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Chapter Twenty-Nine

Natalie

L ast night was a fucking disaster.

Yes, the Icehawks won. We take a lead in the Stanley Cup Finals, but at what cost?

Connor’s concussion meant I spent the entire night in the medical wing, monitoring him, reassuring the team, making sure he was stable before he got sent home under the careful watch of Lucy who refused to leave his side.

And through all of it, one thought kept rattling around in my skull, over and over again.

I need to talk to Hunter.

I barely even processed the game, the win, the celebrations. I didn’t care about the reporters or the team’s high spirits, or the fact that Iron Ridge was exploding with triumphant joy around me.

All I could think about was the moment I saw Hunter in that stadium hallway, his hands clenched into fists, his whole body radiating intensity and frustration, like he was barely holding himself together…

That was the moment I knew… there is a way to fix this.

But we never got the chance.

By the time I finished with Connor, it was past one in the morning. Hunter was still waiting, posted up like a broody security guard outside the medical room, but I could barely function.

Hunter took one look at me and agreed to let me rest. We arranged he’d come over in the morning so we could finally talk.

And now?

Now I’m a fucking nervous wreck.

I groan, pressing the heels of my hands into my eyes before sitting up.

I’m alone. In my bed. In my apartment. And for the first time since the renovations, it actually feels like mine.

Sunlight filters through brand-new blackout curtains that actually work , not the thin, barely-there ones I used to have. My comforter is thick, plush, the kind that should make me feel like I’m floating on a cloud—but somehow, I still feel like I didn’t sleep at all.

I stumble out of bed, and even my kitchen smells different. Like amazingly rich coffee, cinnamon, and something warm and buttery. I follow the scent, heart hammering, and stop dead in my tracks.

Hunter Brody is in my kitchen.

Like he belongs there. Like he’s done this a million times before.

And he has—except this time, there’s a difference.

He's got a big bag of Summit Café pastries.

My stomach tightens.

Because of course he’s doing this. Feeding me. Taking care of me in the only way he knows how, even when he’s the one who broke my heart in the first place.

I clear my throat. “Is this your way of making peace?”

He looks up, and fuck, I feel it. The weight of everything we didn’t say last night, pressing thick between us like a storm cloud that hasn't yet hit.

“Figured if I’m fighting for my life, I should at least keep you fed.”

A choked huff escapes me. Because it’s so Hunter, this whole act first, talk later routine. It’s how we got into this mess in the first place.

He nudges a plate toward me. A perfectly plated cinnamon bun and my favorite blueberry scone.

I step forward, my legs like jelly. His scent reminds me of that body wash I love and the fresh laundry fragrance that lingers on his bedding. His hair is still damp from a shower, and he's got a casual Icehawks tee-shirt on that clings to his muscles in a way that makes me want to forget this whole thing completely.

He shifts, watching me carefully. “Big win last night.”

I pick up my coffee and sip instead of responding.

“We get Game Two, we go to Vegas up two-nothing.”

I nod, taking a slow sip. Small talk. Safe talk.

But nothing about this is safe.

His bruised knuckles catch my eye, and my fingers twitch, instinct begging me to reach out, to check on him, to press my lips over the raw skin and tell him I love him.

Instead, I exhale sharply and set my coffee down.

“Is this you pretending everything’s fine, or are we actually going to talk about it?”

Hunter goes still and releases a long, heavy sigh.

Then, finally, he leans back against the counter, arms crossing over his chest. A defensive position. A battle stance.

“Okay. You wanna talk? Fine.” His voice is low, rough. Tired. “But I’m not doing it on an empty stomach.”

He picks up his own scone and takes a slow bite, like this whole conversation isn’t sitting heavy as hell between us.

I stare at my plate. My appetite is nonexistent, but ignoring it won’t make this any easier. So I tear off a small piece of my cinnamon bun, bringing it to my lips, the taste sweet and warm… but completely hollow.

I wrap my hands around my coffee mug as Hunter watches me, waiting.

He knows what’s coming.

