Chapter 12
Juliet
This kiss. What was I thinking?
I don’t even recognize myself at that moment. Leaning into Hunter like that. Letting his mouth find mine like I wanted it. Like I needed it.
I’ve never been the type to lose control, but Hunter has this infuriating way of peeling me open, one taunt at a time. He pokes at all my soft spots. Pushes me just far enough until I forget we’re only pretending.
I keep telling myself it was just a strategy. Just part of the image we’re selling. Two people caught up in the moment, playing our roles too well.
But I know better.
If I let it happen again, even once, I’ll lose more than just a kiss. He’ll take things I’ve spent years protecting. My image, my future, my carefully controlled detachment from men who think they can own me.
I should be worried about two things today.
One: that kiss. And I can’t stop thinking about it.
Two: tonight’s game. The Havoc’s first big home match of the season.
Against the Houston Stars.
Which means Patrick Delacroix will be in the building.
I force a smile and adjust the lapels of my blazer as I enter the arena suite. Jessa’s already there, feet up on the padded seat, sipping something way too sugary.
“There she is,” she chirps, tossing me a protein bar. “You’re late and you’ve got that ‘swallowed a porcupine last night’ expression.”
“That’s generous,” I mutter, sinking into the seat beside her. “That would honestly be better than this.”
Jessa frowns. “Is this about how Hunter carried you from the wedding venue like he was auditioning for a romance novel cover? Because I saw the photos. You looked hot. Like, two seconds from dragging him into a supply closet hot.”
I open my mouth to argue, but Ivy walks in carrying a clipboard and looking exactly like a woman who has never made a single poor decision in her entire life. She sits on my other side without saying a word, just raises one eyebrow.
I exhale sharply. “Patrick’s here.”
That gets their attention.
Jessa’s entire face twists. “Is this the Patrick? Like the ex?”
“The same. He plays for the Houston Stars.”
“He’s your ex! Shouldn’t you get a reprieve?” Jessa asks, sounding irritated.
“The NHL doesn’t exactly call us up and ask if we’re avoiding any players on other teams,” Ivy sighs. “In fact, I think that would make them schedule us to play Houston more often.”
I wrinkle my nose. “I should’ve known that Patrick would show up with his smug little smirk and carefully edited sob story.”
Ivy narrows her eyes, her tone flat. “Are you sure you’re ready to see him?”
“Nope. Not at all.”
I glance toward the ice, where the players are just starting warmups.
Hunter is already out there, loose and powerful, his jersey hanging perfectly off his broad frame.
Patrick skates by a few seconds later, catching my eye for just a moment.
He gives me a subtle smirk like we’re sharing a private joke.
I look away, nauseated.
“I hate him,” I whisper.
Jessa leans in. “Tell us everything.”
So I do.
I tell them how he used to tell me what to wear to team events.
How his mother once called me ‘decorative’ to my face, and he didn’t defend me.
How he cheated and then had the audacity to spin it like I’d been the problem.
And now, how he’s giving interviews about how he’s worried for me.
Saying I’ve always struggled with ‘boundaries and attention.’
“He’s painting me as a gold digger,” I finish. “Like I dated him for the clout and now I’m using Hunter to climb higher.”
“Jesus,” Jessa breathes. “That is next-level unhinged.”
Ivy shakes her head. “He’s a public relations nightmare. If he so much as breathes wrong tonight, I’ll bury him in spin so fast he won’t remember his own name.”
That earns a laugh, shaky but real. “Thanks.”
Down on the ice, Hunter slams a puck into the net with brutal precision. I see the moment he clocks Patrick. His whole body shifts. Less relaxed, more coiled.
Jessa follows my gaze. “Uh-oh. Hunter sees him.”
“Yeah,” I murmur. “He always sees him.”
It feels reminiscent of college. Hunter and Patrick were on the same team then and they still got in an astounding number of fights with each other. They’d wait until a fight started and then jump in, hitting the other ‘by accident’.
Patrick skates too close. Hunter’s head snaps toward him like he’s been waiting for the opportunity. They ram their shoulders as they skate past each other in a way that’s definitely not accidental. Patrick is smaller than Hunter and takes the hit harder.
A dark part of me gets excited watching my fake fiancé demolish my terrible ex-boyfriend. I’m already wired to think hockey boys are hot, but now I’m doubly invested in what’s going on.
Ivy whistles. “Patrick’s about to get wrecked.”
“I should be embarrassed by how satisfying that would be,” I say with a wince.
“You shouldn’t,” Jessa says. “Let him suffer.”
