Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
Hunter
The ice feels perfect under my blades tonight. Sharp, clean, unforgiving. Just the way I like it.
Unfortunately, we’re up against the Sacramento Inferno. And though the Havoc comprises individual players who are way better, those guys have an edge. Their team plays well as a unit. They always kicked our asses when we played them in the past.
I try to push those thoughts out of my head and focus on the upcoming game, but it’s hard.
I’m skating warm-ups when I spot their enforcer, Marcus Kane, giving me that look.
The one that says he’s been watching game tape, studying my penalties, figuring out exactly which buttons to push.
He’s a big bastard, maybe six-five, with hands like anvils and a reputation for getting under people’s skin.
“You ready for this, Chainsaw?” Thorne mutters as he glides past me, his voice low enough that the refs won’t hear.
I grunt in response, keeping my eyes on Kane. The asshole’s already chirping at our rookies during warm-ups, trying to get them rattled before the game even starts. Classic move. Get the young guys nervous, and they’ll make mistakes all night.
“Stay cool tonight,” Beck calls out from center ice, loud enough for the entire line to hear. “We need you out on the ice, not in the sin bin.”
He’s right. We’re three games into a five-game homestand. But there’s something about Kane’s smug face that makes my jaw clench. I can already smell the scent of blood on the ice.
The anthem plays. I stand between Silas and Jett on the blue line. My brothers. My anchors. Jett’s bouncing on his skates like he’s got electricity in his veins, all golden hair and nervous energy. Silas is statue-still beside me, focused on something only he can see.
“Let’s fucking go,” I mutter under my breath.
The puck drops and we’re off.
First shift, I’m out there with Thorne and Grayson. We’re forechecking hard, trying to set the tone. Their defenseman tries to make a pass up the boards, but I’m there to cut him off. The hit sends him into the glass with a satisfying crack, and the crowd roars.
“That’s what I’m talking about!” Coach Cross yells.
Kane’s watching, circling. Always waiting.
Second period, he makes his move.
I’m battling for a loose puck in the corner when he comes in late, way after the whistle. His elbow catches me in the ribs, just hard enough to sting.
“Oops,” he says with a shit-eating grin. “I didn’t see you there, princess.”
Princess. The word hits something primal in my chest. I know he’s baiting me. I know this is exactly what he wants. But my fists are already clenching.
“You got something to say to me?” I growl, getting in his face.
“Just that you’re softer than I expected. Heard you were supposed to be some kind of badass.”
The linesmen are already moving in, but Kane keeps talking.
“Guess having a pretty little PR girl has made you all domesticated. She keeping you on a short leash, Chainsaw?”
That’s it. That’s the line. No one talks about Juliet to me and gets away with it. I can’t stand for it.
I drop my gloves before the ref can separate us.
Kane’s ready for it, grinning like he just won the lottery.
We grab each other’s jerseys and start throwing punches.
His first one catches me in the jaw, snapping my head back.
Mine finds his ribs, and he grunts. I feel the satisfaction of my fist connecting with flesh.
The crowd’s going insane. Phones are out, recording every second. I can hear the announcer shouting over the noise. But it’s static to me. All I care about is Kane’s smug face and making it hurt.
We go down in a tangle of limbs and fury. He gets me in a headlock, but I land two more shots to his kidney before the linesmen finally pull us apart.
The refs don’t even have to tell us we’re in trouble. I scramble to my feet, wiping blood from my nose, and start skating toward the penalty box.
We each get five minutes for fighting. Kane’s laughing as they escort him to the box, blood spouting from his nose and darkening his teeth. I’m sure I look much the same.
“Worth it,” he calls out to me. “Your girlfriend’s gonna love seeing that on the highlights.”
“I’ll fuck you up!” I growl. I lunge, going after him again, but Jett’s there, pushing me toward our bench.
“Cool it,” he hisses in my ear. “You gave him exactly what he wanted. Now, everybody who wants you to be mad knows all they have to do is shit-talk your fiancée.”
I know Jett’s right. I know I fucked up. But the rage is still burning in my chest, making it hard to think straight.
Coach Ryan doesn’t even look at me when I sit down. That’s worse than yelling. His eyes say he’s disappointed. Disappointment cuts deeper than anger.
The game gets away from us after that. Kane’s line takes liberties with our guys, knowing I’m stuck in the box. Thorne takes a late hit that leaves him slow getting up. One of their forwards runs Jett, leaving Silas to step in before it gets ugly.
