Chapter 11
Hunter
We have a built-in timeout after the events at the wedding venue. The entire Seattle Havoc team leaves town, and it’s a relief of sorts to me. Things with Juliet were getting a little intense, and having some breathing room from that isn’t really a bad thing.
The road trip itself was brutal. Three cities, one win, two losses that felt like getting punched in the gut repeatedly.
Coming home, the plane was practically silent, everyone withdrawn and licking their wounds.
I crashed hard the second I hit my bed, still in my clothes, too exhausted to care about anything except unconsciousness.
This morning, I wake up to an empty apartment.
There isn’t a note. No coffee waiting. There aren’t any wafts of citrus and musk perfume. And most importantly, no tiny Juliet bustling around in those ridiculous heels, getting ready for whatever she has scheduled today. I shouldn’t expect any of these things from her, but I long for them, anyway.
I grumble, rub the back of my neck, and mutter, “Awesome. Left me here like a damn dog.”
The silence feels different than it used to. Before Juliet moved in, I liked the quiet. Now it just feels lonely.
I’ve been making more of an effort to be nice lately, because I can’t get her words out of my head. You know you can just not pick a fight every five minutes, right?
It’s harder than it sounds, but I’m trying. Holding the elevator door instead of punching the close button repeatedly. Nodding at Thorne in the hallway instead of scowling. Even mumbling something to Connor that might have been an apology for snapping at him when he dropped my hockey stick.
You know, it’s weird trying to be considerate of other people. For ages, all that mattered to me were my brothers. But I don’t hate it as much as I thought I would.
It feels… not-unpleasant.
I head to the team facility, hoping a good lift will burn off whatever mood I’m in.
I’m supposed to meet my brothers here soon, but I want a little extra time alone to get in extra reps.
Inside the weight room, the air smells like chalk and testosterone and the lingering ghost of yesterday’s protein shakes.
That’s when Darla’s message comes through.
I shouldn’t check my email during workouts. I definitely shouldn’t open any mail from her. But I do anyway, because apparently I enjoy psychological torture.
Subject: Re: Your “fiancée”
You’re always so easy, Hunter. A pair of tits in a tight dress and you think it’s love.
My grip tightens on the phone until the case creaks.
She’s not subtle. Those outfits? That lipstick? I know what girls like her want. You’re just a stepping stone.
I sneer. What the fuck business is it of hers? A second email pings in before I can even process the first one.
She’s angling for your money, your name, your spotlight. Just like I warned you about everyone else. I told you that people are users.
I don’t forward it to the team’s lawyers like I should. Don’t delete it either. I just stare at the screen, feeling a familiar doubt creep in. The one that whispers I’m only worth what I can give people. Money, muscle, attention, protection. That nobody would want me just for me.
That’s what my mom has instilled in her sons. We’re only as good as the service we provide for her. We never talk about it, but I know Jett and Silas are every bit as fucked up as me.
What a fucking clown show I am.
When I step into the weight room, Jett and Silas are already there. Jett nods at me. “Hey, man.”
“I didn’t realize you two were going to be early,” I say. “I planned to be here to have some quiet lifting time.”
“Sucks,” Jett says, grinning. “You should know by now that Silas is almost always in the gym before anyone else.”
Silas just grunts in response to me, which is pretty much our relationship these days. “Gotta stay fit.”
Of the three Huxley brothers, Silas is the most slavishly devoted to diet and exercise. He spends all his free time either lifting weights, cycling endlessly, or running stats in his head. I can’t say the last time I’ve seen him eat anything isn’t salmon, broccoli, or rice.
Fun foods, drinking, and doing things that won’t propel his career forward just aren’t Silas’s style. I clap him on the shoulder and drop my bag by the wall.
“You look like shit,” Jett offers helpfully, curling a barbell that’s probably heavier than most people.
I shrug. “Thanks, big brother. That’s exactly the support I needed today.”
“Engaged life not treating you well?” Silas deadpans, eyes focused on his reflection in the mirror as he stacks some weights onto the leg press machine.
“Everything’s fine.” I grab a bar and load it with more weight than I probably should. “I’ve got it handled.”
Jett snorts. “Sure you do. Is that why you were brooding on the bench all last week?”
“Fuck off.” I ignore him and focus on my setup.
“Don’t forget I was there in college,” Jett says, resting his elbows on the bench press bar. “You couldn’t shut up about her back then. Every time she walked into a party with Patrick, you looked like someone kicked your puppy.”
