Chapter 41
Hunter
At practice that day, I get my ass handed to me. Coach Cross has us bag skating and doing suicide skates. Good for cardio, bad for not feeling like a Mack truck hit you. I’m halfway to being a corpse when I head for the tunnel.
The new team services coordinator, Scout, is waiting in the tunnel. She’s got Connor by the elbow, lecturing him about showing up late, while Shane sheepishly hands over a crumpled housing form. She’s juggling both without breaking stride, calm as hell while the rookies squirm.
I expect Silas to breeze past her, but he stops mid-step.
Watches her. My brother rarely takes notice of the women who work here.
Seeing him do it now is unnerving. Scout looks up, catches him staring, and flushes like she’s been caught out.
He doesn’t say a word. She just lingers several seconds too long before moving on.
I don’t know what the hell that’s about, but I don’t like it. Ryan’s voice cuts through. “Hunter!”
I cringe. What did I do now?
I brace myself for another lecture about my temper, about keeping my head down and not giving anyone a reason to doubt the progress I’ve supposedly made.
But when I sit down, he doesn’t come down on me. Instead, he leans back in his chair. “The league is watching you.”
My stomach drops. “Coach, I haven’t done anything.”
“I know.” He pauses, studies my face. “Listen. I know that the video that got leaked about you has a lot of extra eyes on you, courtesy of the NHL. But I’m impressed with how you’ve handled it.
Ownership is too. They’re very pleased with the fact that you let Juliet make a statement and didn’t lash out.
Not every player would have the good judgement to let that pass. ”
I don’t know what to say about that. Impressed isn’t a word that gets associated with me very often.
“You’ve grown more in two months than most guys do in two seasons,” Ryan continues. “Don’t stop now.”
The words hit me like a puck to the chest. I want to argue, to deflect, to make some joke about how the bar was pretty low to begin with. But something in his expression stops me.
“Thanks, Coach.” I manage.
“Don’t thank me. Thank whoever’s been keeping you grounded.”
The back of my neck heats. I know exactly who he means.
After practice, I wolf down a chicken stir fry bowl, then head to an appointment that I’m truly dreading. Juliet brought the idea of doing therapy to my attention last week.
And to prove to my fiancée that I take her seriously, I booked the slot immediately. But now, in the cold light of day, I’m cursing my past self.
The therapy office is nothing like what I expected. No leather couch, no degrees covering the walls. Just two comfortable chairs and a woman named Dr. Sarah Chen, who looks like she could be someone’s cool aunt.
“What brings you here today, Hunter?”
I shift in the chair. Even after deciding to come, actually talking about it feels impossible. “My fiancée thinks I should be in therapy.”
“What do you think?”
“I think I’m fucked up and tired of being fucked up.”
She nods like this is the most reasonable thing she’s ever heard. “That’s a start. What does ‘fucked up’ look like for you?”
I talk about anger. How it used to consume everything. How I’ve been working to control it but some days I still feel like I’m barely holding on. That train of thought progresses to Mom. With some gentle guidance from Dr. Chen, I talk about her and the ways she messed with my head for years.
Once I get started, it’s hard to control the flow of words that just pours out of me. Before I know it, I blurt out how scared I am that I’ll mess up this good thing I have with Juliet.
“Anger is often a secondary emotion,” Dr. Chen says. Her voice is very soothing. “What do you think it’s covering up?”
I think about that for a long moment. “Fear, I guess. Fear that I’m not enough. I’m always worried everyone I care about will eventually figure out I’m not worth the trouble.”
“And where do you think that fear comes from?”
“My mother.” The words come out flat, matter-of-fact. “She spent my entire childhood telling me I was only valuable if I could make her money. If I couldn’t perform, I was worthless.”
“That must have been incredibly painful.”
It’s the first time anyone has ever said that to me. Hell, it’s the first time that anyone other than Juliet has acknowledged that what Mom did was wrong, not just unfortunate.
“Yeah.” My voice cracks slightly. “It was.”
We talk for an hour and forty-five minutes. Dr. Chen tells me a little about trauma responses and cognitive patterns and all the ways childhood wounds show up in adult relationships. She gives me homework. Journaling exercises and breathing techniques, things that sound simple but feel monumental.
“I want to see you twice a week for now,” she says as we wrap up. “This kind of work takes time. It takes commitment. But I know that you can feel better. You walked through the door. You did the hard thing.”
“Okay.” I pause at the door. “Thank you. For not making me feel crazy.”
The therapist smiles gently. “Hunter, wanting to heal isn’t crazy. It’s brave.”
I leave her office with her words echoing in my head.
Back at the apartment, I find Juliet curled up on the couch with her laptop, probably working on something for the team. She closes it when she sees me, taking in my expression without commenting on how wrung out I must look.
“How was therapy?” she asks simply.
“Hard. Good? I think.”
“Want to talk about it?”