By the time I’m back on the ice, we’re down two goals. My fault. My stupid, predictable temper cost us momentum when we needed it most.
I try to make up for it. Hit everything that moves, I win every face-off. I screen their goalie so hard he slashes at my ankles. But the scoreboard doesn’t lie.
Final score: 4-2. Loss.
In the locker room afterward, nobody says much. Guys strip out of their gear in silence, the weight of another missed opportunity hanging over everything.
Thorne’s icing his shoulder where he took that cheap shot. His jaw’s set in a way that means he’s pissed but too professional to show it. Grayson’s staring at his phone, probably reading the stats that tell him exactly how many scoring chances we gave up while I was acting like a caveman.
Silas finds me by my stall, pulling off his shoulder pads with methodical precision.
“You good?” he asks quietly.
“Peachy.”
“Hunter.”
I look up. My brother’s gray eyes are serious, concerned. It makes my chest tight in a way I don’t like.
“I’m fine, Si. Just pissed we lost.”
He nods, but I can tell he doesn’t buy it. Silas sees too much, always has. It’s eerie when I think about the fact that my brother probably knows me better than I know myself.
Jett appears on my other side, toweling off his hair. Even after a loss, he looks like he’s ready to hit the club. He’s such a fuckboy, but he’s also my big brother. He gets the privilege of being able to lecture me.
“Kane’s an asshole,” he says simply. “Don’t let him get in your head.”
“He didn’t get into my head.”
Both my brothers give me looks that say they know I’m lying.
“Right,” Jett says. “That’s why you went full Incredible Hulk in the second period.”
I want to argue, but what’s the point? The video doesn’t lie. Kane said the magic words. And me? I took the bait like a fucking amateur.
Beck’s voice cuts through the locker room chatter. “Bus leaves in twenty. Anyone not on it can find their own ride.”
The threat’s mostly for show, but the message is clear. We fucked up tonight. We let emotions get the better of us, and it cost us two points we couldn’t afford to lose.
I’m still pissed when I walk out of the arena twenty minutes later. The Seattle air hits my face, cold and sharp, but it doesn’t cool the fire in my chest.
That’s when I see her.
Juliet’s waiting by the players’ exit, looking like she just stepped out of a fashion magazine. Navy coat, red lipstick, that expression she gets when she’s about to tear me a new one. She’s got her phone in her hand, probably already dealing with the social media fallout from my little tantrum.
“Well,” she says as I approach. “That was a disaster.”
“Nice to see you too, Monroe.”
“Don’t.” She holds up a hand, those dark eyes flashing. “Just don’t. I can’t believe you let them bait you like that.”
I stop walking. “We lost a hockey game. It happens.”
“You made it easy for them, Hunter. Like a rookie. Like someone who’s never played this game before.” Her voice is controlled, professional, but I can hear the anger underneath. “Kane played you like a fiddle. Now I have to clean up the mess.”
“So clean it up. That’s what you’re paid for.”
The words are out before I can stop them, and I see her flinch like I slapped her.
“That’s what I’m paid for?” she repeats, her voice dangerously quiet.
Shit. That came out wrong. But I’m too wound up to back down now, too angry at myself and the world to think clearly.
“You knew what you were signing up for when you took this job. I’m not some project you can fix with a few photo ops and a fake engagement ring.”
Her mouth opens, then closes. For a second, she looks genuinely hurt, and something twists in my gut.
“You’re right,” she says finally. “You’re not a project. You’re a grown man who should know better than to let some mouth-breathing goon manipulate him into a penalty that cost his team the game.”
“We lost because we couldn’t score, not because of one fight.”
“You lost because you gave them exactly what they wanted. You proved that Hunter Huxley is still the same out-of-control hothead he’s always been. And now, instead of talking about how well Thorne played or how Jett crushed in the third period, everyone’s going to be talking about your meltdown.”
She’s right and we both know it. That just makes me angrier. She walks toward the street, her heels clicking on the concrete.
“Where are you going?”
“I’m getting on the bus.”
And then she’s gone, disappearing around the corner while I stand here like an asshole, watching her go.
I think about following her, about apologizing, but my pride’s still burning too hot. Instead, I just let her go.
Less than three weeks into this fake engagement, and I can’t wait for it to be over.