Chapter 1 #2
I hate how hot he looks when he's pissed off. Ugh, I hate that I notice.
My dress smoothed, I straighten, remembering why I avoid this.
Men like Hunter are exactly the problem.
All heat and impulse, all rage and recklessness.
He reminds me of everything I swore off after Patrick.
I’m not the girl who falls for chaos anymore.
I crave control, safety, and a future I build myself.
Because I’ve always liked hotheads, I can’t trust my opinion. But Hunter isn't just hot-tempered. He's actually violent, throws punches for a living. That's a hard no from me. Besides, I will never, ever date another hockey player. That's a promise I made to myself, and I'm keeping it.
Not that he’d ever ask me out. I’m pretty sure he hates me as much as I loathe him.
After some breathtaking action, the game goes to overtime. The Havoc lose in a shootout and I watch the players skate off the ice looking defeated and pissed off. Patrons in the corporate box clear out, but Jessa grabs my arm.
"Come on, let's go watch the interviews. It'll be fun to see them up close."
I follow her down toward the media tunnel, even though fun isn't the word I'd use. This is actually where I want to be, but not as a fan.
As a professional. I've dreamed about working for a team like this, crafting their image, managing their brand.
But I didn't even bother applying after my last PR interview, where the hiring manager looked me up and down like I'd shown up in lingerie instead of the modest blouse and slacks I'd carefully chosen.
It didn't matter what I wore. People had already sorted me into a category. One glance at my curves and managers wouldn’t even bother giving me a chance. Figures.
The media tunnel is cramped and loud, full of reporters and cameras. Jessa knows her way around, flashing her team ID to get us through security. I'm trying to look professional and invisible when I nearly walk directly into a wall of muscle and rage.
Hunter Huxley, still in his gear, still radiating fury from the loss.
I freeze, not sure if he'll recognize me. We weren't exactly friends in college. Barely acquaintances, really, just two people who occasionally ended up at the same parties. But he looks right at me with those storm-gray eyes and his jaw tightens.
"What are you doing here?" His voice is a growl, rough and irritated. "Aren't you supposed to have followed your loser ex to Texas?"
The question hits me like a slap. I did not know he even knew about Patrick, let alone that he'd been paying attention to my life. We may have spoken ten words to each other in four years of college.
“Huxley.” I force a smile, the same one I use with difficult customers at Foxies. "Good news. I’m back! I finally dumped Patrick, so now I'm staying here in the city again."
Hunter's glare could melt steel. "Not sure why you're in my arena."
My arena. Like he owns the place. I introduce Jessa, mentioning that she works for the team and is my roommate, hoping that might make him back off. Instead, he just keeps staring at me like I'm something unpleasant he stepped in. Being under his gaze is acutely uncomfortable.
"That's great for you," he says flatly. "Now move."
The dismissal is so sharp and unexpected that I actually jump backward. Jessa's eyes go wide as Hunter pushes past us toward the interview area.
"Yikes," Jessa whispers.
“It isn’t us.” I glare at his retreating form. "I’ve known him for years. Hunter's always been a flying bag of dicks."
Jessa laughs, but I'm completely serious. He's a rude, growling grump with no redeeming qualities except he is good at hitting a puck with a stick. He's just lucky that people in this city are hockey-crazy enough to worship him for it.
Well, he’s hot too. But I would never, ever admit that out loud.
We find spots near the back of the media scrum as Hunter steps up to the microphone.
He looks like he'd rather be literally anywhere else, answering questions with grunts and one-word replies, refusing to make eye contact with anyone.
His post-game interview technique is basically a masterclass in how to make reporters hate you.
Then some idiot in the third row asks, "Hunter, have you heard from your mom lately?"
I inhale sharply. The question hangs in the air like a live grenade. Every reporter in the room knows that's off-limits territory, but this guy either doesn't care or doesn't know better.
"What's the story there?" Jessa whispers.
Unfortunately, I know the story. Hunter, Patrick, and I went to college at the same time.
I met Patrick exactly one day before I met Hunter and was as bowled over by Patrick’s charm offensive as I was Hunter’s growly presence.
They were on the same team, so when I started dating Patrick, I was around Hunter a lot.
Unfortunately.
When Patrick and I were living in Houston, with Patrick playing for the Houston Stars, the news broke about Hunter and his mom having a major falling out. I remember, because Patrick made a massive deal out of Hunter’s very public scandal.
Looking at Jessa, I keep my voice low. "His mom Darla used to be his agent. She stole a ton of money from him, tanked some of his deals, talked crazy shit about him to the papers, and then just disappeared. It was a whole thing."
“Oh, shit!” Jessa hisses. “I didn’t know that.”
Hunter doesn't handle the question well. His glare could cut glass as he leans into the microphone and growls, "Suck my dick," before stalking away from the podium.
The room falls into mortified silence. Camera flashes pop like fireworks as the reporters realize they just got the quote of the night. A young guy in a team polo shirt races up to the microphone, sweating bullets and stumbling over an apology.
"That's Julien," Jessa tells me. "He's the new PR guy. He’s temporary. At least, I hope he is. He sucks."
I watch him fumble through damage control, practically begging the media to go easy on the team. He's a mess. Apologetic, nervous, completely out of his depth. I frown.
"He's not doing his job," I mutter.
“Who?” Jessa blinks. "The reporter?"
"No. Julien, the PR rep. If they respected him, they wouldn't have dared ask about Hunter’s mom. Someone should have stopped them from asking that question.”
Jessa studies my face. "You get kinda intense when you talk about PR stuff."
I don't answer. I'm too busy watching the chaos unfold, seeing all the ways this could have been prevented. A good PR person builds relationships with reporters, establishes boundaries, controls the narrative before it controls you. Julien is just reacting, which means he's already lost.
This is why I love PR. I love finding the angle, controlling the story, building order out of chaos. I know I could do this better than anyone else in that room. And after Patrick, proving myself matters more than anything.
As we walk toward the parking garage, I can't stop thinking about what I just witnessed.
"The team managers have got to do something about Huxley," I say, almost talking to myself. "Have him adopt a kid. Rescue puppies. Get him a fake fiancée. Anything to change the narrative."
Jessa raises an eyebrow. "Fake fiancée? That's dramatic."
"Not if you sell it right. A few photos, sappy social media captions, gala appearances. Let the press eat it up and forget about tonight's disaster. I could build the entire campaign in my sleep."
"Does he even have a girlfriend?"
I snort. "Doubt it. He's too much. Too gruff, too pissed off at the world. And he never liked puck bunnies, not even in college. He'd need someone who can play the part but won't fall for the act."
Jessa side-eyes me as we reach my car. "So… you looking for a good side gig?"
I stop walking. "What? No. God, no. We can't stand each other. He once ruined my entire internship track with one stupid quote to a reporter about how female sports journalists were just quote looking for attention. I didn't even get to interview for the position after that."
She screws up her mouth. "But you already know him. And you're clearly the one with the plan."
I wave a hand dismissively. "Take the idea. I'll have a hundred more by tomorrow."
But as I drive home, I can't stop thinking about Hunter's interview disaster, about Julien's incompetence, about the way the whole situation should have been handled differently. I tell myself this is just a coincidence. One night, one sighting, one awkward run-in with someone from my past.
There's no way this horrible man will ever factor into my life again. I have better things to focus on. Better plans to make. But as I drive home, I can’t stop thinking about Hunter’s interview disaster, Julien’s incompetence, and how someone could have handled the whole situation differently.
I intend to forget about him completely.