Page 16

Hunter

The ice is loud.

Blades cutting. Bodies slamming. Our bench barking like we’re already down three, even though it’s tied.

“Ward—move!” I snap, barely dodging a hit as I pass the puck off.

Caleb catches it clean. Doesn’t hesitate. Drives it down like he’s got rockets in his skates and fire in his chest.

The kid’s locked in tonight.

Me?

Not so much.

I miss my check. Get beat on a faceoff I usually win. My stick fumbles on a one-timer that should’ve been easy .

Coach’s voice rings in my ears. “Dial it in, Maddox. You’re late on everything.”

No shit.

I skate to the bench during a line change, chest heaving, and reach for a water bottle. The taste is metallic, or maybe it’s just me. I don’t even swallow it before spitting it out.

“Hey,” my teammate Luke says from behind his mask. “You good?”

“Fine.”

He doesn’t press. Just watches me like he already knows I’m lying.

I drag my eyes to the stands, like an idiot.

Like I don’t already know exactly where she is.

Rilee’s bundled in a fleece jacket, hair pulled into some kind of high ponytail. Her friend Lexi’s beside her, mid-snack.

But Rilee?

She’s watching the game.

Watching me .

And when our eyes catch, she doesn’t smile.

She just tilts her head slightly— just enough to make me remember everything I haven’t said.

The kiss we didn’t have.

The fight we almost did.

And the way she looked walking back into the party after she and Caleb had clearly—

I force the thought away. Did I need to interrupt them? Technically no. I could have bandaged the kid up. But fuck that.

I grit my teeth and jump the boards the second we’re up.

I try to play it clean. Smart.

I try to move the puck.

I try to stop thinking .

But I don’t.

I charge the net too hard. Get called for a cross-check that barely lands, but the ref’s been itching for a call.

Whistle blows.

Penalty.

Shit.

I slam the penalty box door and sit, helmet tilted back, chest rising like I just sprinted through a brick wall.

From the box, I can see the stands.

I don’t look at her again.

Not really.

But I know she’s still watching.

* * *

The bar’s loud. Sticky. And it smells faintly of stale beer. But no one cares.

We won.

Caleb scored two goals and assisted a third. Grayson shut down every slapshot like it personally insulted his mother. The freshman line actually listened for once.

And me?

I sat in the box longer than I contributed on the ice.

Now we’re three pitchers in at our usual booth, and I’m pretending to enjoy my beer while Caleb laughs at something Luke said.

Grayson’s next to me, sipping something dark and not talking. Standard.

“Yo, Caleb,” Luke says, clapping him on the back. “You ever gonna admit you’re carrying this team?”

Caleb grins. “Nah. Just trying to keep up with Hunter.”

“Hunter was off tonight,” Luke fires back, shooting me a look. “What’s up with that, man? You’re usually the guy skating like he’s got a rocket in his ass.”

“I’m fine,” I mutter.

“You’re growlier than usual,” Luke pushes, clearly not reading the room. “You need to get laid or something? Get the rage out?”

My jaw tightens.

Grayson raises one brow, just slightly.

“I said I’m fine,” I repeat.

Luke holds up his hands. “Alright, alright. Damn.”

Caleb shifts beside me. “She said she had to get up early?”

It takes me a second to realize he’s talking about Rilee.

“Yeah,” I say. “Early shift. Hospital stuff.”

Caleb nods, takes a drink.

He doesn’t say more.

Doesn’t have to.

The air shifts, just a little.

Grayson finally speaks, low and quiet. “We gonna pretend we don’t know what this is about?”

I glare at him. “Drop it.”

He shrugs. “Cool.”

But the message is clear.

They all know.

They don’t know what , exactly—but they know something’s broken.

And it’s probably me.

I drain the rest of my beer in one long gulp, but it doesn’t help.

The noise, the heat, the pretending like I’m just another college guy who loves hockey—it’s bullshit.

Because I know what’s waiting for me if I fuck this up. Firsthand.

One year. That’s how long my dad lasted in the NHL. He was some hockey prodigy growing up—just like me.

And all he got was one rookie season. Ten games. A concussion. And a “thanks for coming out” before they dumped him back into real life.

Now he sells life insurance to people who think bad luck can be managed with paperwork. Drives the same truck he’s had since 2003. He tells me if I just “push harder,” I won’t end up where he did.

No pressure or anything.

Just the constant reminder that almost making it is worse than never trying at all.

I’m not going to be him.

I can’t be.

So yeah—I’m off. I’m tired. And maybe I’ve been watching Rilee too much, wanting things I’m not supposed to want.

But I’ll be damned if I let it get me benched in my own future.