Page 27

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Natalie

T he night before Game One, and Iron Ridge is absolutely electric.

Every window downtown is decked out in Icehawks banners. Kids are running around in oversized jerseys, faces painted in team colors. Eli has practically turned Ridgeview Tavern into an Icehawks shrine.

I mean, it was already borderline before. But now?

Life-sized cutouts of the players are scattered around the bar, including one of Hunter, arms crossed, expression fierce as hell. Someone’s stuck a paper crown on his head with "OUR KING" scribbled across it in Sharpie.

I stop in the doorway and burst out laughing. “Okay, I officially love this town.”

Hunter, standing behind me, lets out a deep, unimpressed sigh. “Fucking hell, Eli.”

I nudge him. “Aw, don’t be shy, Coach. The people love you.”

“I get that. But do I really need a goddamn coronation.”

“You say that, but…”

I gesture at the bar where Eli and some of the guys are raising their beers toward the cardboard version of him. Ryder is already posing with it, Logan’s got his arm slung around the cutout’s shoulders, and Connor is laughing his ass off as he poses in a… questionable position in front of it.

I glance up at Hunter, my Hunter, and warmth spreads through me.

The same man who handled my parents with quiet strength. Who saw through their cold, passive-aggressive bullshit and made it clear, without ever having to say it outright, that I was worth every effort he made for me.

That this— us —is worth everything.

I spot Lucy, Sophia, and Mia tucked into their usual corner booth, and they immediately start with the eyebrow waggling when Hunter's hand slides possessively across my lower back.

Lucy cups her hands around her mouth. "Coach, leave her alone! She's ours tonight!"

Hunter's fingers tighten slightly on my hip.

"Yes, Coach," I grin, kissing him on the cheek. "I'm going to talk with the girls. Don't miss me too much."

Hunter grins and slaps me on the ass as I walk off.

I push through the crowd in Ridgeview just as Mia spins around in her seat, wrapping her arms around herself in what I can only assume is her impression of Hunter and me.

"Oh, Coach," she swoons dramatically. "Your scowl is so sexy."

"I do not sound like that!" I laugh as I slide into the booth.

"Please," Sophia snorts into her wine. "You practically purr every time he gets all commanding."

"Speaking of commanding..." Lucy's eyes drift across the bar to where Connor is still posing with Hunter's cutout. "His playoff beard is actually starting to look... decent."

I nearly choke on my wine. "I'm sorry, what was that? Did Lucy Daniels just compliment Connor Walsh?"

"The same Connor you called 'an arrogant puck-blocking asshole' last week?" Sophia adds, leaning forward with interest.

"And the week before that," Mia chimes in.

"And pretty much every week since you met him," I finish.

Lucy shrugs, tracing the rim of her cocktail glass with one perfectly manicured finger. "Things change."

"Things change?" I echo. "That's all we get? After months of you ranting about his cocky smirk and how he thinks he's God's gift to goaltending?"

"Don't forget the time she threw her drink in his face at Big Mike's party," Mia adds helpfully.

"He deserved that," Lucy protests. Her eyes track Connor as he makes his way to the bar, the corners of her mouth lifting slightly when he runs a hand through his messy hair.

"Oh my god," Sophia gasps. "You like him!"

"I do not!" Lucy's cheeks flush pink. "I just... don't completely hate him anymore. There's a difference."

I lean back in the booth, taking in the scene around me.

God, I don't think I've ever been this happy.

Iron Ridge isn't just a town anymore - it's home. My home. Our home.

The front door of Ridgeview swings open, and a blast of cold mountain air sweeps through the bar. The entire tavern falls silent and the cutout of the team practically blows over with the change in the air.

Every set of eyes watch the Vegas Knights swagger in like they own the place.

My stomach drops as I watch their head coach, Wes Callahan, lead the pack.

He's all polished edges and expensive suit, radiating the kind of confidence that comes from decades of success. The kind of presence that fills a room without trying.

The Knights players follow. Not cocky, but there's hunger in their eyes as they scan the bar. They've got that Vegas shine to them, like winning is just part of their DNA.

Of course it is. That's why we're playing them in Game One of the Stanley Cup Finals tomorrow.

The whole tavern is quiet. Even Eli stops wiping down glasses, his eyes forming daggers aimed directly at the enemy.

