Chapter 34
Hunter
The kitchen sink backs up Tuesday morning while Juliet’s getting ready for work. I hear her muttering about it from the bedroom, followed by the sound of her opening and closing cabinet doors like she’s going to find a magical solution in there.
“Problem?” I ask, appearing in the doorway.
She’s crouched under the sink in her work clothes, hair pulled back, looking frustrated. “The disposal is being stupid. I think something’s stuck.”
“Move over.”
She shifts aside without protest. I slide under the sink cabinet to look. It’s not complicated, just needs the disposal reset, and the drain cleared. I take about ten minutes to fix it.
“There,” I say. I wash my hands and wipe my hands with a dish towel. “Should be good now.”
When I look up, she’s staring at me with something soft in her expression.
“Thank you.” Her voice has this quality I don’t hear often. Genuine gratitude, but also something deeper. I can tell that she’s touched that I noticed. I think fixing things without being asked is pleasing to her.
I’ll have to make a note of that.
It’s not a big moment. Just basic household maintenance. But it hits me hard anyway. That kind of intimacy. Trust. Affection. The way she looks at me like I’m useful for more than just hockey stats and public appearances.
It’s quiet, but it’s mutual. I can see it on her face that this feels like something to her too.
Like a turning point.
Oh fuck. Oh, fucking fuck. I might have serious feelings for my fake fiancée.
I’ve had a lot of things in my life. Money. Ice time. Rage. Enough anger to fuel a small city and enough adrenaline to keep me going when everything else falls apart.
But I’ve never had peace. Not like when she’s sitting next to me with her feet in my lap, reading some article on her phone while I flip through game footage. Not like when she hums under her breath while making coffee in the morning, unconscious and content.
Not like this.
The realization follows me to practice, where I’m completely useless. I can’t focus on drills, miss simple passes, get my ass handed to me in scrimmage because my head is somewhere else entirely.
“You good, Hunt?” Silas asks during a water break. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“Fine,” I lie. “Just tired.”
But I’m not tired. I’m terrified.
Having serious feelings for Juliet might change everything. It certainly makes this whole arrangement infinitely more complicated. It forces me to view the expiration date on our contract as a countdown to unhappiness.
Am I happy? Not completely, but happier than I was when I lived alone. Juliet has brightened my days.
I’m still processing this earth-shattering revelation when my phone buzzes. Text after text, missed calls, the notification storm that means something bad has happened. Shit.
The first headline I see makes my blood turn to ice.
“Hockey Mom Breaks Her Silence: Darla Huxley Opens Up About Life with ‘The Chainsaw’”
Then another: “Mother’s Heartbreak: Former Agent Details Son’s Volatile Behavior”
And another: “Exclusive: Inside Hunter Huxley’s Troubled Family Dynamic”
Darla’s face is everywhere. Perfectly composed, playing the role of concerned mother to perfection. The articles are careful, walking the line between sympathy-generating and legally actionable.
She claims I’ve always been volatile. That “The Chainsaw” isn’t just a hockey nickname; according to her, it’s who I am behind closed doors. Mom depicts herself as a frightened mother, abused and cast aside by the son for whom she sacrificed everything.
Disgusting.
Mom doesn’t say anything concrete. Nothing I could sue her for. Just twisted little implications and promises of a “full story” coming soon.
“Christ.” I can’t breathe. My ears are ringing. All I can think is, what the fuck. What the actual fuck.
I gave my mom everything. I worked my ass off for years, built a career from dirt and determination, and handed her the keys to it all.
She was my agent, my mouthpiece, my fucking power of attorney.
I let her take more than her share, again and again, because she was my mother. I wanted to believe she loved me.
But it was never enough.
I will never be enough for her.
And if my mother says that I’m a monster, how the hell can I expect anyone else to believe me?
How can I expect anyone to stay? Especially someone like Juliet.
She’s all bright fire and sharp intelligence and polished professionalism.
This mess is no place for her. Juliet doesn’t deserve to be dragged down by my family’s dysfunction.
I drive home in a haze, bracing for the fallout. Juliet will pull away, start making exit plans, and remember that this is supposed to be temporary anyway.
But instead of pulling away, Juliet goes to war for me.
I find out about it when I’m almost home. Silas texts me a link to a live stream. “Dude, your girl is handling business.”
Juliet is standing in front of a bank of microphones, looking calm and professional and absolutely lethal. She hasn’t checked in with me first, hasn’t asked permission or run her strategy past anyone. She just dealt with it.
“The Huxley family will step away from media obligations for the time being,” she says, her voice steady and authoritative.
“Mr. Huxley and his brothers deserve privacy during this difficult time. Their mother is experiencing some troubling personal issues, obviously. And certain news outlets are preying on her weakness to get a cheap story.”
A reporter shouts a question about the allegations. Juliet doesn’t even blink.
“On a personal note, I’ve known Hunter Huxley for years.
He would never do what his mother is accusing him of.
He’s known for being The Chainsaw, but that’s just a persona.
Inside, he has a heart of gold. He’s the most decent, principled person I know.
And I would say that even if I weren’t his fiancée. ”
My heart tightens in my chest. Decent and principled? Not words I ever expected from Juliet Monroe. They even sound convincing.
