Chapter 8
Hunter
It’s halfway through November, the leaves have fallen off the trees, and the wet, chilly winter weather has set in.
Personally, I love it. I can go for runs on some mornings in just a long-sleeve t-shirt and shorts without sweating my balls off.
Most people miss the sun. I take a shitload of vitamin D and exult in the dark, rainy skies that last from the middle of October until the middle of May.
Juliet and I have only been living together for a few days and we’re already driving each other insane. I’m standing in the kitchen, mixing a protein shake in just a pair of low-slung gray sweatpants, when she struts out of the bedroom hallway and points at me like I committed a war crime.
“Did you mess with the thermostat again?”
I shrug. “Yeah, I did.”
Her face gets hot, which is more attractive than it should be. “Hunter, I was freezing all night.”
“You can put on layers. I can’t make myself cooler.”
She’s wearing a short skirt, tank top, and heels at eight in the morning, which seems like overkill for hanging around the condo.
But I’m not complaining about the view. If she were my fiancée for real, I’d find something better for her to do with that perfectly lipsticked mouth than harp on me for living the way I always have.
“And another thing,” she continued, crossing her arms. “Your hockey gear is everywhere. It smells like death.”
“It needs to air out.”
“There are protein shaker bottles piling up in the sink.”
“The maid comes twice a week.”
“And you walk around naked after every shower.”
I grin. “Problem?”
Her cheeks go pink. “Yes, it’s a problem. I have to live here too.”
“For four and a half more months. That’s what you’re being paid for.”
She goes rigid. “That is not what I’m being paid for. I’m being paid to fix your image, not to live in a disgusting trash pit. I want the maid to come twice as often.”
I step closer because pushing her buttons has become my new favorite hobby. “Anything else, princess?”
She looks at my chest and swallows nervously. I’m close enough now to smell that expensive perfume she wears, close enough to see the way her pupils dilate when she’s trying not to look at me.
“You think I’m hot,” I tease.
“I absolutely do not.”
“You’re looking at my chest right now.”
“I’m looking at you because you’re in my personal space.”
“Oh yeah? Well, you drive me nuts too.” I gesture around the living room. “What’s up with all the furniture moving? You keep shifting everything around a little each day.”
She straightens her shoulders. “I’m trying to find the optimal placement for everything.”
“You’re trying to make me crazy. I tripped over that random ottoman that appeared by the couch and almost died.”
She rolls her eyes. “For a hockey player, you’re surprisingly clumsy.”
That’s when she makes her mistake. She pokes a finger right in the middle of my chest, probably trying to emphasize her point. I’m amused but try not to show it.
“I think you just like seeing what buttons you can push,” I say. “If you want me to fuck you and get the stick out of your ass, just ask.”
“Fuck you!” she snaps, but her face is burning red now.
A little later, my phone buzzes with the team group chat. The guys are bugging me to hang out, and honestly, it sounds like a good way to blow off steam. I get dressed, figuring I’ll head down to Secret History for a few beers.
Juliet knocks on my bedroom door just as I’m pulling on jeans.
“Get dressed,” she demands through the door. “We’re going out.”
“I am getting dressed.”
“Good. Ivy suggested that we appear in public more. Team bonding night is perfect for visibility and PR.”
I was already planning to go to the team hangout, so I reluctantly agree. “Fine. But I’m not holding your hand the whole time.”
“Just don’t embarrass me.”
She disappears to change, and when she comes back, she’s wearing a tight little crop top that shows off her stomach. I liked the tank top better because I could see her nipples through it, but I keep that observation to myself. Actually, no, I don’t.
“I liked your tank top more,” I tell her as we head toward the elevator. “I could see your nipples in it.”
She gapes at me, then hits my arm. “You’re disgusting.”
“Funny that you think that’s going to correct my behavior.”
Privately, I hate that I notice what she’s wearing. Hate that my teammates are going to notice too. Anyone else getting to see Juliet look hot better keep their comments to themselves, or I’m going to cut out their tongues.
She takes my hand as we approach the bar, and I try not to think about how small her fingers feel wrapped around mine.
The Secret History is tucked into the bottom floor of The Sinclair, half-hidden behind an unmarked door like it’s daring you to find it.
All dim lighting, walnut paneling, and mismatched leather booths that look like they’ve soaked up decades of secrets.
The place walks the line between exclusive and chaotic with perfect balance.
