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Chapter Three

Hunter

T here's a different feel at training today. The clap of skates against the ice is sharper, the sound echoing through the empty practice arena inside Icehawk HQ.

If only my eyes weren't so fucking dry and itchy. That's what I get for staying up all night, stewing in my own demons.

"Ryder!" I bark out, pushing off the boards, tucking the clipboard under my arm. "Where's that hustle, kid? Come on, push harder!"

The boards around my team rattle as Blake checks Ryder into the glass. Again. The rookie barely manages to keep his footing before whipping the puck toward the net.

Connor sprawls into a save, the puck bouncing off his pad with a loud thwack before he smothers it under his glove.

“Try again, rookie,” Connor calls out, grinning like an asshole. "What's happened to you today?"

Ryder flips him off. “Don’t need to score when I can set up Kane for a one-timer.”

Logan Kane grunts as he comes out of nowhere and collects a loose puck, firing it top shelf. Connor barely sees it. The horn blares, and the lines reset to go again.

"Three more! I want these perfect!"

My fingers drum against the clipboard in my hands, grip a little too tight. My focus should be on their positioning, their execution, their puck movement.

Instead, my mind keeps circling back to last night.

The noise at Ridgeview Tavern. The moment our opponent was finalized. The burst of laughter and celebration, the clinking glasses and popping champagne.

I couldn't take it. I needed time to process.

I slipped out, let the door slam shut behind me, and drove straight back to the arena to bury myself in all my thoughts.

I stayed in my office for hours, staring at that damn photo my mother gave me on my desk. Me, twenty-two years old, riding the high of an NCAA championship win. Before my knee blew out. Before everything changed.

This morning before practice, I noticed a thin fracture running through the glass on the frame. Guess I slammed it down harder than I thought.

Vancouver.

Of course, it’s fucking Vancouver.

The team finishes the drill and gathers at center, sweat beading along their brows, waiting for the next task.

The boys' practice jerseys are soaked through, dark patches spreading across their backs. Even Blake's captain's 'C' is barely visible through the sweat-dampened fabric.

But it's playoffs. I'm going to push them harder than ever.

Logan hunches over, hands on his knees, sucking in air like it's going out of style. Ryder's practically wheezing next to him, and Connor's sprawled on the ice, mask pushed up to reveal his flushed face and that ridiculous growth on his face.

"Alright, next drill—"

The words die in my throat as the arena doors slam open.

A deep, familiar voice shouts across the ice behind me and I spin to find the source of the interruption.

“Well, I’ll be damned. The great Hunter Brody, running a playoff practice.”

I turn, already knowing who it is before I see the cocky grin.

Wes Callahan.

Vegas Knights head coach. Former Vancouver assistant coach. And the guy who once thought I had a shot at making it big.

I smirk, shaking my head. "Fuck me. Why the hell are my reception girls letting the enemy in to spy on my boys?"

Wes shrugs, hands stuffed into the pockets of his Vegas team jacket. "What can I say? I hear Iron Ridge has a five-star rink and a coaching staff line-up worth stealing secrets from."

"Been a long time, man. Good to see you." I shake his hand, his grip just as solid as I remember. I spot Jordan, my assistant coach, at the boards and give him a wave. "Run the next drill for me, would you? Two-on-one rushes, focus on keeping defensive gaps tight."

"Got it, Coach," Jordan answers, already blowing his whistle to organize the team.

Wes watches on with a smile. I'm not sure how I feel about another NHL coach watching over my practice, but damn, it's good to see an old face.

"Wes, you’re a long way from the Strip," I mutter, watching carefully as he takes in my players shuffling back into position. "What can I help you with?"

"Can't an old friend stop by to check out his finest prodigy?" Wes nods toward the action, that same smile that he used to give when he watched me on the ice all those years ago appearing. “So… Vancouver, huh? How you feeling about that?”

My grip tightens on the clipboard.

All damn morning I've been trying to focus on my team, and not the one we'll face in a weeks time.

I watch Connor make another ridiculous save, sprawling across the crease like a lunatic, barking at Blake to ‘get the hell out of his kitchen.’

"They'll be tough." Wes shakes his head and smiles. "But you've built a hell of a squad here, Hunter."

“Yeah.” My voice comes out rough. “I’m proud of them.”

I mean it.

