Chapter 30 #2
“Well,” my mother says, sounding pleased. “He’s certainly... athletic.”
“You really have no idea.” The words are out of my mouth before I realize it. I put my fingers against my lips, as if to stop more insane words from escaping my lips.
My mom glares at me, and I fix my gaze on the ice.
I watch the game, noticing things I might have missed before. The Havoc guys are still a little sloppy, but they’re less scattered than they were a month ago. Passes are connecting. Jett actually chirps a rookie about his stick handling and gets chirped back, which is progress of a sort.
It’s not pretty hockey, but it’s looking like team hockey. I’m not a hockey announcer or anything, but even I can tell that they’re playing better.
And Hunter? Hunter is downright magnificent. The better the team plays, the better he gets. He feeds off their energy and growing confidence. He’s been in a better mood lately too, less likely to snap at reporters or glare at teammates who make mistakes.
So different from when I first laid eyes on him a few months ago.
Midway through the second period, Thorne gets into it with a player from the other team.
It’s not a big deal, just a shoving match after a dirty hit.
But for once, Hunter doesn’t go in fists first. Instead, he skates over and stands beside Thorne, backs him up without bulldozing through the situation.
Afterward, I watch on the big screen TV as Thorne mutters something that looks like thanks under his breath. Hunter nods. That’s it. That’s enough.
“Yes!” I clap. “That’s right.”
“Excuse me, dear,” my mother says, standing abruptly. “I need to powder my nose.”
She disappears toward the restrooms, leaving me alone with my father, who’s been quietly nursing the same beer for the entire game.
“She means well,” he says without looking at me.
“Does she?”
“In her way.”
That’s about as deep as conversations with my father get these days. Before I can figure out how to respond, a man in an expensive suit appears beside me.
“Juliet Monroe? Doug Kellerman, Pacific Sports Media.”
I recognize the name. He’s one of those media executives who thinks he runs Seattle sports from behind a desk, the guy who name-drops and schmoozes and probably has never actually watched a full game.
“Mr. Kellerman.” I force a smile. “How can I help you?”
“I just wanted to introduce myself. It’s always exciting to see fresh talent in the industry.” His smile is too wide, too familiar. “Especially someone with your... connections.”
There’s something in the way he says connections that makes my skin crawl. My dad is literally sitting right across from me, though he focuses on the big screen TV.
I shift in my seat. “I’m not sure what you mean.”
“Oh, come now. Patrick speaks highly of you. He says you two had quite the partnership.”
I freeze. Patrick. Of course. Because apparently I can’t escape him, even here.
“That was a long time ago,” I manage.
“Was it? Because from what I hear, you two made quite the team. Shame it didn’t work out. Though I suppose these hockey players can be... challenging.”
He glances down at the ice where Hunter is lining up for a face-off, and there’s something dismissive in his expression that makes my hands clench into fists.
I can’t deflect fast enough. Can’t come up with the right words to shut this down without causing a scene. That’s the moment that Ivy pokes her head into the suite.
I give her a wide-eyed look and she rushes over, intentionally interrupting.
“Is everyone doing okay over here?” she asks. “The team likes me to keep on top of these things.”
Mr. Kellerman looks her up and down like he’s found a tasty snack.
“Doug Kellerman. Pacific Sports Media. I would love to meet the man who was smart enough to hire both of you.”
Ivy’s expression twitches. “What now?”
“You’re both just so beautiful.” He looks between us, pleased as punch. “Has anyone ever tried to put you two in front of a camera?”
Ugh. As if I would ever leave a job with an NHL team to work for this jackass. I open my mouth to tell him that, or a more polite version, but Ivy stumbles, tripping over absolutely nothing.
“Oh my God, I am so sorry!” she gasps, somehow spilling her entire soda down the front of Kellerman’s expensive shoes. “These heels are impossible to walk in. Let me get you some napkins!”
Before he can respond, Jessa is there, linking her arm through mine. “Juliet, we need you over here. Sponsor emergency.”
She leads me away without another word.
They never speak about it afterward. Don’t make a big production of it or wait for thanks. They just handle it, smooth and seamlessly, like they’ve been doing this kind of thing their whole lives.
But I realize deep in my bones that these women have closed ranks around me. I’m not alone anymore. Not like I was with Patrick, when his friends became my friends by default and disappeared the moment we broke up.
This is different. This is real.
I don’t see Kellerman’s face again after that, so I can only guess that a member of the group lured him away. Either way, he’s not in the tunnel when I rush through it.
After the game, which we win by two goals, I’m standing in the hallway outside the media room when my mother reappears, looking refreshed and ready to interrogate me about my life choices.
Hunter emerges from the locker room still damp from his post-game shower, hair messy, wearing that satisfied look he gets after a good game. When he spots me, his whole face lights up.
“There’s my girl,” he says, loud enough for half the hallway to hear.
I blush, unable to hold in a smile. Grabbing his biceps, I direct him toward my mother. “Mom, this is Hunter Huxley. Hunter, this is my mother, Melissa Monroe.”