I've never met Wes Callahan, but I know exactly who he is the second his sharp gaze locks onto Hunter across the room. This is the man whose name keeps lighting up Hunter's phone. The one behind those late-night calls that make Hunter all quiet and retract in himself until he's deep in thought, lost in something he never quite lets me see.

I’ve heard Hunter talk about Wes before. About his coaching style, his experience, how he’s one of the sharpest minds in the league. And I know, despite everything, there’s respect between them because of their links back to Vancouver when Hunter was a rookie.

But right now?

Right now, that respect is buried beneath one unavoidable fact…

This isn’t personal.

But this is most definitely war .

"Well, well." Wes's voice carries around the tavern. "If it isn't the miracle worker of Iron Ridge."

Hunter straightens, shoulders going rigid. "Wes."

"Quite the setup you've got here." Wes gestures at the decorations, that Vegas smirk playing at his lips. "Very... small town charm. yeah, we do it a bit differently where we're from, don't we boys?"

The way he says it makes my skin crawl. Like Iron Ridge is cute but ultimately insignificant compared to the bright lights of Vegas.

"What are you doing here, Wes?" Hunter's voice is low, controlled.

"You know me, bud. A guy checking in on an old friend." Wes spreads his arms wide. "Besides, I hear there's quite the celebration happening tonight. Thought we'd join the party."

Lucy grabs my wrist under the table. I realize I'm gripping my wine glass so hard my knuckles have gone white.

I watch as Eli, ever the diplomat, slides a round of drinks toward the Vegas contingent. The tension crackles, but it's almost playful - like two prizefighters touching gloves before a match.

Connor throws a cocky wink at their backup goalie. Blake and their captain exchange friendly nods from across the bar.

Then Wes lifts his glass, and something in his posture makes my stomach flip.

"To the best man winning."

His voice carries that Vegas smoothness, but there's an edge underneath. A double meaning that slices through the air.

The Icehawks cheer and raise their glasses, caught up in the pre-game electricity.

But I can't move. Can't breathe.

Because I see the way Wes's eyes lock onto Hunter.

This isn't just about tomorrow's game.

Hunter meets Wes's gaze steadily, something unspoken passing between them. And in that moment, I see it happen before my very eyes.

My Hunter disappears.

The man who held me in his kitchen this morning, who restored my grandmother's rocking chair, who whispered "I love you" against my skin as we made love in my new apartment for the first time… he's gone .

In his place stands Coach Brody. Square shoulders. Jaw set hard.

A man with ambitions bigger than our small mountain town. Bigger than the Stanley Cup. Bigger than us.

I grip my wine glass tighter, trying to calm myself as the room spins slightly.

All those late-night calls, the way he dodged questions about Team USA, how he tensed every time Vegas came up in conversation.

It wasn't just about tomorrow's game. It wasn't about the series or the trophy.

It was about this. About more.

The question that burns in my throat. When they come calling, am I enough to make him stay?

Shit. I need air.

Lucy's still talking about Connor's latest attempt to ask her out, but I can barely focus on her words. The walls of Ridgeview feel like they're closing in, the Vegas players' presence a constant reminder of everything I've been trying to ignore.

"I'll be right back," I mumble, sliding out of the booth.

The cool night air hits my face as I step outside, and I take a deep breath. The string lights above the tavern's entrance twinkle against the darkness, and I fall back against the freezing cold brick wall.

That's when I hear their voices.

Around the corner, in the small alcove where Eli keeps the recycling bins, three figures stand in hushed conversation.

Hunter's broad shoulders are unmistakable, even in shadow. Greg's suit gleams under the security light, and Wes's Vegas Knights jacket catches the dim glow.

"You knew this was coming, kid. The moment you got the Icehawks to the Finals, they started calling." Wes's voice carries that same smooth confidence from earlier. "Who would've thought it would be me and you, kid? You know how this works… winner of the cup takes Team USA."

My pulse skitters to a stop.

Greg shifts his weight. "Look, Hunter. We've kept them off your back this long, but after the Finals, there’s no more stalling. They want their head coach ready for the Olympics. You or Wes. No more delays.”

Silence. Thick. Crushing.

My back digs into the wall as I hold still, not breathing, waiting for Hunter to shut this down. To laugh in their faces. To say, No. I’m not going anywhere.

