Chapter 23
Hunter
I wake up to a generic hotel ceiling and the sound of someone knocking on my door. For a second, I think it’s housekeeping, but then I remember I put the Do Not Disturb sign up last night.
The knocking stops for a second, and I close my eyes, drifting.
Juliet is supposed to be flying in this morning with Ivy and the rest of the off-ice support team.
I arrived with the team last night so that I could get a solid night’s rest before we play against Boston, one of the toughest teams in the country.
Thoughts of Juliet filled my dreams, and I slept fitfully at best.
It’s been two weeks since I had to sleep in a hotel room, and the ache of loneliness is hitting me hard.
Usually, I don’t give a fuck if I’m on the road.
But knowing the Juliet is at my house, probably wearing those silky little sleep shorts and no fucking bra…
sitting on the couch, watching foreign detective dramas.
Not missing me at all while I fucking wallow in my hotel room.
Fuck, I hate this. Do I even like Juliet? I’m not supposed to. But she’s the first thing in my head when I wake and the last thing when I finally pass out. Why can’t I just be a normal fucking human?
“Mr. Huxley? Room service!” a voice calls. The person outside starts banging on the door again, growing impatient. I drag myself out of bed, still half-asleep, and open the door to find a guy in a hotel uniform holding a breakfast tray. “Room service for Mr. Huxley?”
I frown. “I didn’t order anything.”
“Says here it’s from your fiancée.” He hands me the tray with a grin that suggests he thinks he’s delivering something romantic. There’s a paper bag on the tray with a note written in Juliet’s neat handwriting, complete with a smug little heart drawn next to it.
I can’t help it. I grin like an idiot at the stupid little heart. No one else in the world could make me do that. I tip the guy and shut the door, shaking my head.
Plucking the note off, I read it.
Wanted to make sure you’re treating yourself right on the road. Good luck in your game today. I’ll see you tonight.
XO, Monroe
My lips twitch. This is exactly what a real fiancée would do for her hockey player husband-to-be.
Inside the bag is my exact go-to breakfast order. Scrambled eggs, hot sauce packets, crispy turkey bacon, fresh fruit, and black coffee so dark it could strip paint. She got my order down to the specific brand of hot sauce I always ask for.
How? I’m not sure. I haven’t ordered it in front of her. She must have gotten my order from the team’s chef or something. I can’t help but smirk. Juliet’s not even in the room and she’s already controlling my day.
The coffee is perfect, rich and dark, which pisses me off because I don’t want to be impressed by her attention to detail. But I am. Because most people don’t pay attention to shit like this. Most people don’t care if I eat breakfast or survive on energy drinks and spite.
I text her: How did you know my exact order?
She writes back quickly.
Juliet: To quote you, I pay attention. It’s my doting fiancée impression. You like?
Yes, I do like it. More than I should. Classic Juliet. Do something thoughtful, then respond to my questions with a joke.
Me: For a PR nightmare, I feel very well taken care of.
Juliet: I’m very good at my job, Hux.
Hux. The nickname slides against me, pleasantly slick.
I can see that she’s good at what she does.
Eating quickly and dressing, then catch the team shuttle over to the stadium.
I don’t see Juliet for over an hour while the team runs through puck-handling drills, line rushes, and two-on-two scrimmages.
It’s a relatively light day with a press scrum after practice.
It’s time for Juliet to show us what she’s made of.
I’m at the arena watching her glide around in those ridiculous heels like a tiny dictator.
She’s running point in the press pool, telling a pack of reporters where to stand, what video to shoot, and when to shut up.
Her voice has a firm, velvet quality that makes grown men listen without questioning why.
I’m standing off to the side, catching my breath, watching her work with interest.
“Let’s go over topics that are and are not appropriate for the press to ask the Seattle Havoc players.
” Juliet’s brown eyes take in the press pool.
She looks perfectly groomed in her navy skirt suit, paired as always with that sexy-ass red lipstick.
“Anyone who asks anything outside the parameters we’re about to establish will be kicked out of the pool… permanently.”
Atta girl. You teach those bloodthirsty journalists how to heel.
The reporter, some middle-aged dickhead from a sports blog, says something about a pretty little thing playing dress-up. I can’t hear exactly what he says, but Juliet’s spine goes rigid.
