groans, pressing her palms to her face. "Fuck. This is a disaster."

I push off the counter, stepping toward her.

" Or… " I say, tilting my head. "It’s just dinner."

I pull Natalie into my arms, feeling her heart racing against my chest. Her fingers curl into my shirt as she takes a shaky breath.

"Hey," I murmur into her hair. "It's just dinner. And if they don't like me? Or the apartment? That's their problem."

She tilts her head back, eyes searching mine. "But-"

"No buts. The only opinion that matters is yours. Do you like the apartment?"

A small smile tugs at her lips. "I love it."

"Do you like me?" I wink at her and smile.

She slaps my chest. "Yes. I love you."

"Then that's all I care about." I brush my thumb across her cheek. "That's all that matters. And maybe I just wanted to hear you say that again."

She rises on her toes, pressing a soft kiss to my lips just as the doorbell rings.

My eyes pop with excitement.

"Guess that’s our cue." I smirk, stealing one last kiss before pulling away. "Showtime, baby."

The second Natalie opens the door, her mother’s expression tightens like she just caught a whiff of something unpleasant. Natalie pastes on a smile so painfully forced it might as well be stapled to her face.

“Mom. Dad. Hello.” Her voice is bright—too bright. “Come in.”

Martha Hayes, impeccably dressed in a stiff navy blouse and pearl earrings, steps inside with the air of someone entering a property listing, not her own daughter’s home.

She sweeps a slow, critical gaze across the apartment, taking in the fresh walls, the gleaming hardwood, the carefully restored trim.

Wait for it.

“Well,” she sniffs, “at least you didn’t keep those awful curtains your grandmother loved.”

There it is.

I clench my jaw so hard my molars grind together.

Right on cue, Harold Hayes grunts in agreement, stepping inside with an expression of mild disinterest, like he’d rather be anywhere else but here. His gray slacks are perfectly pressed, his button-down a little too crisp, and the first words out of his mouth aren’t hello , or good to see you, sweetheart , or thank you for having us .

Nope.

Instead, he gestures vaguely at the space. “Seems like a waste of money when you could’ve moved somewhere better.”

Natalie stiffens beside me.

I exhale slowly through my nose, locking down the immediate urge to throw them both right back out the damn door. Because for over twenty years in professional hockey, I’ve had to deal with critical, over-opinionated people.

I know how to play this game.

Keep your head down, get the win, and go home in one piece.

So I straighten my shoulders, step forward, and offer my hand like the civilized man I’m pretending to be.

“Mr. and Mrs. Hayes, I’m Hunter Brody. Nice to finally meet you.”

Harold eyes me like I just handed him a live grenade before giving my hand the world’s weakest shake. Martha does one better. She simply presses her fingers into mine and offers a delicate, Hmm .

Not a full word between them.

Un-fucking-believable.

Natalie clears her throat, her grip tightening around my forearm like a warning. I glance down at her, softened by how fucking hard she’s trying to keep this together.

She’s so much warmer, kinder, full of light. And it’s becoming more and more obvious she got none of it from them as they move around the apartment, critiquing every square inch.

Natalie's right.

This isn’t just a shitty dinner.

This is a damn survival mission.

Regardless, I get to work in the freshly reno'd kitchen and set the dining table to perfection as Natalie continues the steady defense of her Grandmother's preserved apartment.

I place freshly-cut flowers in the center of the table, a rich bottle of Cabernet breathing just right, and a spread of carefully plated dishes I've had cooking in the oven: garlic-herb roasted chicken, buttery mashed potatoes, and rosemary-infused green beans.

I’ve even fucking timed the bread rolls so they’d come out warm, soft, and golden right as we all finally sit down around the table.

"Well, what do you think, Mr. and Mrs. Hayes?" I ask, slicing into the chicken. "Did Nat do a good job of this place, or what?"

“It's nice,” Martha says, taking a small sip of wine. “A bit rustic, but charming.”

Rustic.

Charming.

Like she’s describing a decent Airbnb, not her daughter’s goddamn home. I swallow a sharp remark and focus on carving the chicken instead.

Harold, meanwhile, chews slowly, nodding once. “Chicken’s good.”

Natalie gapes and stares at me as if to say: was that a compliment?!

I spear another piece of chicken and drop it onto his plate. Natalie shoots me a look, her lips twitching like she’s fighting not to laugh.

Conversation is pleasant while we eat, and we get to talking about Vegas and the upcoming playoff finals. I manage to skip around any mention of Team USA and the rumors, but something tells me Natalie's parents aren't exactly 'up to date' with the goings-on of the hockey world.

As we finish up, Martha dabs the corners of her mouth with her napkin, eyes flicking across the dining room.

“Well, at least you’ve finally got this place looking presentable. I still don’t understand why you didn’t just sell it.”

I set my fork down carefully, exhaling through my nose before speaking. “Well, I think it's because this apartment isn’t just a building. It’s a home.”

Martha almost ignores me, and focuses on Natalie instead. "It was your grandmother’s home. And it felt like it, too... if you know what I mean.”

Natalie sips her wine and shrugs. "I liked it, Mom. I always have."

She tilts her head, as if that should mean nothing. “Still, selling it would’ve been the smarter financial move.”

I sit back in my chair, finally letting my frustration show. “I don't think money is everything, Mrs. Hayes. And some things are worth preserving. Some people, and their memories, are worth preserving too.”

Her eyes narrow slightly, but she doesn’t argue.

Because she knows I’m right.

I reach for my wine. “Natalie grew up here. She read books with her grandmother in that window seat. She learned to love the world in this apartment. So yeah, I think restoring it is the perfect tribute to such a loving home. Because some things are worth keeping.” I glance toward the hallway. “Which is why I made sure to restore the old curtains.”

Natalie’s fork clatters onto her plate and she exchanges glances between her mother and me.

“What?” she breathes.

I nod toward the spare room. “Go check.”

Natalie pushes back from the table, disappearing down the hall.

There's a short beat of silence before I hear Natalie's muffled surprise at the new armchair which I had custom upholstered in the material of the old curtains. The chair rests in the perfect spot by the corner window overlooking the town.

I hear Natalie's surprise and can't help but lean back in my chair and smirk at Mr. and Mrs. Debbie-Downer.

They just stare back at me, then look to each other with nothing but blank faces.

Harold finally says something, mildly confused. “What’s happening?”

I smirk, taking another sip of wine. “Oh, it's nothing. Just busy giving your amazing daughter the world she deserves."

Martha exhales slowly, as if she’s debating whether or not to admit I’ve impressed her. Instead, she picks up her wine glass and changes the subject entirely.

Because that’s what people like them do.

They don’t acknowledge things. They deflect.

But me?

I’m not like them.

I make sure the people I love know exactly where they stand.

And Natalie Hayes will never doubt it again.