He grins at me but doesn’t say anything, just extends his hand to my mother with that effortless charm that probably worked on teachers and coaches for his entire life.
“Mrs. Monroe. Nice to meet you.”
“Mr. Huxley.” She shakes his hand, sizing him up like she’s considering what he might be worth. “Congratulations on the win.”
As we’re talking, a young staffer hurries past and drops her clipboard, papers scattering across the floor. Before she can bend down to collect them, Hunter steps forward and gathers everything up, handing it back to her with a quiet, there you go.
No scowl. No muttered complaints about people being careless. He just does it, like helping is the most natural thing in the world.
Something warm unfurls in my chest. I don’t say anything, just give him a quiet, knowing smile when he looks my way. I feel like I’ve been waiting for exactly this moment. Waiting to see proof that the man I’ve been falling for is real, not just an act he puts on for me.
Instead, I smile too tightly and look at my mom. “Did you enjoy the game?”
“It was... energetic.” The tension from her comment stays with me long after they leave, following me home and settling in my chest like a stone. “It’s nice that you seem to have found some nice coworkers.”
After my mom and dad leave, I’m exhausted. I lead the press conference, snapping a little more easily than usual. It’s over before too long though, and I’m left cleaning up the water bottles left behind by the hockey players.
I’m in my head, wondering about my relationship.
It started as a fake arrangement. A clever PR play. But that’s not what it is anymore.
It’s not love. I’m never going to be ready to risk that kind of vulnerability again.
But it’s not nothing either.
It’s two damaged people clinging to each other. Mess, hunger, and fear are all tangled up together. It’s the way he looks at me like I’m something precious and the way I let myself believe it, just for a moment, before reality crashes back in.
It’s also the best sex of my life, which feels shallow to admit but is undeniably true. I’ve had five orgasms a day every day that I’ve seen him. No idea how things will be when he goes on the road again, but… a girl can hope that it won’t kill this thing growing between Hunter and me.
I thought I’d feel ashamed about that. Guilty for letting my professional arrangement become something so physical, so consuming. Instead, I feel raw. Wanted. Real.
And that’s what terrifies me.
Because what if this isn’t just lust? What if this isn’t just two people scratching an itch until they get bored and move on?
What if it’s him? What if Hunter Huxley, with his terrible reputation and his gentle hands and his way of seeing straight through all my carefully constructed walls, is the person who finally makes me understand what all the fuss is about?
My control slips at the thought. The walls I’ve built around my heart shake.
Later that night, when we’re curled up on his bed after another round of desperate, clinging-to-each-other sex, I confess things I never meant to say out loud.
“My mom doesn’t approve of you.”
Hunter goes still beside me. Then he says something kind. Simple. True. I don’t even remember the exact words, only how they land like a punch that somehow doesn’t hurt. Gentle and devastating at the same time.
“No offense, Juliet, but… who cares what she thinks? It didn’t seem like you two were getting along all that well when I met you.” He pulls back to look at me. “Do you approve?”
I bite my lip to hide a grin. “I think so. You’d better kiss me again so I can make sure.”
“My pleasure.” Hunter kisses me, soft and pliant. It makes me kiss him back, more aggressively, pursuing something that I can’t quite name.
Hunter makes me feel things I haven’t felt in years. Heat and defiance and thrill and hunger. But those aren’t safe feelings. They’re the kind that burned me before, that left me picking up pieces of myself I’m still trying to reassemble.
Much later, when Hunter is asleep and I’m lying awake staring at the ceiling, I get up to get some water. On my way back from the kitchen, I notice a piece of paper on his dresser that wasn’t there before.
I shouldn’t look. It’s probably nothing, maybe just a grocery list or some team notes.
But curiosity wins, and I pick it up.
It’s a letter. Not addressed to anyone, maybe not even meant to be read. But it’s about survival. About trying. About the daily work of holding yourself together when everything in you wants to fall apart.
Some days are harder than others, it says in Hunter’s messy handwriting. Some days I wake up and the anger is right there, waiting. Like it never left, just went dormant for a while. I used to think that made me weak. Now, I think it just makes me human.
The trick isn’t to stop feeling it. The trick is to feel it and choose something else anyway. Choose to be better. Choose to try.
I’m trying.
I sit there in the dark, holding the letter, completely undone.
Because suddenly I see it. How hard he’s working just to hold himself together. How much effort it takes for him to be the man he is with me, patient and gentle and kind, when his instincts probably tell him to run or fight or both.
He’s not perfect. Neither am I. But maybe that’s the point.
Maybe this fragile thing between us could take root and bloom. Maybe it’s about finding someone worth the challenge. Someone worth trying for.
I fold the letter carefully and put it back where I found it, then slip back into bed beside him.
He stirs slightly when I settle against his chest, his arm tightening around me in his sleep.
“Juliet?” he murmurs, not quite awake.
“I’m here,” I whisper back.
And for the first time in a long time, I think I might actually mean it.