Page 5

Hunter

I’m off by half a second.

Every drill, every play—we’re a fraction slow. Not enough to tank the whole practice, but enough that Coach is chewing through his whistle like it’s personal.

“Again!” he barks.

We skate it again.

My legs burn. My shoulders ache. The inside of my right hip twinges just enough to piss me off. It’s been bothering me since the last hit I took against Michigan Tech. Nothing major. Nothing I’d report. Just tight enough to throw off my shot, slow enough that I notice.

Coach notices, too.

I catch his glare as we circle back to the boards.

“Skate like you want it, Maddox,” he calls. “Or maybe someone else wears the ‘C’ this weekend.”

That hits harder than it should.

I grip my stick harder, breathe once, then push off again.

We finish the drill. Caleb fumbles the puck on a drop pass. Grayson’s off by a stride. It’s not just me—we’re all unfocused. The whole team feels loose, sloppy. Like our brains are somewhere else.

Or on someone else.

The second I think it, I grit my teeth.

Rilee.

Of course, it’s her.

It’s the pink scrunchie on the bathroom counter.

The cereal that somehow tastes better when it’s in her bowl.

The way Caleb’s been smiling more. The way Grayson’s suddenly in the kitchen more.

On the couch. In the living room when she walks through, like her footsteps pulled him there without asking.

And the worst part? I get it.

I see her, too.

Every curve, every eye roll, every goddamn fitted T-shirt she wears like it’s nothing.

It’s not nothing.

It’s a distraction I can’t afford.

Coach blows the whistle. “That’s enough. Hit the showers. Maddox—stay.”

Of course.

The guys skate off, muttering, towels already slung around their necks. I pull off my gloves, breathing hard, heart still in my throat.

Coach waits. Lets the silence stretch.

“You good?” he finally asks.

I nod. “Fine.”

“You sure? Because you look like you’ve been skating through concrete the last two weeks.”

“I’m working on it.”

“You’re the leader,” he says. “You don’t get the luxury of distraction.”

I nod again. Jaw tight. Eyes forward.

“There’s a scout from Tampa coming to the game this weekend. You ready for that?”

I want to say yes.

I want to say I’ve been ready my whole life.

But I don’t. I just say, “I will be.”

He studies me. Then nods once. “Get your head on straight, Maddox. Fast.”

I hit the showers, steam hissing around me, and try not to think about anything except what’s next. The game. The season—my final one at Michigan before my future’s decided. The weight of everything I’ve worked for.

But somewhere between shampoo and rinse, my brain betrays me.

I see Rilee.

Hair damp. Towel knotted over her glorious tits.

I bite back a curse and lean my head against the tile, water pounding over my back.

She’s Fletcher’s sister.

She’s off-limits.

She’s everywhere.

And if I don’t shut it down soon, I’m going to lose more than my focus.

I might lose everything .

I walk in, still half-sweaty from practice, my T-shirt clinging to my back and damp hair curling against my neck. My stomach’s a pit. I haven’t eaten since seven this morning. And not just food—I’m starving for something I don’t have the name for.

And then I see her.

Rilee’s in the kitchen, standing on her toes, reaching into the top cabinet for a mug.

She’s in those jeans—the ones that hug her ass, with the rip at the knee and the way-too-snug fit that should be illegal in shared housing.

Her T-shirt stretches just enough when she moves, and I catch a sliver of bare skin above her waistband.

It hits like a punch. Low. Deep.

She doesn’t notice me right away.

I could walk past. Head upstairs. Pretend I didn’t see her. That would be the smart move.

She turns and nearly jumps. “Oh—hey. Didn’t hear you come in.”

“Clearly.” My voice comes out rougher than I want. “What are you doing?”

She holds up the mug like it’s obvious. “Refueling. I’ve got a ten-hour shift starting in an hour and zero motivation to survive it.”

Her hair’s up in a messy twist. Strands falling around her face. No makeup. Not that she needs it.

It’s unfair how good she looks. Even when exhausted.

I can still feel the vibration of practice in my body—my muscles tight, breath shallow, like I haven’t cooled down. But this isn’t adrenaline.

It’s her.

She’s like static in my blood. Itching under my skin. Every breath I take near her makes it worse.

She sips. “You look like hell.”

A quiet chuckle escapes me. “Coach made us skate drills until someone puked.”

She eyes me. “Was it you?”

“No.”

She smirks. “Pity. I bet you’re a dramatic puker.”

I huff out a laugh before I can stop it.

She grins at that. Like she caught me slipping.

I look away. Grip the edge of the counter so I don’t do something I’ll regret.

She sets the mug down beside me. Too close.

“I should probably go get dressed,” she says, voice quieter now. “Before I end up late.”

I nod. But I don’t move.

She doesn’t either.

And for one long second, we just exist in the silence. The air thick between us. Her hip still brushing my thigh. My pulse hammering way too hard for something this simple.

Then she steps back. “See you later, Maddox.”

She walks away.

I stay exactly where I am. Hands still gripping the counter. Jaw clenched.

Hunger isn’t the word for it.

It’s need.

And I’m not allowed to have it.