Page 28

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Hunter

M y first Stanley Cup Finals game never felt this way when I imagined it as a rookie coach.

Something is wrong.

I can feel it in my gut, in the way my usual pre-game routine feels off. Like I’m moving through the motions, but nothing fucking sticks.

The locker room is buzzing, the boys are hyped, but I feel… nothing.

Greg is talking at me, something about the damn Olympics, big decisions, long-term contracts, but his voice is just noise.

I don’t care. I don’t fucking care.

Because she’s not here.

I mean, she is… technically. Natalie is exactly where she’s supposed to be, standing at the bench in her Icehawks jacket, dark hair pulled back into a high ponytail, completely locked into her job.

But it doesn’t really matter, because she hasn’t looked at me once.

I spent last night a freezing cold mess, a wreck of emotions as I stirred alone in my bed. Natalie slept in the guest bedroom, which pissed me off initially, but then I figured at least she didn't leave.

She didn't leave.

And that… that alone gives me hope I can make sense of this fucking mess.

Greg sighs beside me, clearly exasperated. “Are you even listening, Brody?”

I glare at him. “No. I'm not.”

He scrubs a hand down his face. “Jesus Christ. Do you want this job or not?”

I grip my clipboard so hard I hear it crack. "Greg, what I fucking want right now is to win this hockey game and go the fuck home. Alright?"

Greg gives me a look, but I shove past him and stalk across to the bench where my players have just finished running through their final warm-ups.

Before I even get close enough to sit down, Blake's voice cuts through the pump-up music blasting around Icehawk Arena.

"You good, Coach? You look like you haven't slept."

I snap my head towards him, barely restraining the growl in my throat. "I'm fine."

Blake doesn't buy my bull shit. Seems to be a lot of that going around lately.

I change the subject and ignore the way his eyes narrow, first at me, then behind me to where Natalie has just crouched down to her medic bag.

"How's that injury feeling today? Don't let me down, will you?"

Blake rolls his shoulder experimentally, that signature cocky grin spreading across his face. "Never better, Coach. Natalie's got me moving like I'm twenty again."

My jaw clenches at the mention of her name. Then the sweet musings of her tone drift over my shoulder, smacking me right in the chest with how peaceful and melodic they sound right now.

"His range of motion is back to ninety-eight percent." Her voice comes from behind me, professional and clipped. "The inflammation is minimal. He's cleared to start."

I turn, desperate to catch those emerald eyes I've been drowning in for months, but Natalie keeps her gaze locked on Blake's shoulder, deliberately avoiding me.

"Thanks, Nat." Blake's voice softens with genuine appreciation. "Couldn't have made it here without you."

She gives him a quick smile—the kind she used to save for me. And fuck, that hurts.

She zips up her med kit, movements precise and controlled. "Just remember the stretches we discussed pre-game."

I clear my throat. "Natalie—"

But she's already walking away, clipboard pressed to her chest like a shield. Not once do those gorgeous green eyes meet mine.

Shit. The distance feels wider than the fucking ice rink between us.

And I fucking hate it.

Blake lets out a low whistle. "Damn, Coach. What did you do?"

I shoot him my deadliest glare. "Focus on the game, Maddox. That's an order."

The Nest shakes as the anthem is sung, the team are roared on the ice and the puck drops.

And fuck me…

Vegas comes at us like a freight train. Their first line slams Connor into the boards so hard the glass rattles. My fingers dig into the rail.

Breathe. Focus.

But my eyes keep drifting to where Natalie stands, her face tight with concentration as she watches Blake test that shoulder on his first shift.

Vegas's center drives hard to the net, catching Ryder with an elbow that sends him sprawling. The crowd roars in protest. No call.

"Come on!" I bark at the ref, but my voice sounds hollow today, even to me.

Across the ice, Wes fucking preens for the cameras, gesturing dramatically at every play like he's conducting an orchestra instead of coaching hockey. His smirk burns under my skin when our eyes meet.

It's all for show. The media is eating up the storyline, just like Greg said they would.

The rules of the contract are simple: Win the Stanley Cup and Team USA is yours.

What isn't simple?

Figuring out why, for someone who's spent their entire fucking life dedicated to the sport, that doesn't seem to matter to me anymore?

"Watch that neutral zone trap!" I shout as Vegas's defense collapses around Connor. "Push through the—"

A flash of green catches my eye. Natalie, moving down the bench to check on Logan after a brutal hit. The way she deliberately angles her body away from me makes my chest ache.

Vegas scores first. The horn blares through the arena as their center celebrates right in front of our bench. Wes pumps his fist, playing it up for the cameras like he's already won the damn Cup and the job that any hockey coach in this country would kill for.