So I force myself to say it.

“How long have you known?”

I don’t need to elaborate. He knows exactly what I mean.

Hunter exhales through his nose, rubbing a hand over his stubbled jaw before answering.

“It’s always been a thing. The minute your team plays well, the talk starts.”

His voice is steady, calm—but I know him too well. He's feeling the pressure of this entire thing. That muscle in his jaw ticks, his grip on his coffee tightening.

“I never gave them an answer. Still haven’t. But now Wes is involved and the league got this whole contract thing… the whole shit show has exploded.”

A sharp, bitter laugh escapes my chest. His eyes flick to mine, stormy and unreadable.

I press forward. “So what now? The second we win that Cup, it’s done? You get Team USA. You leave.”

His head snaps back, eyes darkening. “You think that’s what I want? You think I don't get a say in all of this?”

I don’t answer right away, my pulse hammering in my throat. Because this isn’t just about the Olympics. It’s about me. About him. About us.

“I don’t know, Hunter,” I admit finally. “And that’s the worst part.”

Hunter curses under his breath, pushing a hand through his hair. “Jesus, Nat.”

And then his frustration spills over.

“You really think I’d do that?” His voice is rough, raw, like I’ve just gutted him. “You think I’d spend months breaking every goddamn rule I’ve ever had, turn my life upside down for you, only to walk away?”

His gaze locks onto mine, like he’s trying to dig straight into my soul and pull out the answer himself.

"You think I’d take you to meet my family, show you my life, tell you things I don’t tell anyone—" He shakes his head, jaw tight. "You think I did all of that because I had to? No, Natalie. I did it because I wanted to. Because I fucking believe in us."

The words hit deep.

Because he’s right.

I know the man who pulled me into his arms when I felt like I didn’t belong. Who restored my grandmother’s apartment, piece by piece, just because he knew what it meant to me.

The man who showed me what real family looks like. Who made me believe that love doesn’t have to be conditional, transactional, or cold.

And yet…

I shake my head, voice barely a whisper. “I don’t know what to think, Hunter.”

A muscle ticks in his jaw. His hands press against the counter, knuckles white. “You don’t trust me. That's what this whole thing is, Natalie.”

“That’s not—” I swallow, my chest squeezing. “It’s not about trust.”

His brow lifts. “No? Then tell me what it is.”

I open my mouth, then snap it shut. Because I don’t know how to say it without unraveling completely.

I’m not afraid of him choosing Team USA.

I’m afraid of letting myself believe he’d choose me… and then being wrong.

Hunter’s jaw tightens. His fingers flex against the counter, like he’s barely keeping himself from coming undone. But then, something shifts.

The frustration bleeds out of him, replaced by something rawer, something that hurts to look at.

“Natalie, you know what I've learned after spending all this time with you?" His eyes flash to mine, something dark inside. "I’ve spent my whole life chasing things that don’t mean a damn thing if I can’t share them with you.”

My breath catches.

“For twenty years, I was fueled by revenged. Then you walked into that damn place and wrecked me, Natalie.” His chest rises and falls, his control slipping. “From the moment I met you, you’ve pushed me to my limits. Challenged me. Tore down every wall I spent years building. And I let you. Because deep down, I fucking wanted you to.”

I squeeze my eyes shut. His words hit like an earthquake, shaking something loose inside me.

He takes a step closer, his voice lower, rougher.

“I grew up in a family where rules and responsibility mattered. Where you followed the plan, you did what was expected, you played the long game. But you know what mattered more than all of that?”

He exhales, shaking his head like the answer is so goddamn obvious.

“Love. That’s what I was taught. That’s what I know .”

I look up at him, my vision blurring at the edges.

"I risked everything for you, despite the rules. Despite the fact that I knew it would flip my whole world upside down. I broke every goddamn rule I had for myself the second you walked into my life.”

I stare at him, my pulse roaring in my ears. Because he’s serious . Because he’s willing to walk away from everything— everything —just to be here with me.