We weren’t supposed to be here. This team clawed its way into playoffs, scrapped and fought for every damn win. They proved the analysts wrong, the critics wrong—hell, even me wrong.

“You didn't answer me, Coach." Wes tilts his head, studying me like he used to. "Vancouver. How are you feeling?”

“Fuck, man. I don't know." I exhale, rolling my shoulders. "You ever notice how the past has a way of kicking you in the teeth at the worst possible moment?”

Wes chuckles. "Only every damn day."

I force a smirk. Wes was there when it all fell apart for me. When I hobbled out of with a busted knee and a shattered dream.

And now?

Now, after watching them power past Chicago last night, it's confirmed that I'll face the franchise that ended my playing career all those years ago.

“Guess it’s time to write a new chapter, huh?” Wes muses. “Not that you need luck, Brody. You’ve got everything you need right here.”

I arch a brow. “And what’s that?”

He grins and gestures towards the ice. “A great fucking team that believes in you.”

I scoff, shaking my head. “That, and a hell of a lot of film to analyze before next week.”

Wes claps me on the shoulder. “Well, I’ll leave you to it. But if you ever feel like trading your snow for some desert heat, I’ve got a spot open in Vegas.”

"Hopefully I'll be seeing you before then."

Wes smirks, knowing damn well what that means. If Iron Ridge and Vegas both make it through playoffs for our respective conferences, we’ll meet in the Stanley Cup Finals.

He steps toward the exit, reaching for the heavy steel door. “Alright, Brody. Try not to overthink this Vancouver thing. They're lucky to make playoffs. Just beat what's in front of you.”

He waves and I give him a wink, but the second he pulls the door open, a rush of cold air blasts in, carrying something far more dangerous than a playoff rival.

Natalie Hayes.

She breezes in like a goddamn movie entrance, all dark hair and glossy skin, emerald-green eyes scanning the rink like she's lost something.

And the worst part?

She’s wearing one of our team-issued jackets, zipped up just enough to be professional but tight enough to remind me exactly what’s underneath.

Except she’s not one of the guys.

She’s the woman I shouldn’t be thinking about. The woman I shouldn’t have had my hands on. The woman who is currently making it impossible to think about anything but the fact that I’ve seen her in a lot less than this.

Wes, still holding the door, doesn’t move. Instead, he leans a shoulder against the frame, watching as Natalie adjusts her grip on a sheet of paper, shifting from one foot to the other.

She flashes a polite smile. “Thanks for holding the door.”

“Anytime,” Wes says, easy as anything. Then, without missing a beat, he tilts his head toward me. “You looking for Coach Brody?”

Natalie exhales, exasperated. “Yes, in fact, I am.”

Wes grins like he just won a poker hand. “Well, sweetheart, there he is.”

And then he winks.

At me. At her. At the whole damn situation like he sees exactly what’s happening here.

Then he’s gone, letting the door crash shut behind him, leaving me to my fate.

Natalie’s gaze finally settles on me, her lips twitching like she knows exactly how much I wish I could just walk straight into the boards right now.

And then, because fate fucking hates me, she starts walking.

Her hips sway, those goddamn leggings hugging her like a second skin. Her glossy pink lips part slightly, and I swear to God, my brain just shuts down .

For the first time in my entire life, I'm considering calling a timeout on my own damn practice.

I should look away.

I don’t.

I physically can’t .

She stops dangerously close, her vanilla scent wrapping around me like a noose.

Natalie shifts the injury report in her hands, tapping the corner of the paper against her thigh like she’s barely restraining herself from vibrating out of her own skin.

“Coach! Oh my God, can you believe it?” She moves in front of me, eyes shining, bright and happy and everything I shouldn’t be getting attached to.

I blink. “Believe what?”

She scoffs, actually scoffs, like I’ve just asked if ice is cold.

“The playoffs, Hunter! The fact that your team made it this far!”

Your team.

The words hit something deep in my chest.

I drag a hand over my jaw, shifting my weight as my eyes flicker to the ice, watching Logan shove Blake off the puck in the corner.

Wes was right.

This team has something.

And maybe, just maybe, if we play the way I know we can, if I focus and keep my eyes on the prize, we could make it all the way.

Maybe I will see Wes again in Vegas.

Maybe we’ll be standing across from each other, benches roaring, fighting for the fucking Cup.

It’s a dangerous thought.

