Chapter 13
Juliet
As I drive home, my head is spinning with Patrick’s accusations, Hunter’s protective anger, and the way my body still remembers last night’s kiss. It’s a lot, all considered.
Patrick is probably talking about me in the press, but I can’t add that to my list of troubles. I feel this pressure building in the back of my skull and in my sinuses.
The condo is dark when I step inside. I won’t have an audience for the epic emotional breakdown that’s about to happen. My lungs feel tight. The sadness and panic I’ve been avoiding claw at the insides of my chest. I need to let it out.
I drop my tote bag, kick off my heels, and run straight to my bedroom, closing the door a second before I burst into sobs. I bury my face in the pillow, screaming, and let it all out.
My tears aren’t dainty or cinematic. They’re messy. Violent. Full-body sobs wrack my chest and leave my throat raw. This is how I fall apart.
Fast, hard, and always behind closed doors.
I’ve always cried like this. Too much. Too easily. It’s not a weakness, exactly. It’s release. A ritual. It’s like my body stores up everything I won’t say, then forces it out in one awful wave.
I cry until I’m shaking, until my mascara’s on the pillow more than my face and my lungs hurt from the effort. I cry like I’m trying to wring out my heart.
Then, my crying slows. I lie still, blinking up at the ceiling with eyes that feel scraped raw. The worst part isn’t the crying. It’s the emptiness that follows. I’ve emptied myself out and there’s nothing left to feel.
I hate how familiar this is. The swollen eyes, the damp pillowcase, the hollow ache behind my ribs. I’ve done this enough times to know it fixes nothing. It just quiets the noise for a while.
Dragging myself upright, I see that mascara has streaked down my face. My throat burns, and I’m already bracing for the guilt that always comes next. I should be stronger. I should be more in control. But sometimes this is the only way I can breathe again.
I am desperately thirsty, so I get up, wipe the remnants of my mascara off, and head for the kitchen.
Unfortunately, I glimpse myself in the hallway mirror.
Messy hair, disheveled dress, barefoot, lipstick partly rubbed off from nervously chewing my bottom lip.
Panic flickers through me. If Hunter walks in now, he’ll see the version of me I never show.
The version that’s not perfectly put together.
I bolt to the bathroom, swipe on red lipstick with shaking hands, twist my hair into a half-tidy knot, and yank on an oversized hoodie over my dress. Half-hearted armor for when I’m too tired to put on the real thing.
As I sip a glass of water, I sit in the kitchen and calm down by degrees. My mind slips away from the painful breakdown and settles on Hunter instead.
Defending me, sheltering me with his body, growling at my ex? A knot of twisted emotion forms in my chest at the thought of Hunter doing these things for me. I’m one part miffed, one part grateful, and one part turned on.
It’s Hunter, though. He has always been a complete asshole where I’ve been concerned. For him to act like Patrick had attacked his real fiancée was… I don’t know, unexpected I guess.
I wander into the living room and sit on the couch, lost in thought.
It’s silly that I’m even thinking about this. I tell myself what I’m feeling is just heat. Just hormones and proximity and that stupid smirk he gets when he’s trying to get a rise out of me.
But the way he looks at me sometimes, like he sees straight through the armor I wear, like he’s just waiting for me to crack, makes something shift in my chest. A tiny fracture. Small, but dangerous.
Being truly seen, beyond the image I’ve carefully constructed, is destabilizing. And I can’t afford to crack. Not again. Not for someone who could break me in ways Patrick never did; Patrick never really knew me well enough to destroy the real me.
The front door clicks open. Hunter’s heavy stride crosses the living room. Grocery bags thump on the counter. I force myself to stay calm and walk into the kitchen like I haven’t been having a minor breakdown for the last hour.
He pulls out a stack of prepared meal containers and a tub of protein powder with mechanical efficiency. No wasted motion. No conversation. Just the quiet thud of Tupperware hitting the counter. Without looking up, he murmurs, “Nice outfit, Ace.”
He means my dress, still wrinkled from the drive back. The zipper is halfway down, one sleeve sliding off my shoulder, and I am pretty sure there is mascara under my eye. He’s always smug, always pushing. And that nickname hits a nerve I hate having.
“Maybe you should worry less about my clothes and more about the headlines you keep generating.”
He finally looks at me. His brow lifts. That slow, crooked smile spreads across his face like he is enjoying this way too much.
“I thought you enjoyed fixing my messes.”
My skin goes hot. I cross my arms and let it rip.
“You mean the brawl you started after warmups? Or the stick you shattered mid-shift that almost hit a water boy? Or maybe when you walked out of a press event with a sponsor wall behind you like you were storming off a reality show?” I sputter.
“By the way, Huxley, I hate that nickname. It doesn’t even make sense now that I’m not on the school paper. ”
He shuts the refrigerator. His expression changes. Not cocky now. Just quiet.
“I didn’t know Ace bothered you.”
“Are you kidding me? I’ve told you like a thousand times!” I gesture wildly, my face heating. This shouldn’t be a big deal, but now I’ve already overreacted.