And that’s when it hits me.

If he stays… what does that mean for me?

I love Iron Ridge. I love my apartment, my town, the way I know every face in the grocery store and how the arena feels like home. I spent my whole life wanting to belong somewhere… and I found it here, right where I've always been, but now it's with someone who I thought loved it just as much as I do.

Could I leave all of that behind if it meant being with him, though? If he’s willing to give up Team USA… should I be willing to give up something too?

Maybe being with him is home, no matter where that is.

The thought shakes me. Because I never imagined leaving this town.

But I also never imagined him being a part of that.

My chest tightens, my lungs seizing up.

Because I remember. I remember the night I first stepped into his house, into his world. The rules he laid down like armor.

No touching. No flirting. No lingering.

Now he’s standing in my kitchen, telling me he was never playing by those rules at all. Not really. They were just words, empty boundaries that never stood a chance.

And maybe that’s the answer. Maybe it was never about one of us sacrificing more than the other. It's about choosing a life… together .

My hands shake, my heart pounds.

“Why didn’t you just tell me that?” My voice cracks, tears hot behind my eyes. “Why did you let me think you wanted to leave?”

Hunter swarms around me with a single step forward.

“Because I thought you already knew that's not what I wanted.”

He reaches out, his fingers skimming along mine, the touch so light it sends a shiver through me.

“You know me better than anyone ever has, Natalie.” His breath fans over my cheek, his forehead almost touching mine. “You get me.”

And just like that, I break.

A sob slips out, my body collapsing into him before I can stop myself. His arms are around me in an instant, holding me so tight it feels like he’s piecing me back together.

His lips brush my hair, his voice nothing but a whisper.

“I love you, Natalie. I loved you from the second I let myself have you.”

The silence transforms, now warm like morning coffee or fresh bedsheets after a long day.

Hunter presses one last kiss to my temple before pulling back just enough to look at me. His hands stay on my waist, thumbs stroking softly like he’s reassuring himself I’m really here.

“You good?” he asks, voice still heavy with everything we just unraveled.

“Yeah.” My hands slide over his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart. “I think I am.”

His lips twitch. “Think?”

“Well,” I sniff dramatically, “I was until I remembered you stress eat pastries like a gremlin and probably left me nothing but crumbs.”

He huffs a laugh and finally— finally —the tension between us breaks completely.

He smirks, stepping back to grab his coffee. “Did you really think I’d sit here waiting for you on an empty stomach?”

I roll my eyes and grab what’s left of my cinnamon bun, finally tasting it—and this time, it doesn’t feel hollow. This time, it’s exactly what I need.

And maybe it’s not just the pastries, or the coffee, or the sun rising over Iron Ridge outside my window. Maybe it’s him.

No, it’s definitely him.

"So, another win and we head to Vegas, huh?" I say, throwing the last piece of bun in my mouth. “You better not be one of those guys who packs five minutes before leaving for a flight.”

Hunter gives me a slow, lazy smirk. “Baby, I could leave right now with just this tee-shirt and still look better than half the guys on this team.”

I groan, tipping my head back. “Unbelievable.”

“You love that it's true.”

I peek up at him, still fighting my smile. “I really do.”

Hunter’s gaze softens, his fingers brushing the back of my neck. “You know I’m with you, right? No matter what happens next?”

I nod, and for the first time, I truly, fully believe it.

Because the truth is, he still hasn’t said it outright. He hasn’t said, I don’t want Team USA.

But would I be willing to leave this town for him—if that’s what it took?

“Yeah. I know. Whatever happens next, happens.”

He winks at me and I can't help but think… if this man was willing to rip up his rulebook for me, risk his everything just to be at my side, then maybe I need to do the same for him.

"Let's win Game Two, and then baby, before we fly to Vegas, I've got one last stop."

I narrow my eyes. "Where?"

He smirks.

"To see your parents."

Hunter just slaps me on the ass and grabs another damn pastry.

Like he didn’t just drop that nuclear bomb right here in my kitchen.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.”