Chapter 19
Hunter
I pull up outside the youth hockey clinic and sit in my truck for a minute, preparing myself for the sheer controlled chaos that I’m about to walk into.
It’s one of those community outreach events we do a few times a year, but this one’s high profile.
Tons of local press, major league sponsors, a large crowd of parents in attendance with their phones out.
Walking up to the event, I can hear the noisy bleating of a whistle and the clatter of hundreds of pairs of skates.
Through the glass doors, I can see Juliet already inside with her clipboard, talking to the rep from a sponsoring bank.
She’s dressed for the cold of the rink but still somehow looks expensive.
Long black coat, hair sleek and pulled back, a pair of black boots with spike heels.
She spots me walking in and waves me down to where she stands in the bleachers. I trot down the metal bleachers. Juliet gives me a hug and a kiss on the cheek, squeezing me in the hug. A public display surely meant for the cameras, but she’s almost friendly about it. Warmer than usual.
“You’re late,” she says, but she’s smiling. It doesn’t sound like much of a scold.
“Traffic.”
“Sure it was.”
If this is what it means for her to be taking a more active PR role with the team, I’m all for it.
Ryan mentioned it to me yesterday. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have even known about the change until now.
I’m a little miffed that she didn’t tell me herself, but I guess we’re still figuring out how to communicate about work stuff.
Well, all stuff, to be perfectly fair. I feel like she’s just now stopped walking on eggshells around me.
On the ice, chaos reigns. The kids are excited and loud, the parents even louder, and my teammates are only marginally more helpful than the children.
Shane’s trying to organize equipment while Connor argues with a ten-year-old about stick technique.
A group of kids surrounds Moose, asking him if he really eats moose, which he’s playing up for all it’s worth.
“Let’s get out there.” She pats me on the butt playfully. “Honey.”
“You bet, sweetheart.” I grin at her. “Lead the way.”
I watch as Juliet handles the event without breaking a sweat.
Juliet runs point on every moving piece, directing press photographers to better angles, calming the overwhelmed volunteers, and smoothing over a minor incident with a sponsor whose banner had the wrong logo.
Hand-holding and reassurance are not things she needs.
She doesn’t flinch when a reporter shoves a microphone in her face asking about her engagement to me.
Watching her work like that, watching her take control and stay calm and not once get flustered, I find myself impressed. The situation really impressed me.
We lead some basic drills on shooting, skating, and goalkeeping. The rookies have to chase down every stray puck. The kids have fun, laughing and shouting, running the rookies nearly into the ground trying to keep up.
Ryan skates up, his Havoc sweatshirt damp with perspiration.
“Juliet’s fantastic at this,” Ryan says. “She’s definitely meant to run PR.”
“Yeah, she is.” I feel a little pride puffing out my chest. It’s not earned, because this whole engagement is fake. But I’m proud anyway.
Ryan looks at me suspiciously. “You sound surprised.”
“Maybe a little,” I admit, shrugging.
He grins. “You thought she was just a pretty face?”
“I thought she was a pain in my ass.”
“She’s that too. But she’s also smart as hell.”
Juliet turns to look at me, arching her brows and waving us over.
“Come show them what an enforcer does!” she calls. “Coach Ryan, can you play someone on the rival team?”
Oh, fuck yeah. I skate over, showing the kids a very light version of what an enforcer does when someone takes liberties with his team. Ryan squares up in front of me, grinning like he’s already planning payback.
I exaggerate the movements so the kids can see. Closing the gap fast, locking onto his jersey with one hand, and giving him a harmless but dramatic shove that sends him sliding back a few feet.
“That’s how you let someone know they’ve messed with the wrong guy,” I tell them, keeping it playful enough for the audience but still sharp enough that Ryan knows I could’ve dropped him if this were real. The kids laugh and cheer, and Ryan smirks like he’s dying to go another round.
I notice Juliet gets this kind of pleased, pinched look on her face every time that I take a minute to show any of the kids something.
What’s running through her head? I can’t be certain.
But her cheeks gradually grow bright pink as she watches me interact with a ten-year-old, teaching her how to hold her hockey stick when she’s moving across the ice at a clip.
