Page 30

Chapter Thirty

Hunter

I pull up to the Hayes' house, killing the Ferrari's engine. The suburban cookie-cutter home sits pristine and lifeless - beige siding, manicured shrubs, not a blade of grass out of place.

Nothing like the beautiful vibrant chaos that is their daughter.

My hands tighten on the wheel. This is where Natalie learned to make herself small. Where she watched love become a daily negotiation of criticism and silence.

I take a breath, step out, and make my way up the short walkway. The wind rattles an old wind chime by the door, the kind that should sound peaceful but somehow just… doesn’t.

Martha opens the door before I reach it, her perfectly coiffed hair at odds with her confused expression.

“Hunter?” She glances past me like she’s expecting to see Natalie. “She’s not here…”

“I know.” I slide my hands into my pockets. “I came to talk to you both.”

Her eyebrows lift, suspicion flashing through her sharp brown eyes. “Oh?”

Before she can grill me any further, a voice grumbles from inside.

“Who is it?”

Martha sighs, stepping back to let me in. Harold Hayes barely glances up from his newspaper, a steaming cup of coffee at his elbow.

The back page of the paper screams last nights victory in bold print: "ICEHAWKS TAKE 2-0 LEAD!" Any other time, that headline would fill me with pride.

Right now, it barely registers.

The kitchen smells like toast and burnt coffee. The table is old wood, lined with small cracks that have never been fixed. Everything in this house looks like it’s been kept just functional enough. No warmth. No indulgence.

"Mr. Hayes." I keep my voice firm but respectful. "Mrs. Hayes. I think it's time we had a real conversation."

Harold doesn’t move. Doesn’t even gesture to the seat across from him. He just keeps his hands folded over the paper, staring at me like I’m some kid who wandered into his yard.

Alright, old man. We doing this the hard way?

I grab the chair myself, drag it back with a slow scrape across the tile, and sit like I own the damn room.

Seeing them together like this—the silence between them, the way Harold’s shoulders never quite loosen, the way Martha’s gaze is sharp but tired—it all clicks.

This isn't just about getting their blessing.

This is about showing them, and their daughter, that love doesn't have to be earned through perfection. That sometimes it's messy and loud and absolutely worth fighting for.

This is about proving to them, and to myself, that I am not like them.

That I will never make Natalie feel like she has to fight for love ever again.

I settle in the seat across from Harold, meeting his gaze directly. Martha hovers by the doorway, hands clasped like she's waiting for the other shoe to drop.

"Your daughter," I start, my voice rough with emotion, "is the best thing that's ever happened to me. And I need you both to understand exactly what that means."

Harold exhales through his nose. “And what exactly does that mean, Coach ?”

I grit my teeth at the nickname. Not Hunter. Not the man who loves your daughter. Just Coach.

Martha’s lips press together. “You know she deserves more than being stuck in a small town forever.”

The words sink like a stone in my gut.

Because I know what she’s really saying.

I'm just another thing holding her daughter back.

I lean forward, locking horns. “You know she loves it here, right? This town? Her home?"

My glare could melt ice.

"If you both took a second to really see her here, you'd understand that. That’s why I’m not asking her to give up anything. I'd never ask her to leave Iron Ridge, because despite what she's been put through, she still loves it here.”

Harold sets his coffee down with a quiet clink. And finally, for the first time since I walked in, he really looks at me.

His sharp, assessing gaze flicks from my face to my fists, curled tight like I’m gearing up for a fight. Because I am.

Because Natalie is worth fighting for.

“What are you asking, then?”

I reach into my pocket. Pull out the small velvet box.

Martha gasps. Harold stiffens.

“I’m asking you to trust that I’m never going to let her feel alone. That I’ll fight for her, every day. Because she’s it for me. Always has been.”

Martha’s jaw firms, but there’s something in her eyes—something glassy, something breaking open.

Still, she squares her shoulders.

“If I say no…” she says, treading carefully. “…will you just steamroll ahead anyway?”

I smirk. “Absolutely. One hundred percent, ma’am.”

Harold makes a low sound, half a scoff, half something that almost sounds like a laugh. And then, without a word, he reaches across the table and takes his wife’s hand.

And fuck me. That's the first time I’ve ever seen them touch.

Martha exhales, blinking hard before disappearing into the pantry as she dabs at her eyes like a mosquito just flew in them. When she returns, she’s holding a dust-covered box and her face is all red.

“This was my mother’s china,” she says, setting it on the table. “She wanted Natalie to have it, but we just... never got around to giving it to her.”

Then, after a long pause, her fingers brush over the lid. She opens it, revealing something small, delicate.

Inside, nestled between old porcelain, is a ring.

“I used to wear it,” Martha admits, her voice quieter now. Softer. She looks to Harold wistfully. "Didn't I? When you first asked me to marry you."

Harold nods as his thumb brushes over Martha's knuckles, and suddenly I'm seeing them as they must have been decades ago. Young. In love. Before life and expectations and disappointments piled up between them.

