Page 8

Chapter Eight

Hunter

I lump another chunk of butter in the pan, because why the fuck not?

It sizzles and melts around my thick-cut steak, the cast iron pan hissing when I spoon the rich garlic and red wine sauce over the crust. A rich, smoky aroma rises into the air, mixing the freshly cut rosemary I snatched from the garden before the sun went down.

This is routine. Control.

The only damn thing keeping my damn head on straight right now.

I let the steak rest on a cutting board and turn to the roasted potatoes in the oven, golden brown and crisp around the edges. The sauce simmers on the stove, thickening into a deep, velvety reduction.

Cooking is like a game plan.

Like a strategy.

Every movement, every measurement of the ingredients is deliberate, calculated and defined with a direct reason for doing that action. Just like a play on the ice.

Which is exactly why I like cooking whenever a big game is approaching.

My eyes flick to the kitchen island, where scouting reports and line matchups are spread in a meticulous grid. Vancouver’s logo stares back at me. I spent the entire day in meetings, going over plays, breaking down film, reinforcing the plan .

And still, my brain won’t shut up.

Power plays. Faceoffs. Defensive pairings.

The pace we need to set. The hits we need to land. The pressure we need to apply.

I grab a knife and slice through the steak, pink and perfect in the center. I pour the sauce over the top, let it pool around the edges of the plate. Every piece of this meal is precision. Focus.

And then… ding-dong.

The knife stills in my hand.

I wipe my hands on the dish towel, toss it on the counter. For a second, I don’t move. Because I know. I fucking know. Then my feet carry me to the door before my brain can talk sense into them.

The handle's cold against my palm. One deep breath. Two.

I swing the door open.

And there she is.

Natalie Hayes on my doorstep, hair damp and wild, wearing those damn yoga pants that make me forget every rule I've ever made. Her green eyes lock with mine, and just like that, two weeks of carefully constructed walls crumble in an instant.

"Took you long enough."

She rolls her eyes and shakes her head at me. "Don't make me regret this already."

I step back, just enough to give her space. Just enough to let her decide.

She hesitates for half a second. A breath. A beat. Then, with a sigh—one of those exasperated, I hate this but I’m doing it anyway kind of sighs—she steps inside.

And just like that, she’s in my house.

My domain.

My fucking kingdom.

The air shifts the second she crosses the threshold. Like the whole damn house knows something just changed. Like all the planets have just aligned, and now, the perfect symmetry of the universe has her right where she belongs.

The warmth from the fireplace catches her damp skin, the scent of seared steak and rosemary curling around her as she takes her first hesitant step onto the hardwood floors.

She pauses, eyes scanning the massive open-concept space. I watch her, because I can’t not watch her. The way she takes it all in—the cathedral ceilings, the stone fireplace stretching two stories high, the floor-to-ceiling windows framing the darkened mountains beyond.

I see it the moment she clocks the chef’s kitchen, the dark granite island big enough to seat an entire team. The sleek leather furniture. The meticulously stacked firewood.

She blinks.

I watch her circle the kitchen island, trailing her fingers along the edge of the polished granite. Her eyes catch on the sparkling rangehood, the pan simmering on the stovetop, the wall of custom cabinets stretching to the ceiling.

"This kitchen is bigger than my entire apartment."

She spins, taking in the copper pots hanging overhead, the wine fridge humming quietly in the corner.

"Just putting this out there, but I now think that I should be making twice what I do. Minimum."

"Why's that?" I lean against the doorframe, arms crossed, enjoying the sight of her perfectly round ass in my kitchen more than I should.

"Because I keep the players standing so you can actually put them on the ice, Coach." She opens the fridge, peers inside at my meticulously organized shelves. "I'm literally the reason you have a job."

"You want a raise? Take it up with ownership."

I move over to the fridge, close the door and double tap my fingers on the outside of it. The stainless steel effect disappears, replaced by a perfect view of the inside of my fridge.