I look back at Hunter. He skates like he’s angry at the world, like the ice owes him something. But when his eyes flick up to the suite and meet mine, it’s like the chaos fades for one heartbeat. There’s a moment of tangible connection.
And worse?
I like it.
Seattle Havoc rolls out in full force, and they are not fucking around. They snap into formation like muscle memory. It seems like every person on this team was born for this.
Patrick plays center for Houston and sidles up against Thorne, waiting for the puck drop. He keeps looking behind him though. I would be too if I were Patrick, because Hunter is hovering within a few feet of him, gliding lazy laps in the neutral zone like a predator biding his time.
The puck drops, and the first shift is brutal. Sticks clash, bodies crash, and nobody’s playing nice. The forecheck is aggressive, the kind of hit-first, ask-later style they love to talk about in practice.
Thorne snags the puck and skates away toward the goal. Patrick trails behind him as he smoothly passes the puck to Grayson, who moves down the ice with the fierce motion of a hurricane. Tight turns. Hard strides. No hesitation.
When Patrick and Hunter draw even, Hunter checks him into the boards so hard that I suck in a breath. It isn’t just a hit. It’s a message.
“Damn.”
Jessa’s eyes sparkle. “That’s your man down there.”
“Jessa.” My cheeks warm. “He’s not my anything.”
Hunter looks up and points at me, a dark grin on his face. Jessa squeals and grips my elbow.
“See?”
I can’t help the small smile I give Hunter. Then there’s a tussle farther down the ice, a full-on scrum behind the net, and Hunter’s attention swings that way.
The game moves on, but my heartbeat is still racing.
Jessa elbows me. “He clearly did that for you.”
“Huxley hates Patrick. Any excuse to fuck him up is more than enough.”
I avoid Jessa’s knowing gaze and focus on the game, watching as the Havoc cycle the puck deep in the offensive zone, relentless and hungry.
Hunter goes after Patrick three more times, tripping him, slamming him into the boards.
Hunter is so smooth that the refs never call him on it; he makes it seem like a part of gameplay.
Patrick gets frustrated and tries to grab the back of Hunter’s jersey.
He shouts something at Hunter, which makes Hunter turn bright red.
Hunter waits until Patrick’s head is down for half a second and absolutely obliterates him with a legal open-ice check.
Textbook hit. Brutal timing. The entire crowd gasps.
Patrick trips and goes flying, stick falling by the wayside.
Patrick sprawls and Hunter falls on top of him, putting his gloved hand to the back of Patrick’s helmet and grinding his face down into the ice.
The fans go apeshit, screaming their heads off and waving their foam chainsaws. They love Hunter behaving badly. The refs pull Hunter off and the whole thing is over in less than two minutes. But when Hunter skates away, acting like it meant nothing, he points to me again.
This time, I grin. He earned it for making my ex look like a limp dishrag. Hunter heads to the penalty box for two minutes, but he doesn’t seem to mind. He sticks his tongue out, clearly enjoying himself as he skates backward.
Why is it so hot when Hunter acts like a fucking caveman?
Between periods, I scroll through the latest Havoc press clippings on my phone. The team’s trending, but not positively. Headlines use words like chaotic, penalty-heavy, and raw talent without a leash. One photo shows Hunter snarling at Patrick just before he checked him.
It was hot, but it’s not exactly making Hunter seem even-keeled. I sigh.
After the game, which the Havoc win by two goals, I’m waiting outside the locker room. Jessa and Ivy are busy working. I’m propped against the wall, anticipation mounting. I know what’s coming.
It’s only a matter of time before Patrick makes his grand appearance. There’s no avoiding him. If he doesn’t get to make me miserable now, he might show up at my door in the Sinclair. I put nothing past him, the fucking asshole.
“Juliet.” The sound of my name on Patrick’s lips is like being doused with a bucket of ice water. I whirl, eyeing him.
He’s still in his gear, helmet tucked under his arm, looking exactly the same as he did when I left him six months ago. He shakes his sweaty blond hair out, a grin on his face, and he swaggers up to me like he has every right to be here.
Fucking asshole.
“Patrick.” I shift and try to make it appear my heart isn’t galloping a million miles an hour. “Oh good, you’re here. I was just saying this hallway wasn’t insufferable enough.”
“Still snarky as always.” He cocks his head at me, taking me in. “We need to talk.”
“No, we don’t.” I try to push past him, but he blocks my way.
“This whole thing with Huxley is embarrassing. You’re making yourself look desperate.”
“If I’m desperate, what does that make the guy who’s trapped his ex-girlfriend in a hallway?” I try to push him away, shuddering at having to actually touch him. “Get away from me, Patrick.”