Hunter leans against the counter and looks me up and down. His lips purse, considering. “All right. Juliet then. Or maybe Firecracker. I think it fits better, anyway.”
My heart skips. Does he see me this way? Something about how he says my name so softly, like he actually means it, unravels something in my chest. I blink fast, trying not to let him see it.
He turns back to the counter and starts measuring protein powder like he did not just hit a nerve I have spent years trying to bury.
He turns away, changing into gray sweatpants right there in the kitchen, completely nonchalant about being half-naked in front of me.
I whirl around and head back into the living room, my face flaming bright red.
Then he stretches out on the couch with a protein shake like we didn’t just have a fight.
I perch at the other end of the couch, still vibrating with leftover adrenaline. He absent-mindedly reaches down to pass me the TV remote, his knuckles brushing mine, like touching me is the most normal thing in the world.
I adjust the hem of my skirt for the third time and catch Hunter watching me from his end of the couch.
I straighten, cross my arms defensively. “You’re staring at my chest again.”
Hunter doesn’t even blink. “No, I’m not.”
My eyes narrow. “You always do it. Every time I wear something remotely fitted.”
He smirks, and I know I’m about to regret asking. “If I were staring, it wasn’t at your chest.”
I blink. Yeah, right. “Oh, really?”
“Yeah.” He takes a sip of his protein shake, gaze lazy and heavy. “It was your legs.”
My mouth opens, but nothing comes out.
“And maybe your lips,” he adds casually. “Not gonna lie, the tits are great. But they weren’t what I was looking at.”
Color explodes across my face. I huff, look away, then back, like I can’t decide whether to slap him or run away.
Hunter grins, slowly and dangerously. “You blush easily.”
“I do not,” I snap.
“You do,” he says, voice lower now. “And it looks good on you.”
I glare at him, but I can feel my ears turning pink. The bastard notices everything.
I can’t stop replaying last night’s kiss.
His mouth was hot against mine, the way my body just melted into his like it had been waiting for permission.
Shame and craving coil together in my stomach.
Suddenly my imagination is supplying images I absolutely don’t need.
His mouth on my breasts, on me, him pushing deep while whispering my name.
“You’re such a player.” I curse my traitorous brain and blurt out, “You’d better keep your hands off other women while we’re fake engaged. I don’t want to be embarrassed.”
His head snaps toward me. “Never crossed my mind. I’m a one-woman guy, even if it’s pretend.”
The intensity in his eyes steals my breath. His lips twitch.
“I got you something,” he says.
My heart slams against my chest as I feign a deep lack of concern. “Oh?”
Hunter disappears into his room and comes back with something I wasn’t expecting. A jersey. His jersey, but in a smaller size that would actually fit me.
“You should wear this to games from now on,” he says, holding it out. “You know, to keep up the facade. If you were really mine, you’d wear it.”
The possessive way he says mine makes my heart skip, even though I know he doesn’t mean it. Not really.
I take the jersey, feeling the soft fabric between my fingers. Number 47. Huxley. It smells like him, that cedar and danger scent that’s been driving me crazy.
“Fine,” I say. “For the cameras.”
“Obviously,” he grunts.
Hunter watches me hold his jersey, jaw flexing, something protective and dangerous in his gaze. My heart skids between fury at myself for caring and fierce, illicit delight at the way he’s looking at me.
“Pack a bag for the weekend,” he blurts.
“What?”
“The team rented a compound on Orcas Island for a bonding retreat. We’ll show up, spend hours in close contact, and share a room. The whole couple experience.”
I blush so hard I’m probably glowing. “Share a room?”
“That’s what couples do, Firecracker.”
I swallow. Is that what we do, though?
“We don’t have anyone to fool on the team, though. Right? I thought we were just supposed to be seen out and about together in Seattle.”
He arches a brow. “My brothers know that our engagement is fake. Jessa and Ivy know. I guess Coach Ryan, too. But otherwise, the team doesn’t have a clue. I would never tell them something so personal.”
“You don’t mind lying to them?”
“That’s not really how I see it. Besides, what’s a little white lie if it means an entire weekend of relaxing and hanging out on the water?”
“I concede your point.”
Hunter winks, picks up his shake, and heads off to his room, closing the door.
I do the same, my mouth dry, sinking down onto my bed.
My hands spread over his jersey pressed against my chest. I’m breathing hard, wondering why the idea of sharing a room with Hunter is making me feel so turned upside down.
We’re absolutely fake. I’m just making this into something it’s not.
I’m not falling for the enemy. I’m not. Just because he’s occasionally thoughtful and defended me from Patrick and looks like sin in a button-down means nothing. He’ll ruin me like all the others. That’s what men like Hunter do. They burn things down and call it passion.
As if to prove my point, he plays loud music from his room, bass thumping through the walls.
Oh god. Does that mean he’s… touching himself?
I should feel annoyed. I am annoyed.
But that doesn’t stop my stupid heart from racing, thinking about him and what this weekend will be like.