I settle beside her. “Not yet. But I will. Eventually.”
She nods, not pushing. She makes space for whatever I need to process.
“Can I ask you something?” I say.
“Always.”
“You said Patrick used to make you feel you were too much. Can you uhh… tell me about that?”
Her whole body goes tense. For a moment, I think she’s going to deflect. Then she takes a shaky breath.
“Sure. Okay.” She sits up a little straighter. “He had this way of making everything my fault. Patrick blamed me for not being supportive enough when he was stressed about work. My career focus made him unhappy.”
I listen without interrupting, even though every word makes my hands curl into fists.
“He used to tell me I was lucky he put up with my ambition. Most men wouldn’t.
He’d say things like, ‘You know I love you, but sometimes you’re just too much.
’” Her voice gets smaller. “He made me feel like wanting things was selfish. He said that my having opinions was exhausting. Like I should be grateful he tolerated my personality instead of asking me to change it.”
The shame in her voice makes me want to break something. “And you believed him.”
“For a long time, yeah. I thought if I could just be less demanding, less intense, less me, then maybe he’d actually be happy.”
“That’s not love, Juliet. What he did to you? That’s not love.”
She looks at me with something fragile in her expression. “I’m still learning the difference.”
“You know, someone wise said that love doesn’t ask you to change.” I reach for her, pulling her against my side. “True love wouldn’t ask you to be smaller. It doesn’t make you apologize for just being you.”
She turns a smile up at me. “Is that what you’re learning in therapy?”
“That’s what I’m learning from you.”
I see a flash of tears in her eyes, but she quickly blinks them away.
“You’re secretly charming, Huxley. Under all those muscles and that rough attitude, there is a prince.”
My lips twitch. “Only for you, Monroe.”
She gives me a kiss, then heads to the bathroom for a shower. I watch her go, her hips swaying slightly. That’s my fucking dream girl.
And I finally got her.
Later, while she’s in the shower, I sit at the kitchen table and write her a note. Not typed, not rehearsed. Just raw and honest, written in my terrible handwriting on a piece of paper torn from my notebook.
Juliet,
I want to be the man you see when you look at me. I want to be worthy of the way you care for me.
I’m sorry it took me so long to get help. I’m sorry for all the ways I’m still learning how to be better. You deserve someone who has his shit together, but you’re stuck with me instead.
Thank you for seeing something in me worth saving. Thank you for not giving up on me when I wanted to give up on myself.
I care about you. More than I know how to say.
H
I leave it on her pillow before I brush my teeth.
We’re making dinner together when she brings up my public image again. I’m chopping vegetables while she stirs something on the stove. Both of us move around each other in the simple rhythm we’ve developed.
“Mollie, the team’s social media manager, wants to rebrand you,” she says, tasting the sauce and adding more salt. “Move away from The Chainsaw thing.”
“Into what?” I can’t imagine.
“That’s up to you. What do you want to be known for?”
I think about Dr. Chen’s words earlier. Choosing who I want to be instead of just reacting to what I’ve always been.
“I don’t know. I’ve never really thought about it.”
“What about The Artist? You’re always sketching and writing in that notepad. It’s this whole other side of you that people don’t see. Oooh, or maybe you could be The Poet.”
The suggestion catches me off guard, and I snort. “You think people would buy that?”
“I think people would love it. The tough guy with the secret creative side? That’s compelling.”
I watch her move around the kitchen, talking animatedly about narrative arcs and public perception. Something settles in my chest.
“I stopped sketching for a while,” I say. “A few years ago, some fan found one of my sketchbooks and put pictures online. Made fun of the whole thing. I’ve always written letters, though.”
Juliet stops what she’s doing and turns to look at me, her expression fierce.
“Anyone who makes fun of your drawings has no taste. They’re beautiful, Hunter. You’re an artist. And a fucking poet. I mean it.”
The certainty in her voice, the way she’s looking at me like she means every word, makes my chest tight.
“You really think so?”
“I know so.”
That night, after she’s read my note and kissed me, soft and grateful, we lay in bed talking about the future. No more abstract terms. In real, concrete ways.
“I want to keep getting better. I’m tired of being controlled by all the shit that happened to me.”
She squeezes my arm. “Good. You deserve to be free of it.”
“Will you be patient with me? While I figure it out?”
“Hunter, I’ll be patient with you for as long as it takes.”
“Even when it gets messy?”
“Especially when it gets messy.”
I pull her closer, breathing in the scent of her shampoo, feeling something I haven’t felt in years. Hope, maybe. Or just the belief that I could actually become the person she sees when she looks at me.
As she falls asleep in my arms, I think about Dr. Chen’s homework assignment. Writing three things I’m grateful for each day.
Tonight, it’s easy. Juliet’s fierce loyalty. The way she sees my potential instead of just my problems. For the first time in my life, I’m actually trying to heal instead of just surviving.
It’s a start.