"You don't need to open the door. It's more eco-friendly that way."

Her mouth almost reaches the floor. "And when I ask for a raise, I'll use your fridge as Exhibit A as to why they'll give it to me."

I laugh and push off the doorframe.

"Come on. I'll show you where you're staying."

The stairs curve up to the second floor, each step solid oak beneath our feet. Natalie's hand glides along the railing as she follows me up, her footsteps echoing in the cathedral ceiling space.

The upstairs hallway stretches before us, lined with more windows framing the mountains. Moonlight spills across the hardwood, making it look smoother than usual.

I stop at the first door on the right.

"Here. Your room."

She crosses her arms, one eyebrow raised. "Awfully confident."

"No, just practical." I push the door open, revealing the guest suite with its king-sized bed and yet more mountain views. "Bathroom's through there. Closet's bigger than you need."

She steps inside, taking in the gray and white bedding, the reading nook by the window, the en-suite bathroom with its rainfall shower.

Everything pristine, untouched… waiting.

Her gaze flicks to the en-suite bathroom, where a deep soaking tub sits beneath another window with a goddamn view.

She turns back to me, expression unreadable. “Let me guess. Heated floors?”

I nod.

She mutters something under her breath about unfair advantages and steps back into the main room.

She runs a hand along the smooth bedspread like she’s trying to convince herself this is fine . Like she hasn’t just stepped into some kind of mountain retreat that most people pay a shit-ton of money to experience.

I watch her drop her bag onto the bed, see the way her fingers flex around the strap before she exhales deeply.

She’s here.

She’s really here.

Natalie moves around the bed, fingertips brushing over the pristine gray bedding, and fuck me , I feel it.

The way she fits in this space. Like she’s been here a hundred times before. Like she belongs.

Her hair spills over her shoulders, messy from the rain but still damn beautiful and dark. Her yoga pants hug those curves that test my patience at the best of times.

And those lips… God. So plump, red and irresistible.

Then the scent of seared steak and rosemary drifts up from the kitchen, snapping me back to reality.

I was cooking. Cooking to focus. Focus on the game. The fucking game. That’s why I need control. That’s why she’s here.

I step back, clearing my throat loudly.

“Right, um… Okay. I think we need rules.”

Natalie turns, raising a brow and falling to the bed with a plop. I catch the slight bounce of her breasts as her body sinks into my mattress.

“Rules? God, Hunter, you’re such a coach.”

Her voice is all mock innocence, eyes bright with mischief. She stretches her arms above her head, toes pointing, her spine arching just enough to have me considering throwing my brand-new set of rules out the damn window already.

But I manage to ignore her. A damn miracle in itself.

“No flirting. No lingering. No touching.”

Her lips twitch. “So… no fun, basically?”

“Exactly. Just be happy you have somewhere dry and warm to sleep.”

She tilts her head, playful, eyes gleaming. "You're right. I am happy. Thank you... Coach. ”

Fuck.

This woman is going to be the death of me.

I head downstairs, shaking off the lingering heat in my blood as I move back into the kitchen.

Focus, Brody.

Plates. Steak. Potatoes. Not the woman upstairs who just damn near made me break my own rules before I even finished making them.

I grab a second plate without thinking, slicing into the now perfectly rested steak and dividing it down the middle. I ladle sauce over each half, pile crispy roasted potatoes beside them, and set both plates on the island.

Behind me, soft footsteps pad down the stairs.

“Are you feeding me now?” Natalie leans against the counter, arms crossed, head tilting as she eyes the meal.

"You look like a drowned cat when I saw you this morning." I hand her a fork. "The least I can do is provide shelter and feed you. Now eat."

"God, the romance," she mutters, sliding onto the barstool. “It’s overwhelming.”

I pour a glass of wine, slide it toward her, then grab a beer for myself.