Almost as dangerous as the woman bouncing on her toes beside me, tapping her fingers against my bicep like I’m supposed to be keeping up with whatever bubbly nonsense she’s saying.

“Earth to Hunter,” she sing-songs, waving the injury sheet in front of my face. "Did you hear me? Connor has a cat, and I think we need to deal with that."

I frown, tearing my eyes away from the ice to squint at her. “What the hell does Connor’s cat have to do with anything?”

Natalie snorts, barely containing her laughter. “You weren’t listening to a single word I said, were you?”

“I'm busy working.”

She hums, like she doesn’t quite believe me. “Sure. Working. Not just standing there, lost in thought while I waste my breath?”

She taps the injury report against my chest, soft, but pointed.

“Anyway, I was saying that aside from Logan’s ankle, there are no major injury concerns. Just the usual bumps and bruises. But, in a shocking turn of events, Connor showed up this morning covered in scratches because his cat, Tuna, apparently doesn’t appreciate bath time.”

I blink. “Tuna?”

Natalie grins. “I know, right? Big, intimidating goalie, named his cat after his favorite sandwich.”

I rub a hand down my face. “Jesus Christ.”

She laughs, all bright and happy, like she’s completely oblivious to the fact that I’m currently trying not to think about how good she looks right now.

I nod toward the sheet. “So, Logan’s good to go?”

“He’ll be fine,” she confirms, flipping the paper against her palm. “I’ll re-tape his ankle before warm-ups just to be safe, but no excuses. He’s playing.”

“Good.” I exhale, forcing myself to stay professional. “And the rest of the guys?”

Natalie pretends to check the paper again, making a big show of it. “Well, Ryder keeps complaining about lower back pain, but that’s because he insists on carrying around that ridiculous gym bag that’s, like, half his body weight.”

I grunt. “Told him to stop overloading it.”

“Did he listen?”

I narrow my eyes. “What do you think?”

Natalie grins, biting her lip. I love it when she does that.

My fingers actually twitch with the need to touch her, to see if her skin is as soft as I remember.

I grip my clipboard harder. Focus on the practice.

“So, other than the usual soreness and Connor’s ongoing war with his feline roommate, you’ve got a fully functional team.” She shifts her weight, rolling up on the balls of her feet, just close enough for the scent of her to wreck me all over again. "And you, Coach? Feeling good?"

I drag my eyes back to the ice. I should be focusing on my team, my drills, my game.

Not on her.

“I’m fine.”

Natalie tilts her head. “Mmm. You don’t sound fine.”

“I’m focused ,” I correct. “We have work to do.”

She hums again, shifting just a little closer. “You know… work and stress go hand in hand.”

I grunt, keeping my jaw locked.

Don't go there Natalie. Don't go there.

“I just don't want you to overdo it, Coach. You’ve got to stay… loose.”

She draws out the last word, lips curving around it just enough to make something dark and hot curl in my gut. Fuck. She's going there.

I exhale slowly. “Natalie.”

“What?” she smiles, feigning innocence. “I’m just looking out for my boss. Stress relief is important.”

“Stop.”

Natalie laughs like she knows exactly what she’s doing to me. Swear to God, she gets off on just seeing me annoyed.

But then she leans in, just slightly, her voice dropping into something softer. “I guess you’re really serious about this, huh?”

I go still.

For a second, I consider pretending I don’t know what she means.

But then I look at her—really look at her—and I know she’s not playing anymore.

She’s testing me. Seeing if I’ll crack. If I’ll take back what I said in the steam room.

And fuck, I want to.

I want to grab her. I want to pin her against the boards and drag my hands over every inch of that body that’s been driving me insane since the day she walked into my life. I want to rip off that damn jacket and get my mouth on her, feel her writhing underneath me again, all breathless and wrecked and mine .

For a second, just a second, I almost do it.

Almost.

One last time.

I hold her gaze, not daring to look away. “I meant what I said, Natalie.”

Something shifts in her expression. She doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t tease.

Her throat bobs as she swallows, green eyes flickering with something unreadable.

And then… she gives the smallest nod that tells me, for the first time, she knows I mean it.

“Got it, Coach,” she murmurs.

She steps back, pulling herself out of my orbit.

She flashes one last smile, light and playful, but… different now. Then she turns and heads back toward the doors.

I watch her go, my entire body wired tight, my chest aching in ways I don’t like.

Now, it's time to focus.