The back of my neck heats and I grit my teeth. “I don’t remember it quite like that.”
“Christ,” Silas mutters. “You have the girl. What’s your issue?”
Before I can come up with a clever response, Moose and Shane burst into the weight room like a tornado of filthy jokes and terrible timing.
“Look who it is!” Moose hollers. “Mr. Happily Ever After!”
Shane doubles over laughing. “Yo, how’s the wife-to-be? Is she waiting at home for you in nothing but your jersey?”
The image appears before my eyes, tempting. Juliet in bed, wearing my jersey, beckoning. I swallow roughly.
“I think that means she is,” Shane jokes. “She’s so hot.”
I spin toward them, probably looking like I want to commit murder. “Do you want to get body-checked through a wall?”
The laughter dies immediately. The room goes tense, that kind of silence that happens when everyone realizes they’ve pushed too far.
I storm over to the squat rack, breathing hard and trying to remember why assault charges would be bad for my fake relationship.
That’s when Ryan walks in. He takes one look at the room and sighs as though he’s aged ten years in the last thirty seconds.
“Walk with me,” he says.
We step into the hallway. Ryan’s voice is quiet, the quiet that means he’s done playing games.
“You’re scaring the rookies, man.”
“I’m not doing anything.”
“You’re doing everything. I don’t know if it’s the road stress or this fake fiancée situation, but people are walking on eggshells around you.”
“That’s not true. I said I’ve got it handled.”
Ryan doesn’t argue. He just looks at me with an expression coaches get when they’re deciding whether you’re worth saving. “Then act like it.”
He walks away, leaving me standing in the hallway feeling like I just got benched.
I come home later, exhausted and sore from taking my frustration out on the weight room, only to find Juliet curled on the couch with her arms crossed and her phone in her hand. Her mouth is tight. Her eyes are even tighter.
I glance over her shoulder and freeze.
The headline reads ‘The Puck Bunny Playbook: From Hockey Lover to Hockey Wife?’
Underneath is another quote from Patrick, the gift that keeps on giving. “My ex-girlfriend is a real hockey god-chaser. She knows how to make a man feel like he’s her universe, until you realize you’re just a stepping stone to whatever she really wants. Then boom! Onto the next bed.”
Red-hot anger builds in my chest. “He called you a puck bunny?”
“Jesus!” Juliet practically leaps out of the chair. Her eyes widen and she splays her free hand over her chest. “Give a girl a heart attack, why don’t you.”
I nod at her phone. “Patrick talked about you again in the press?”
“Yeah.” She huffs out a breath and sags back onto the couch. “What an asshole. I want to hit back, but I know that’ll only stoke the flames of public interest. It’s hard, though.”
“I’m telling you. You should let me shut him up for you.” My hands form fists at the very tantalizing idea of punching Patrick Delacroix in his stupid, preppy face. I’d wipe that grin off for a good, long while.
“You’re already almost kicked off the Havoc. Let’s not put the nail in the coffin of your career, shall we?”
Juliet flashes a quick smile at me, and I hate it. I hate the way it makes my chest feel tight, like someone’s squeezing my lungs.
Juliet isn’t mine. She’s just here to fix my mess, not to stay. Not to confess her undying love for me. And I can’t blame her for that.
Girls like her don’t fall for guys like me. Not without regretting it later. She’s got ambition and polish and probably a perfect future planned out to the minute. I’m fists and chaos and a past I can’t scrub clean no matter how hard I try.
But while she’s here, we can at least be… I don’t know, comfortable around each other. She’s staring at her phone again, her teeth worrying her lush bottom lip. Thinking about her ex while I’m standing right here.
“Put shoes on,” I say.
“What?”
“We’re going to brunch.”
It’s my way of being helpful. Doing something instead of trying to find the right words, because comforting people with words feels impossible when you’re better at breaking things than fixing them.
“I’m not in the mood.”
“Tough. You need waffles and mimosas. Let’s go.”
She glares at me. “Your dragging me out won’t fix anything.”
“No, but sitting here stewing in asshole quotes won’t either.”
She sighs, the sigh that means she knows I’m right but doesn’t want to admit it. “Fine. But I’m not smiling for anyone.”
We head to a trendy brunch spot by the water, the place that charges twenty-five dollars for eggs and calls it artisanal. The second we walk in, we’re swarmed.