I should be furious. Should be breaking down plays, adjusting strategies, rallying my team.

Instead, all I can think about is how empty this feels without her smile, her strength and resilience beside me. How reaching the Finals means nothing if I can't share it with the woman who's become my whole world.

What's the point of winning if I lose her?

The thought hits me like the crosscheck Vegas slam into Ryder's chest on the ice, stealing my breath. Twenty years I've chased this dream, fought and clawed my way back from career-ending injury to stand behind this bench in this exact moment.

The Stanley Cup sits in full view, sparkling under the lights of the arena.

But watching Natalie work the bench with that carefully calculated distance between us, I realize no trophy could ever fill the void she'd leave behind.

The second period starts with Vegas still up by one. My eyes keep tracking Natalie's movements, but she's perfected the art of looking through me like I'm made of glass.

Focus on the game. Focus on the—

"Fuck!"

"Bull shit!"

The crowd's collective gasp echoes my own horror as Blake takes a vicious hit along the boards. He's slow getting up, favoring his right side. The same shoulder we've been nursing through the playoffs.

My stomach drops as he makes his way to the bench, face tight with pain. We can't lose him. Not now. Not in Game 1.

Natalie's already there, her hands moving with efficiency over Blake's shoulder. I lean in, trying to catch what she's saying to him in that low, soothing voice she uses with injured players.

A small hand shoots up, stopping me cold.

"I've got it, Coach," she says, voice flat and professional. She won't even look at me, keeping her eyes fixed on Blake's injury assessment.

My jaw clenches so hard it hurts. I'm the head coach of this team, but I'm completely helpless watching the two most important people in my life shut me out.

Blake's eyes flick between us.

"Still fighting, huh?" he mutters, wincing as Natalie probes a tender spot. "Couldn't have picked a better time, you two."

"Not now, Maddox," I growl.

The last thing I need is relationship advice in the middle of the Stanley Cup Finals, but dammit, he's right. This is not the time to be having communication breakdowns.

I grip the edge of the bench, knuckles white against the wood as the arena around me explodes into a frenzy of pure Iron Ridge passion. The fans are wild, on their chairs screaming and shouting, there are kids crying and fathers shouting at the ice.

The fucking corporate box is lined with families and friends who've all come to watch.

Everything's falling apart at exactly the wrong moment - my team's down, my star player's hurt, and the woman I love won't even look at me.

Natalie straightens up. "He's cleared to play. Shorter shifts, quick line changes and he'll be fine."

Blake nods, but his eyes are locked on me. The moment Natalie steps away to check on Ryder who's just crashed over the boards, he leans in close.

"You know what your problem is, Coach?" His voice is low, meant just for me. "You're treating this like it's a game you can strategize your way out of."

"Not now, Blake."

"Yes, now. Because there might not be another time."

He shifts on the bench, shoulder clearly bothering him despite his tough act. He looks at Natalie before leaning in closer again.

"You're so wrapped up in planning ten moves ahead that you're missing what's right in front of you. Cut the shit and win her back, dumbass."

The words hit harder than any check I've taken on the ice. Blake Maddox, the guy who just pulled off a center-ice proposal, is lecturing me about relationships.

And fuck… he's right.

I've spent so much time weighing options, analyzing outcomes, trying to figure out how to have everything - the Cup, Team USA, Natalie - that I'm about to end up with nothing.

"Since when did you get so wise about relationships?" I mutter.

Blake grins through his grimace. "Since I stopped overthinking and just went for what I wanted. Now are you gonna sit here and sulk, or are you gonna fix this before it affects my team?"

I look at him. "Your team?"

He grins, knowing full well that he's stirred something deep and dangerous inside of me. "Yeah, my fucking team."

There's no doubt about it - Iron Ridge folk stick together. Natalie's love for this town is endless, and now Blake, the town's homegrown hero has ripped me up and put me right in my fucking place.

I smack Blake on the helmet and push him in the middle of his back, launching him over the boards and back on the ice.

"Get the fuck back out there, and win me that trophy!"

We pick up our game, but soon, all that's left is three minutes in the third and final period.

Tie game after a scorching shot from Ryder hit the net.

I scan the ice, watching Vegas's defense scramble to cover our power play unit.

"Run the split-diamond! Connor, doubleback from the point!"

The crowd is deafening - a wall of sound that vibrates through my bones. Every fan in Iron Ridge is on their feet, waving towels, screaming themselves hoarse. This is it. This is our moment.

Then everything shatters.