"You wore it every day," Harold says quietly.

Martha's shoulders drop, tension bleeding out.

I watch them, these two people who've spent years building walls between themselves, as something shifts. It's like watching ice crack in spring - slow at first, then all at once.

Martha pulls out the ring, holding it up to the light. It's vintage, delicate - the kind of thing that would look perfect on Natalie's hand. The diamond isn't large, but it catches the morning sun streaming through their kitchen window, throwing rainbow prisms across the worn tablecloth.

"Mother always said it was meant for Natalie," Martha says. "She knew, even then, that our girl was special."

Harold clears his throat. "You'll need to get it sized. Natalie's fingers are dainty and small."

It takes me a second to realize what he's saying. What they're offering.

I look at the ring in Martha's palm, then at my own box still sitting on the table. Two rings. Two generations of love stories.

"Are you sure?" I ask.

Martha's chin lifts. "Just... promise me something?"

I wait, watching as she struggles to find the words.

"Don't let the important things slip away," she finally says, her eyes meeting Harold's again. "Not like we did."

I take the ring and give a curt nod as I stand to leave. "I won't. And thank you. She’s going to love it.”

***

The jet lifts off the airstrip, engines roaring as we break through the clouds, Vegas bound.

Lucy’s got a tablet in her lap, scrolling through Vegas Must-Do’s with the intensity of a woman planning a full-blown military operation.

“I’m just saying,” she announces to Connor, who's playing on his phone beside her. “If we don’t go to the rooftop ice bar, we’re doing Vegas wrong.”

Logan, already shirtless for no reason, sticks his head over her seat. “Or hear me out… we do Vegas right, and hit the pool deck instead.”

From across the aisle, Blake grunts, half-asleep in full compression gear like an aging gladiator prepping for battle. Sophia is curled up beside him, eyes glued to her Kindle, nursing a cocktail.

I stretch out in my first-class seat, unable to take my eyes off Natalie.

The memory of her parents giving me that ring burns in my pocket.

Twenty years I’ve been chasing hockey dreams, and now? All I can think about is getting this damn series over with so I can start my real life.

With her.

Sitting beside me, she’s drowning in my team hoodie, looking way too pleased with herself.

I smirk and toss a Summit Café latte onto her lap.

She blinks. “Is this—”

“I had Clara deliver it to the airport before we left,” I cut in, watching as she wraps her hands around it, cradling it like a damn treasure. "I know I kept you a bit longer at home, so thought I'd better make it up to you."

Her lips part, utterly awed, and something inside me clenches.

God, I love her.

"You spoil me,” she murmurs, taking a sip and moaning low like it’s the best thing she’s ever tasted. "And it was totally worth being late. You rocked my world, baby."

I grin and laugh with her. “You make it easy. But I hope you know exactly what you’re doing to me sitting there in my hoodie.”

“Maybe…” She tugs the sleeve over her hand, a gesture that shouldn’t be so damn sexy. “Or maybe I just like how it smells like you.”

I lean in, lips brushing her ear. “You know, I was thinking… if robots ever take over the world, my smart fridge would have some stories to tell.”

Natalie turns to me, brow furrowed. “What?”

I chuckle, enjoying her confusion.

“Earlier… in the kitchen? Before we left for the airport? The way I had you up against the counter while I fucked you so hard you almost knocked over the wine bottle?”

Her eyes widen, her cheeks flushing deep crimson. “Hunter!”

“It’s funny…” I continue, dropping my voice, “because every time I open that damn fridge, I think it might start moaning my name like some kind of stainless-steel parrot that's been listening all this time.”

Natalie all but chokes on her coffee.

She glances around, horrified.

“Behave! I don’t know what’s gotten into you today, mister,” she hisses, even as her eyes betray pure arousal.

I smirk, reaching for something under my seat. “Well, since I’m in a giving mood…”

I toss a bundle of soft navy fabric into her lap.

Natalie unrolls it and a custom made Icehawks varsity jacket falls in her hands. There's bold silver thread stitched across the back that says:

COACH’S FAVORITE.

She stares, then bursts out laughing.

“Hunter.” She blinks up at me, shaking her head in pure disbelief.

I feign innocence. “Figured since you’re already showing blatant favoritism, might as well make it official.”

“Favoritism? Please, I am an unbiased professional.”

I arch a brow. “Really? Because last time I checked, you were riding me in my kitchen before this flight.”

Logan groans and turns around to glare at us over the headrest. “Jesus, can I get one peaceful nap on this plane?”

Natalie cackles, but her fingers smooth over the jacket, slow and reverent.

She looks up at me, eyes shining. “I love it.”

I press my lips to her knuckles. “Good.”

Because this?

This is just the beginning.

Two games left. Two chances to wrap this up quickly.

And when the buzzer sounds, the whole world will know what I’ve known for weeks.

My future isn’t in Team USA.

It’s with her.