Chapter 2
Hunter
Another day, another fight waiting to happen.
It's game night and I'm sitting in Coach Cross's office with my arms folded and my jaw locked, already knowing what's coming. Cross is behind his desk looking like he'd rather be anywhere else, and Ryan Haart is standing nearby trying to look supportive. They're about to give me the talk. Again.
Cross doesn’t bother pretending this is a check-in. It’s a warning. One I’ve heard too many times before.
“Hunter,” he says, drumming his fingers on the desk, “we love the Chainsaw act. The fans eat it up. But sponsors?”
I wait.
“Not so much.”
There it is. The line. The threat wrapped in a compliment.
“You’ve had three suspensions this season. Two fines. The Department of Player Safety has your name pinned on a dartboard.”
I clench my jaw so tight it clicks. The numbers don’t lie. I know what nobody says out loud: how many people flinch when I walk into a room. How many wait for me to blow.
The numbers don’t matter. Not to me. What matters is that many of the names on this roster play like cowards and expect me to save their asses. No wonder I can’t stand being around them.
If it weren’t for my brothers and a few players who have forced me into a friendship-slash-headlock, I wouldn’t like anyone.
I already know this. Lost another family-friendly brand last week. Some breakfast cereal companies decided I wasn't the right role model for their target demographic. Kids aren’t buying cereal based on which hockey player endorses it.
Moms will buy my face on cereal boxes because a 6”6’ monster with tattoos who demolishes his enemies makes their fantasy lives much hotter. I get the fan mail they send me. Reading enough of their confessions tells me what women see when they look at me.
I’m not exactly in the position to contradict them, either. What you see is very much what you get.
Cross leans forward. "I fought to keep you here last year when upper management wanted the entire team gone. When we cleaned house, I could only keep you and a handful of other players. Jim Greene demanded fresh blood, new sponsorships, and a team that would win. I know you. I know that you’re one of the most passionate players out there. ”
If he had just stopped there, I would’ve been happy as a clam.
Coach Cross doesn’t exactly hand out praise like candy.
But he just sucks in a deep breath before continuing.
“I think that passion has crossed over into something dark. The fans love you, cheer on your every move. But the sponsors don’t want their brands to be associated with violence.
If you don't shape up, we'll have to ship you out. I don’t want to do that, but I have no choice.”
I drop my gaze to the floor. Seattle is my hometown. It’s the only place I’ve ever lived. Not only that, but my brothers Jett and Silas are on this team. Leaving the team would mean leaving them. I wouldn’t willingly do that.
“I can’t get traded,” I mutter. “Staying in Seattle is non-negotiable.”
Not because I give a shit about this team. When it comes down to it, I don’t. I’d torch the entire locker room tomorrow and not lose sleep. Leaving my brothers behind, though… that can’t happen.
“You’re going to have to do something radical to prove to the few companies that still sponsor you that you’re a changed man.” Cross throws his hands up. “You got ideas? I’m willing to listen.”
I glance up at him, shaking my head slowly. “No. Let me think about it.”
“Yeah, you do that, Huxley.” Cross looks over to his assistant coach, who’s a recently retired hockey player from Atlanta. “Ryan? You got anything you want to add?”
Ryan tries the softer approach, clapping me on the shoulder like we're buddies. "Just block out the noise and focus on the puck, man. You're one of the best players I've ever seen when you're locked in."
I shrug him off. “I don’t need buddies. Half the guys in that locker room are knuckle-draggers. I’m not here to make friends with them. Winning is everything.”
I learned not to let people get close anymore, not since the person I trusted most used my career to destroy me. My mother sold me out for attention and a quick payday.
The coaches are still talking, but I've stopped listening.
I know what they want. They want me to be the Chainsaw when it sells tickets and jerseys, but dial it back when it hurts their profits.
They want me to be exactly violent enough to be marketable but not so violent that I scare away the corporate sponsors.
I can do that. …can’t I?
I walk the tunnel toward the ice, and the crowd is already a wall of noise.
Chainsaw signs everywhere, foam props, drunk fans chanting my name like they actually know me.
I used to think it was fun, all that energy directed at me.
Now it makes my skin crawl. I’m not their mascot.
I was never supposed to be anyone’s entertainment.
The announcer drags it out, one name after another.
“Number four, Alexander Thorne!”