When I look again, Juliet’s face is glowing like a coal, her eyes glued to me. Is she getting all hot and bothered watching me? Or is it a bit of baby mania creeping in?
Something is making Juliet swoon. Whatever it is, I lean into it. I crouch down to fix a seven-year-old’s skate that’s coming loose.
“There you go, buddy. How’s that feel?”
“Good! Can you teach me to fight like you?”
I laugh. “Let’s stick to skating for now.”
I give an older boy some gentle coaching on puck handling, showing him how to keep his head up while he moves the puck around cones. Even take a few deliberate falls just to make them laugh.
“Coach Hunter fell down!” a smaller kid shrieks with delight.
“I sure did. Good thing the ice is soft, right?”
Juliet watches all of it from the sidelines, her eyes soft in a way I’ve never seen before. She smiles at one point, unable to hide her actual genuine smile, and something unfamiliar twists in my chest.
I enjoy earning her approval. Having someone on the sidelines that not only sees me, but likes what I’m doing, feels indulgent somehow.
Of course, Juliet and I take a ton of pictures throughout the clinic. Holding hands while skating together reveals that she’s actually a pretty graceful skater. Better than I expected.
“Where’d you learn to skate like that?” I ask as we glide around the rink.
“Lessons from when I was a kid. My mom thought it would be character building.”
“Your mom was right.”
“Don’t tell her that. She’ll never let me forget it. She still blames the lessons for getting me into hockey.”
She looks at me for a long moment. “Can I ask you something personal?”
“You can ask. Doesn’t mean I’ll answer.”
“It’s about your mom.” She purses her lips. “I know she was your agent. Why didn’t your mom represent your brothers, too? Why just you?”
I sigh. “Jett straight up refused to have Mom as his agent. He said that he didn’t trust her.
It was a major source of tension between them, believe me.
Jett told both of us that we should get other representation.
Silas did. I didn’t. I guess I just thought that she deserved to get her cut.
” Screwing up my face, I admit, “I never thought that she would steal from her own son.”
Juliet moves closer and takes my hand, lacing her fingers through mine.
“She fucked up. You’re a good man.”
I snort. “I’m not a good man.”
“Yes, you are.” She tugs on my hand. “I know you, Hunter Huxley. Don’t forget that.”
“I remember everything.” I look down at her, my lips tipping up. “Want to race?”
Her eyes light up. “Oh, you’re on, hockey boy.”
Juliet takes off without another word, leaving me to catch up. I don’t put much effort into the race. It’s more fun to watch her competitive side come out.
She’s good at skating. I wonder what else she’s surprisingly good at. What other skills she’s hiding under that polished exterior. I’d bet my last dollar she’s the woman who approaches everything with the same focused intensity, including sex.
The thought hits me out of nowhere and I have to concentrate on not tripping over a stray puck.
Should I be thinking about this? I glance at my pretty fake fiancée and shrug internally. As long as it’s just me thinking about it and not acting on it, what harm does it do?
And yeah, just because the thought of her being baby crazy gives me all kinds of caveman-brain ideas about pretty little Juliet carrying my baby, doesn’t mean it’s ever going to happen.
We hate each other. Except when we don’t.
I catch Juliet watching me with this confused expression, like she’s seeing something she didn’t expect.
This version of me, quiet and gentle and unguarded with these kids, probably isn’t what she imagined when she agreed to this fake engagement. Hell, it’s not even how I see myself most of the time.
Later, as we’re packing up the equipment and the parents are herding their sugar-crashed kids toward the parking lot, Juliet approaches me.
“You’re good at coaching,” she says. Her tone is neutral, but her expression isn’t. There’s curiosity there, maybe even a little admiration.
I shrug, suddenly uncomfortable with the attention. “I’m just good with kids.”
It sounds gruffer than I mean it to. Juliet doesn’t push. She just nods, that quiet acknowledgment she’s so good at giving.
“They loved you out there.”
“Kids are easy. They don’t care about your reputation or your penalty minutes. They just want to have fun.”
“Is that why you like working with them?”
The question catches me off guard. “I guess. They’re honest. No bullshit.”