Vegas's enforcer lines up Connor from behind, launches forward like a freight train. The sound of the impact makes me sick. Connor's head snaps back, his body crumpling to the ice like a marionette with cut strings.

He doesn't move.

My eyes snap to Natalie before I can stop myself. For the first time since our fight, she meets my gaze. The fear in those green eyes mirrors my own and suddenly our worlds connect again.

I'm over the bench before I register moving, skidding to my knees beside Connor's still form. Natalie's already there, her hands steady as she checks his pulse, his pupils, speaking to him in that calm voice that doesn't match the tremor in her hands.

"How bad?" The words scrape out of my throat.

She looks up at me then, really looks at me, and Christ - the pain of the last twenty-four hours hits me. Fuck, I've missed her. Really fucking missed her.

But for a moment, there's something else there too.

Trust. Partnership. Everything that matters.

"We need to get him off the ice," she says.

I nod, no hesitation.

In this moment, nothing else matters - not the game, not Team USA, not our fight. Just Connor, and Natalie, and doing whatever she needs me to do to support her every decision.

The second Natalie disappears into the tunnel with Connor, everything inside me screams to follow. But I can’t. Not yet.

Not with three minutes left. Not with my team waiting.

My fists clench.

What the fuck am I doing? What the fuck was I thinking ? None of this matters— none of it —if I lose her.

The arena swirls in chaos around me, the fans roaring, the bench shifting uneasily, waiting.

Then a hand slaps my shoulder.

Blake.

His voice is low against the noise of the arena. "What now, Coach?"

I blink. The scoreboard glares down at me. Tie game. 3:12 on the clock. The weight of every decision I’ve ever made feels like it’s sitting on my chest.

Then as I stare across the ice at Wes Callahan as he rounds his troops, and delivers one last battle cry… clarity rises like a phoenix from the ashes.

It's twenty long fucking years since my knee shattered. I've beaten Vancouver. Crushed Boston. Now Vegas stands between us and the Cup. One win tonight sets the tone.

This is the moment. My moment. Our moment.

I exhale hard and call the play.

"Run the split-diamond! Connor’s out, but we can still break them down!" My voice is sharp, cutting through the storm. "Ryder, take the left wing. Blake, get to the fucking crease— now ."

Blake gives me a sharp nod.

The puck drops.

And then?

Fucking magic.

Vegas collapses into the zone, scrambling to hold formation. Ryder slices through, dragging defenders wide. Logan fires a bullet pass straight to Blake, who’s exactly where I knew he’d be.

One second. Two.

Then the puck is in the back of the net.

Goal.

The arena explodes into chaos as Blake's shot hits the back of the net. Overtime winner. Stanley Cup Finals, Game One belongs to Iron Ridge.

I should be celebrating. Should be hugging my players, shaking hands with the assistant coaches and laughing all the way as I go to shake Wes's hand as I soak in this historic moment for Iron Ridge.

But I can't move.

My eyes stay fixed on that dark tunnel where Natalie disappeared with Connor.

The team mobs Blake against the boards. Ryder's helmet goes flying. Logan drops to his knees, arms raised to the ceiling. In the corporate box, Eli jumps up and down, screaming something I can't hear over the thundering crowd.

None of it matters.

That moment on the ice - seeing Natalie take control, watching her hands steady Connor's neck, hearing her clear, confident voice giving orders to the medical team - it crystallized everything.

All my bullshit about Team USA, about career advancement, about keeping my options open... what the fuck was I thinking?

She's not a distraction from my goals. She's the reason any of it matters.

The celebration swirls around me like I'm standing in the eye of a hurricane. Through the chaos, I catch Wes's smug face in the opposing bench. He gestures to his phone, mouthing something about "the offer."

I turn my back on him.

My feet are already moving, carrying me toward that tunnel, toward the medical bay, toward Natalie. I need to see Connor, need to know he's okay.

But more than that?

I need to fix what I broke with the only person who makes any of this mean something.

I find her in the dim hallway outside the medical bay, her back pressed against the concrete wall. Even from here, I can see the exhaustion in the slope of her shoulders, the way her hands tremble slightly as she types on her phone.

My footsteps echo. She looks up.

Her green eyes lock onto mine, and Christ… the pull is magnetic. Like gravity. Like coming home.

"Can we talk?"

She doesn't move. Doesn't soften. "What's left to say, Hunter?"

I could list a thousand things. But none of it truly matters right now.

Only one truth does.

"I love you." The words fall from my lips, so damn simple and bare. "And I need you to let me fix this."

For a long moment, she just stares at me, and I force myself to stay still. To let her process. To give her the space to decide.

Finally, she exhales.

Then she nods. Once, and once only.

"Okay."