Everyone straightens up, curious about how she will respond. Her eyes narrow; the temperature in the room drops by ten degrees.
She doesn’t even blink. She snaps her fingers, points at him, and says, “I’m so glad that you brought that up.
The number one rule for being in this room is that you will respect the team.
That means the players, the managers, the coaches, and even off-ice talent…
like me. This is your only warning. The next infraction will mean you to call your boss and explaining to him how the Havoc’s PR just banned your entire channel from the press pool forever. ”
The man gapes at Juliet while she looks at him expectantly.
“I’m sorry, did you have anything you wanted to say in response?”
He swallows and shakes his head. “No…”
“You can address me as Ms. Monroe.” She cocks her head, waiting. “Don’t you want to be on my good side?”
“Uhh, yes, Ms. Monroe,” the man says. His head bobs. “I do.”
“I assumed so.” Juliet claps her hands and turns to address the press pool. “I think you’ll find today’s focus is on the team’s performance metrics and playoff positioning. Unless anyone else would prefer to discuss something as unimportant as my looks?”
The guy flushes red and fumbles with his notepad. The other reporters snicker, and I have to bite back a grin.
She’s terrifying. Against my will, I’m impressed.
Juliet catches my eye across the media scrum and lifts her chin like she’s daring me to cause trouble. I smirk back at her. Something passes between us. Some kind of challenge or acknowledgment that we’re both enjoying this game.
“Okay. With that rule in mind, let’s bring out a few players to talk to you. We have Alexander Thorne and Beck Tate, the team captains. Jett Huxley, goalie. And Hunter Huxley, right wing.”
We file out dutifully, sitting at a long table set up with mics.
Each of us takes turns fielding questions about the game: Thorne gets asked about managing ice time and keeping the forecheck aggressive.
Beck fields a question about locker room morale after a rough first period.
Reporters asked Jett how he handled the high shot volume in the second and whether a screen affected the tying goal.
Then the mic comes to me. A reporter asks if my line is finally finding chemistry and whether I was gunning for a Gordie Howe hat trick when I dropped the gloves.
I get in and out with the bare minimum number of words.
Juliet is watching me, ready to jump in if there is even a whiff of a journalist asking a bullshit personal question about my life.
But maybe because of her apparent readiness, there is not a single question that crosses the line.
I would love it if I didn’t have to answer journalists at all.
But in a world where that’s not possible, I’ll accept having Juliet standing nearby, ready to pounce. I feel protected.
Huh. That’s a first, for sure. No one has ever whipped reporters into line for me before.
“All right.” Juliet cuts in before anyone asks another question. “I think that’s enough. We should really let the Havoc go change. Have a great game, guys.”
A warm feeling glows in the pit of my stomach at her words, especially when she makes eye contact with me. Her eyes sparkle.
Juliet is changing the PR game, here. The team has never received public support like this before.
“Hunter!” the photographer calls out. “Can we get you and Juliet for some shots?”
I look at Juliet, arching a brow to ask whether that’s okay with her.
She beckons to me. Damn if I don’t rush over to where she’s standing, quick as anything.
She slides into position next to me like we’ve done this a thousand times.
Her hand finds my arm. Even through my shirt, I can feel the warmth of her palm.
I slide my arm around her waist and pull her against my body.
“Smile like you’re not plotting my murder,” she murmurs under her breath.
“Who says I’m not?” I tease.
“You’re the worst.”
“I’m the best and you know it.”
Her cheeks glow pink, which is as much recognition as I’m going to get. The cameras click and we pose, answering a few questions about our supposed upcoming wedding. Okay, Juliet answers them, lying smoothly. She’s rehearsed this.
Afterward, as we’re walking away from the media area, Juliet says, “You didn’t scowl once.”
“I could’ve killed that reporter from KCPZ,” I say, my eyes burning into hers. “No one talks shit to you.”
“Except you, apparently.”
“Except for me,” I agree. “You did a good job of dressing him down, but I’d be more than happy to wait outside his house and break every one of his fingers for you.”
She laughs, a little shocked. “I don’t think that’s necessary. Honestly, I’m just pleased you didn’t implode. I’m impressed.”
I huff, but there’s something warm in my chest at her approval. It’s ridiculous, but her saying she’s impressed hits harder than any crowd applause ever could.
Breaking the journalist’s fingers still sounds appealing, though.