Another reporter raises her hand. “Why would Mrs. Huxley lie? What could she hope to gain?”
God, I wish I knew. I wish I had just paid my mom off before she went to a reporter with these crazy lies.
“I think the public should question why someone keeps seeking attention with stories designed to hurt her own children,” she says smoothly. “Especially someone with a documented history of exploiting those children for personal gain.”
She never names Darla directly. But the implication is razor sharp.
“Mental health struggles are real and serious,” Juliet continues. “And sometimes they manifest as a need to control or damage the people closest to them. The Huxley brothers have shown nothing but grace and maturity in removing themselves from a toxic situation.”
She spins the narrative so tight it can’t unravel. Suddenly, Juliet has turned the spotlight onto Darla’s instability, her history, her choices. And somehow, she makes the entire mess look like a mother lashing out, not a son unraveling.
For the second time in twenty minutes, I’m completely floored.
I watch the press conference in total disbelief. I can’t believe Juliet did that for me. That she would put herself on the line like that, risk her own reputation to protect mine.
When I get home, I lose it.
I lock myself in the bedroom and sit on the edge of the bed, chest heaving, vision swimming. My fists hurt from clenching them. I want to break something, scream, hide, do something with all this rage and shame and grief that’s eating me alive.
None of it would help.
The voices in my head are loud tonight. Darla’s voice telling me I’m just like my father. My voice agreeing with her. The reporters’ voices, asking if there’s truth to the allegations.
All of them echo the same truth. I can’t trust anyone. Not even Juliet. This won’t last. She’ll leave too once she realizes what kind of person she’s really dealing with.
There’s a soft knock on the door.
“Hunter?” Juliet’s voice is gentle but firm. “Let me in.”
I stay quiet. Silent. Because what would I even say? How do I explain that my mother is trying to destroy me? How do I tell her that maybe Darla is right, maybe I am too damaged to be worth saving?
I hear a soft clink. A pause. Then the door clicks open.
She picked the lock with a butter knife. Of course she did.
“That’s illegal, you know,” I say without looking up.
“Sue me.”
She walks in like it’s nothing. Pretending that I’m not falling apart. She doesn’t say a word; she just climbs into bed beside me and curls into my side like she belongs there.
Her hand finds my hair, stroking gently. The touch is so soft, so careful, that it almost breaks me all over again.
“You’re not alone,” she whispers. “I’m here. It’s okay.”
“It’s not okay,” I say, my voice rougher than I intended. “None of this is okay.”
“No,” she agrees. “It’s not. But you’re not alone.”
I don’t deserve her. It’s something I know with absolute certainty. Grief, rage, and shame have twisted me, making me too broken and dangerous. I’m too much like my father, no matter how hard I try not to be.
“Why did you do that? The press conference. You didn’t have to.”
“Yes, I did.”
“Juliet.”
“What?” She pulls back to look at me. “You think I was going to let her destroy you? Let her spread lies about who you are?”
“What if they’re not lies?”
The words slip out before I can stop them. The fear I’ve been carrying since I was old enough to understand that I inherited more than just my father’s eyes.
“They are lies,” Juliet says firmly. “I know who you are, Hunter. I’ve seen you angry, I’ve seen you lose control. I’ve also seen you put yourself back together. You’re not a monster.”
“My mother thinks I am.”
“Your mother is sick. And cruel. She’s wrong.”
She says it with such certainty that for a moment, I almost believe her.
“What if this ruins everything for you? You were defending me when the universe thinks we’re engaged. You put your career and your reputation on the line. What if people think you’re just as messed up as I am?”
“Maybe I don’t care what people think.” She touches my jaw so gently, like I’m made of porcelain. “I know you, Hux. The Chainsaw is a made up character. I see you trying to please people, but you don’t have to. You can let go.”
I suck in a breath. “What if I can’t?”
Juliet laces her fingers through mine. “I’ll still be here.”
I lie there in the dark, her warmth pressed against my side, trying to process everything that’s happened. The press conference, the headlines, the way she just walked into my breakdown like it was nothing.
Like she wasn’t afraid of me.
Like she wasn’t planning to leave.
“I don’t know how to do this,” I whisper. “I don’t know how to let someone care about me without waiting for them to leave.”
She lays her head on my chest. “You don’t have to know how. You just have to let me.”
Her fingers trace patterns on my chest, and I can feel some of the tension draining out of my shoulders.
“I’m wrecked,” I tell her. “You know that, right? I’m completely fucked up.”
“I know.”
“And you’re still here.”
“I’m still here.”
I don’t push her away, stop her, or try to convince her she’s making a mistake. I’m too tired to keep fighting the one person who always seems to have my back.
“Thank you,” I say.
“For what?” Her breath fans against my chest.
“For what you did today. For this.”
“You don’t have to thank me.”
“Yeah, I do.”
We lie there in comfortable silence. This is so different from anything I’ve ever experienced. The way she doesn’t need me to be anything other than what I am. She seems to see all my damage and yet she doesn’t run.
The way she went to war for me without being asked.
Maybe I’m not too broken for this. Maybe with her I can be something better.
Maybe I already am.