Instead, his voice comes quiet.

"Like I've said all along, we'll talk after the Finals." Hunter's voice is low, measured.

We'll talk?! What the hell does that even mean?

My stomach drops. The ground beneath my feet suddenly feels unstable.

That’s not a no.

I don’t even realize I’ve fisted my hands into my jacket.

All this time, I told myself his silence meant he’d already made his choice. That every time he dodged the Team USA question, it was because he knew… because he’d chosen this , chosen me .

But this...

This isn't the voice of a man who’s already chosen Iron Ridge.

This is the voice of a man still weighing his options. A man with one foot out the door.

And suddenly, I can’t breathe.

I need to get out of here.

Before I can talk myself out of it, my feet are already moving.

Straight into the lion’s den.

The second I round the corner, three heads turn. Hunter, Wes, and Greg, their conversation snapping shut like a steel trap. Hunter’s brows pull together the moment he sees me, like he knows. Like he fucking knows I heard everything.

Wes, on the other hand, has the nerve to smirk. I don’t give him the satisfaction of reacting. Instead, I look straight at Hunter.

"I want to go home."

His frown deepens. "Natalie, are you — "

" Now. "

He turns to Greg, his entire posture shifting. From the coach discussing career-defining decisions to the man who just realized his girlfriend is seconds away from unraveling.

The silence in the car is suffocating. I don’t say a word. I don’t look at him.

I just stare out the window as he pulls onto the road, the headlights cutting through the inky blackness of the mountain drive. It’s always so beautiful up here at night. The kind of quiet that usually feels peaceful, safe.

Tonight?

It feels like I’m trapped in a moving car with a storm that hasn’t hit yet.

The Ferrari's engine purrs beneath us as we wind up the mountain road, but I barely hear it. The garage door closes behind us and before Hunter can go anywhere, I plant myself in front of him.

"How long have you known?"

His brow furrows. "Known what?"

The tears I've been holding back start to burn. "That you were never going to stay."

Hunter's expression shifts from confusion to shock. "Natalie… I never said I wasn't staying."

"You never said you were, either."

My voice cracks on the last word and something changes in his face. Like he's finally seeing me for the first time tonight.

The fear.

The echoes of every time I watched my mother settle for less. Every time she convinced herself that good enough was all she could hope for.

My father's voice echoes in my head - his constant refrain about "practical choices" and "financial security." How many times did I watch him cave to my mother's demands just to keep the peace?

Year after year, I watched their love shrink smaller and smaller, retreating further into the nothingness that became their entire exitance.

And now, staring at Hunter's neutral expression, I see the same pattern starting.

The careful deflection. The way he won't quite meet my eyes. The non-answers that leave just enough room for hope while in reality, the man I've fallen in love with just slips further away.

I plant my feet more firmly, squaring my shoulders as I face Hunter.

I won't back down. Not this time. Not ever.

"I need the truth," I say, my voice steadier than I feel. "All of it. Right now."

I refuse to become that.

Hunter runs a hand through his hair, frustration radiating off him in waves. "Nat, can we not do this right now? I have a fucking Stanley Cup game to win tomorrow."

The words hit like a slap. Everything inside me goes cold.

There it is.

The truth I've been trying so hard not to see.

I'm just another distraction. Another obstacle between him and greatness.

I nod slowly, taking a step back. The garage suddenly feels massive, the space between us stretching into miles.

My chest aches, but I can't cry. Not now. The numbness spreads through me like ice water in my veins.

All those nights under the stars, the stolen moments in his office, the way he held me like I was something precious - they were just... what? A distraction between games?

I think of the renovated apartment. His parents. The way his mother hugged me like I already belonged in a loving family for the first fucking time in my goddamn life.

God, I actually let myself believe...

Hunter stands there, tension radiating from his shoulders, waiting for the explosion. The tears. The drama.

But I'm my parent's daughter after all. Twenty-seven years of watching them swallow their pain, pretend everything was fine while their marriage crumbled around them.

At least I learned one thing - how to make yourself small enough to fit into the spaces someone else leaves for you.

"Right." My voice comes out barely above a whisper, foreign to my own ears. "You have a Cup to win."

The words taste like ash in my mouth. I force them out anyway, each one cutting deeper than the last.

"Then you go do that, Hunter. You go do that."