She takes a bite of the steak and moans— moans —before catching herself and clearing her throat.

"Okay," she admits, stabbing another piece. "I’ll give you this. You can cook."

"Damn right I can."

She laughs and shakes her head, lifting the wine to take a long sip.

"So, how was dinner with the parents? You seem hungry."

She makes a face down at her already-almost-empty plate. “It was exactly what you’d expect.”

I raise a brow, waiting.

She twirls her fork in the sauce, avoiding my gaze. “They bickered. They criticized. They made me question every life choice I've ever made. So, you know… standard family bonding.”

She exhales, shakes her head and pulls her hand through her ponytail.

“Let’s just say, I never want to end up like them.”

Something sharp flickers in my chest, something I don’t quite understand.

I take a slow sip of beer. Never wants to end up like them?

Does she mean she never wants to get married?

Huh. Not my business.

I clear our plates while Natalie wanders the kitchen. A new wine bottle opens with a satisfying pop, and I pour us each a fresh glass.

She pauses at the stack of newspapers on the corner of the counter. "Didn't take you for a morning paper kind of guy."

"I'm not." I hand her a glass. "They're clippings and old papers. My parents saved everything. Every game I ever played, every article which so much as hinted at me."

"That's so nice." She picks up the top paper, and I see the moment she realizes what she's holding. Her fingers tighten on the yellowed edges. "Oh."

The bold headline stares back at us both: "Future NHL Star's Career Over Before It Begins?"

"Hunter, I-"

"It's fine. It was a long time ago."

"You've obviously been thinking about it." She looks up, her voice soft.

I take a long sip of wine, letting the rich cabernet coat my tongue. The familiar ache in my knee throbs with phantom pain. "Yeah."

"Because of Vancouver?"

I nod, unable to form the words. Twenty years, and that city still haunts me.

She sets the paper down carefully, like she's handling something precious. And maybe she is. Those papers are the last remnants of who I used to be, before I became the man standing in this kitchen, trying not to notice how gently she touches the pieces of my past.

Natalie's fingers flick over the old clippings, lingering on each one.

Photos of a younger me, cocky grin plastered across my face, Vancouver Canucks jersey bright in the camera flash. The injury report. The articles detailing my fall from grace.

Her brow furrows. "Wait. You were with Vancouver?"

I look up, blinking. "You didn't know?"

"No. I mean, I knew you played before coaching, but—"

Those big beautiful eyes look up a meet my own, and I see the moment it clicks. The weight of this playoff series, exactly what it means to me.

"They cut you."

Her voice is careful, measured.

I nod as my throat bobs beneath a hard swallow. "Busted my knee. They replaced me before I was even out of surgery."

The silence stretches. I can see her wrestling with what to say, searching for the right words. But I don't need her sympathy. Don't want it.

I shrug, aiming for casual. "Happens to a lot of guys. Part of the game."

"But it happened to you." Her voice goes soft, too soft.

My knuckles whiten around my wine glass. I stare at the dark liquid, unable to meet her gaze.

"So what you're saying is..." Natalie's lips quirk up. "This playoff series, against Vancouver… it's really your very own villain origin story?"

A breath escapes me – almost a laugh.

"I guess you could label it something like that." I lift my glass and tilt it at her. "You know, instead of asking for a raise, you could get a second job in the media. They spin stories like that all the time."

She laughs and rolls her eyes. "Thanks for the tip."

The heaviness lifts, but something else takes its place. Understanding. She sees it now – why this series matters, why I've been so focused.

Why I've pushed her away.

I shift back, clearing my throat. "Long day. I'm turning in."

I watch her gather the clippings, stacking them neatly on the edge of the counter again.

"'Night, Coach."

She disappears up the stairs, leaving me alone with memories I'd rather forget and feelings I shouldn't have.

I turn out the light and head upstairs, knowing that having her here with me, under the same roof?

Yeah, that scares me more than facing Vancouver ever could.