She studies my face for a moment. “You should do more of this.”
“More what?”
“Community stuff. It’s good for your image, but more than that, you’re actually good at it.”
Back in the locker room, Ryan tosses me a towel. “You looked less miserable than usual out there.”
I grunt something noncommittal while I unlace my skates.
Ryan pauses, then adds, “You like her. That’s the problem, isn’t it?”
“Fuck off,” I mutter under my breath.
Ryan just laughs and walks away, like he’s solved some great mystery.
Shane bounces over, still high on adrenaline from skating with the kids. “Dude, that was awesome! Did you see the kid who tried to check me? Little savage.”
I have the perfect opportunity to mock him for being a goofy rookie who got schooled by an eight-year-old, but I just shake my head.
“You did well out there.”
Shane blinks at me like I’ve grown a second head. “Thanks, man.”
“Who are you and what did you do with Huxley?” Jett asks, tossing a towel at me.
“Shut up,” I say, but there’s no edge to it.
Silas raises an eyebrow from his corner stall. “You didn’t growl at the reporter. You didn’t snarl at the fan asking for a selfie. Are you dying or something?”
I flip them off lazily. I’m not about to admit it, but their teasing doesn’t land the way it used to. It just feels lighter somehow. It feels like something has smoothed the sharp edges.
I shower fast and get out of there before anyone else can comment on my apparent personality transplant. While I’m thinking about Juliet, I can admit something.
She isn’t who I thought she was. Not the icy, career-obsessed robot I used to make fun of in college. She’s steady and smart as hell. And when she smiled at me earlier while I was working with those kids, it felt like sunlight breaking through a crack in a concrete wall.
I don’t know what to do with this feeling.
I head home, restless energy making it impossible to sit still. I toss my gear in the corner and turn on the TV, but I’m not really watching whatever hockey highlights are playing. My mind keeps drifting back to the way Juliet looked at me today.
Eventually, I drag out the old journal from where I keep it buried in the back of my closet. I haven’t touched it in years. Not since my mom found one of my journals and read it to my brothers like it was a stand-up routine.
That was enough to make me burn the rest. But tonight my hands itch to do something that won’t end with me punching a wall.
10/14
Told myself to stay away. Safer for her that way. Better she only ever sees the part of me built to push people back.
She should have someone who takes her to dinner without looking for a fight. Someone who sleeps through the night without waiting for bad news. Someone whose hands aren’t always cleaning up the wreckage he caused.
But I keep seeing her at the clinic. Rinkside in that coat, laughing when the rookie made the kid smile again after the spill. Later, that same smile for me—when I was on my knees retying laces, talking stick handling like it was the only thing in the world.
At night she keeps me awake. When she moves around her room, I hear the faint creak of the floor.
I picture her hair loose, her skin warm from sleep, her eyes finding mine in the dark.
I turn over and try to shut it out, but she’s everywhere.
In my head. Under my skin. Close enough to touch if I were willing to cross the line.
I write it down so it can’t slip away. That smile. The light in her eyes. For half a second, she looked past the temper and the ruin, like maybe she saw something worth keeping.
When I’m done, I shut the journal and shove it back in the closet. Lock it away like everything else that matters too much to risk losing.
I lie awake that night thinking about her. Not about sex, though that’s definitely part of it. Not about the fake engagement or what the team might say if they knew how badly I want her. Just about the way she looked at me today.
Like maybe she saw something I didn’t even know was still in there. Something that isn’t just anger and hockey fights and family drama. Something that might actually be worth keeping around.
Maybe it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world if she knew the truth about who I am underneath all the performance.
Maybe.
The thought should terrify me. Usually when people get too close, when they see past the Chainsaw persona, they either get scared off or try to fix me. No one can fix me. Too many pieces are missing or broken beyond repair.
But Juliet doesn’t seem like the type to run from a challenge. And she definitely doesn’t seem like the type to waste time on lost causes.
So maybe, just maybe, there’s a chance she could see the real me and stick around anyway.
If I’m not careful, this fake relationship is going to turn into something real. And once that happens, there’s no going back to the safety of pretending I don’t care.