The bar hums with something low and sexy. Etta James or some moody cover of a Top 40 hit. The copper bar top gleams under candlelight, and there’s a fireplace surrounded by velvet armchairs that the team has basically claimed as our territory.
Drinks here are pretentious in the best way. They have cocktails with names like The Scandal and The Homewrecker. Juliet orders a gin and tonic with four limes like it’s a religious ritual. I stick with beer, always the same brand, and never look at the menu.
The place is co-owned by étienne, who’s flamboyant and flirtatious and prone to wearing cravats or kilts depending on his mood, and his husband Olivier, who runs the bar with an iron fist and a permanent scowl.
He knows everyone’s secrets and keeps them locked away for top-shelf bourbon and minimal bullshit.
People look our way as we make our way through the main bar. I slide my arm around Juliet, thinking about the dicks that hang out here hoping to get close to team members or their girlfriends.
“Remember,” she murmurs, “our rules say no flirting with anyone else. So there’s no need to be all possessive or growl at every other man you see.”
“No promises.”
I push her straight into the back room, which is always reserved for the team since we live in the building. Everyone’s already there. Jett’s brooding against the wall like he’s auditioning for a vampire movie. No idea what crawled up his ass today. That’s what makes him the Wildcard, I guess.
Connor and Shane are razzing the other rookies about something. Thorne’s drinking a soda because he doesn’t touch alcohol during the season. Grayson’s half-asleep with a beer in front of him. Silas is sitting across from Jett, shooting everyone malicious looks like we offended him by existing.
There’s a table of women too. Ivy and Jessa are sitting with Wren, Coach Ryan’s fiancée. Ivy waves Juliet over immediately.
I hang back and watch Juliet switch into her public persona. She’s suddenly relaxed, magnetic. Laughing easily, touching arms, tilting her head when she talks. Everyone loves her within minutes.
She’s not like that with me. She introduces herself to Wren and hugs her like they’re old friends. Not that I want that level of intimacy with Juliet, but how is it so easy for everyone else?
The girls’ table and the guys’ table get shoved together when we join the group. I slide into a seat with the team, and immediately the comments start.
Connor grins. “I’m shocked Hunter’s been domesticated.”
Shane adds, “Is it true that Juliet cooks?”
How the hell would I know if she cooks? We’ve been living together for less than a week.
Grayson raises an eyebrow. “How long have you two been together, anyway?”
I deadpan, “Too long,” and Juliet gives a fake laugh that sounds too real.
Ivy slides in with a cocktail and a sharp reminder. “You have a wedding venue appointment tomorrow morning in Westlake at ten. No murder attempts before then, please.”
I lean over toward my brothers. “Are we still on for dinner this week?”
Silas shrugs. “Maybe.”
“Maybe? What the hell does that mean?”
“It means maybe.” He takes a sip of his beer and goes back to brooding.
He’s so moody and silent these days that he makes me look normal, which is saying something.
“I’m in,” Jett says. “As long as Ivy doesn’t schedule another crisis management meeting.” He gestures at the thick binder she’s got propped against her drink. “Jesus, what’s in that thing? Nuclear launch codes?”
Ivy gives him a look that could cut glass. “It’s called being prepared. You should try it sometime.”
Jett shuts up immediately.
“So, just FYI, you two.” Ivy points to Juliet and me. “The wedding Save the Dates went out this morning. We sent them to the VIP mailing list, sponsors, and media partners.”
Juliet goes rigid. “The what?”
“Save the Dates. For your supposed wedding next June? The campaign software already queued them up from the rollout deck last week. I thought someone already signed off on that?”
I look at Juliet, who’s gone pale under her perfect foundation. For a second, she looks like she might actually throw up.
“We didn’t discuss that,” she says, her voice too controlled. The kind of control that means she’s about to murder someone. “That kind of news could reach our families. Who approved that?”
Ivy’s cheeks turn a scarlet hue. “I thought we had cleared it with you. Julien swore up and down he had already talked with you about it.”
I snort under my breath. “That guy is terrible at his job.”
Juliet turns her laser focus on me, all fire and frost. “Are you laughing?”
I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling. “No. Not laughing. Just thinking about how glad I am that you’re the one who’s going to get dragged into wedding planning hell. You’ll have to send me a nice snapshot of you at the venue, darling.”
“You think I’m going to do this on my own? Like hell.”
I raise both hands in surrender. “Hey. I didn’t send the invitations. I still don’t even know what a Save the Date is.”