Thorne goes first, because of course he does. The captain skates out smooth as glass, every inch the sponsor’s dream. He gives a clean little wave, just enough to get the crowd frothing. He’s polished and unshakable. That’s his whole brand.
“Number seventy-seven, Beckham Tate!”
Tate pushes out next, the Beast on the blue line. Co-captain. He doesn’t acknowledge the roar, doesn’t crack a smile. He just sets his shoulders and skates steady as a stone. The kids in the lower bowl chant Wolfie and he gives them the smallest nod. That’s all they’ll get from him.
“Number thirty-three, Silas Huxley!”
Silas doesn’t look at anyone. He slides onto the ice and posts up near the crease like a statue. Tall, calm, coin in his hand between shifts, statistics running through his head. He won’t say a word unless something’s wrong. I trust him more than anyone else .
Silas has always been the steady one, the brother who never flinched no matter how loud the world got. When we were kids, it was his voice that cut through Mom’s screaming, his calm hand on my shoulder that kept me from swinging first. Trusting him isn’t a choice. It’s muscle memory.
He doesn’t need to be the loudest guy in the room, never has. He’ll sit back and let everyone else blow smoke. When he finally speaks, it’s the only opinion that matters. I’ve learned the hard way that ignoring my younger brother’s advice never ends well.
The thing is, he doesn’t demand attention. He earns it by always showing up, even if it’s in that quiet, brooding way that makes people underestimate him. Not me. I know better.
When the world tilted after Dad died, it was Silas who steadied me. I didn’t see it then, but I see it now. He’s the anchor we never deserved but always had.
“Number nineteen, Grayson Reed!”
Grayson cuts a line across the ice, scowling already. Doesn’t wave, doesn’t smile, doesn’t bother. He mutters at a rookie who’s too slow to move out of his way. The cameras catch it, and the fans laugh, chanting Oscar. He hates it.
“Number seventy-nine, Jett Huxley!”
My oldest brother makes a show of it, because that’s what he does. The Wildcard grins, tosses a wink at a group of women pressed against the glass, skates a half circle like he’s headlining a concert. Brilliant one second, chaos the next.
Then it’s me.
“Number forty-seven, Hunter Huxley!” A pause for dramatic effect. “The Chainsaw!”
The nickname used to feel like armor. Now it feels like a muzzle.
Like the only version of me they’ll ever want is the one who makes them scream.
I step out anyway. In my first shift, I throw a hit, squaring up with their enforcer before the puck even drops.
I’m following the script because it’s the only role I’ve been allowed to play.
Decker and Moose get called after, the vets still hanging around. Moose yells about food or fantasy football every damn day. The rookies bring up the rear, Connor bouncing like he owns the place, Shane looking like he wants to disappear. Golden retrievers, both of them.
The game hasn’t even started, but the roles are carved in stone.
First period, some asshole on the other team takes a cheap shot at Thorne behind the play. I react before I think. Drop the gloves, land my hits, set the tone. The crowd loses its mind.
All that noise used to hype me up. Now it just sounds like applause for a crash I can’t stop.
The coaches grimace because they know what comes next. By the time I hit the penalty box, I’m already thinking about the next fight.
Through the glass, I see rookies staring at me like they expect blood. Like that’s what I’m here for. Maybe it is. With so many fresh faces and the team still figuring out who the hell we are, nobody else seems ready to do the dirty work yet.
I look up into the stands, scanning the crowd out of habit, and that's when I spot them. Jessa Laramie, who works for the team part-time, looking sweet and harmless. And right next to her, Juliet fucking Monroe.
She's maybe five foot four in those heels she always wears.
Always in those goddamn heels like she's trying to prove something. She’s wearing a short sapphire blue dress, looking as impossibly expensive and out of reach as ever.
Her red lipstick catches the arena lights, too red and too precise, like she wants people to look at her mouth.
It's always perfect, never smudged, never faded.
In college, it left marks on everything she touched. Napkins, pens, coffee cups.
Even her lipstick was trying so hard. With one look, you knew that she’d be impossible to please.
Two drunk fans with foam chainsaws wedged her and another girl between them, and they are getting rowdy.
One of them jostles her hard enough to spill beer on her knee.
The other leans in close, saying something in her ear that makes her jaw tighten.
She pushes him away, but the guy barely budges.
He's twice her size and drunk enough to think he's being charming.