Chapter 4
Holly
I knocked hard enough to be heard over the traffic outside.
Two seconds later, the door cracked open to reveal Hunter, mid-bite of what looked like a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.
I hadn’t eaten yet today, on account of waiting around for him to not show up at our session, then having to drive all this way to his place. My stomach protested with a low rumble.
“Holly?” His voice was muffled around the bread. “What are you—?”
“Don’t talk with your mouth full,” I said, pushing by him without waiting for an invitation.
The apartment was a maze of half-packed boxes, open drawers, and stray pieces of furniture shoved to the edges of the room. A lamp leaned precariously against the couch, and a stack of hockey sticks teetered like pick-up sticks in the corner.
I draped the two garment bags over the back of a couch and took it all in. “Moving?”
“Mason is,” Hunter said, uncertainty in his voice. As though he wasn’t sure this was really happening. He closed the door gently, and took another bite of his sandwich. “He and Cass are finally shacking up.”
I didn’t pretend to know what he was talking about, and didn’t care. “I thought we had an agreement. Why do you keep flaking out on me?”
“I’m not flaking, okay. Today was just… I was busy.”
Busy, my ass. I looked at the half-eaten sandwich in his hands, his sloppy hoodie, bare feet. The jeans were a nice fit, though, but that was neither here nor there.
“Are you done jerking me around? Because it’ll save us a whole lot of time if you just got over it once and for all.” I shrugged out of my blazer, and pulled my hair up into a messy bun.
“What’s happening?” he asked, watching me roll my shirt sleeves up to my elbows. “Why do you look like you’re getting ready for something?”
“Because, Callahan,” I said with a sigh, “you need to be getting ready. And I’m here to help you.”
His eyes flicked to the garment bags, then back to me. “I don’t do suits. Nobody wears a suit to a jersey ceremony.”
“First of all, that’s a lie.” I unzipped the first bag and pulled out my first choice—a sleek navy blue suit. “Second of all, I don’t care what anyone else wears. This is for you.”
He popped the last bite into his mouth, brushed his hands over the front of his hoodie, and came over for a closer look. “How do you even know my size?”
“You’re my job.” I snatched the suit away from his grubby fingers. “I know everything about you. Also, go wash up first.”
He stared at me incredulously, and when I didn’t flinch, skulked into the bathroom. I could hear his grumbling complaints over the running water, and bit back a smile. There was some twisted poetic justice in knowing he hated this as much as I did.
“What’s in the other one?” He sauntered back into the living room, holding up his clean hands as evidence.
“Gray,” I replied, giving him the once-over. “But now that I’m looking at you, I don’t think you have the coloring to pull it off.”
He scoffed, and pulled his hoodie over his head. “Fashion advice from the woman who wears black every day.”
It was a playful dig, but it stung all the same. I brushed it off. There was work to be done.
He turned the jacket around, and side to side. Skeptical. “This isn’t… me.”
“That’s the point,” I said. “You’re not supposed to be ‘you’ today, but a representative of your team. Here, I made these.”
I pulled a stack of index cards from my pocket and handed it to him. He took the cards with profound reluctance.
“More words? This is getting ridiculous.”
“What’s ridiculous is having to chase you down to help you get ready.” My patience was thinning, and he was the cause. “It’s an honor to wear the number one jersey. I’m focused on being part of my team’s success. Say it.”
“Holly–”
“It’s an honor to wear the number one jersey…”
Then, in the most robotic tone known to man, he said, “I’m focused on my successful team.”
“Seriously?”
He gave a low chuckle, and slung the jacket over the back of the couch. “I told you I’m no good at this. Why can’t I just say whatever comes to mind? It’s easier to give me a list of things I should avoid, like crises and Trey.
It had been a couple of weeks, and I honestly thought he would’ve grown tired of antagonizing me by now. Instead, the Callahan Disappointment Bus showed no signs of slowing.
“Take off your shirt. And was there another half to that sandwich?”
“What?” His eyes widened, and his jaw went slack.
“I haven’t eaten all day, and you’ve yet to offer me so much as a glass of water.”
“No, no, I meant the other thing,” he said with an amused look. “Before that.”
I sank back on my heel. “I told you to take off your shirt. So you could put this on.”
I rifled through the garment bag and brought out a crisp white t-shirt. Dressing down the formal suit, but also practical for when he’d have to put on his new team jersey. When I turned back, he was still just standing there and gawking at me.
“You can’t exactly put this on over that ratty old thing, can you?”
He peeled off his t-shirt in one smooth motion.
The movement was unselfconscious, all athlete, no preening.
Just a guy changing clothes. But up close, it was impossible not to notice the long lines of muscle, the faint scars across his forearms, the V at his hips.
I busied myself unfolding the shirt like it was a bomb I had to defuse.
He took it from me, and our fingers brushed. Static prickled through me. He must’ve felt it too, but neither of us said anything.
“There,” I said, once he’d pulled on the white t-shirt. “You look cleaner already.”
“Gee, thanks,” he deadpanned, but there was a hint of a smile that softened it.
I moved closer, holding the navy jacket up against his torso to size it. “Perfect. Arms out.”
He hesitated, then lifted his arms. I slid the jacket onto his broad shoulders. The fit was perfect. I smoothed the fabric over his chest, my fingers brushing warm muscle through the shirt he wore underneath. I stepped back quickly, focusing on the lines of the suit instead of the man in it.
“Everything okay over there?” His voice had gone low, teasing.
“Button up,” I said briskly. “Then say the line.”
He picked up the card at last and read: “ ‘It’s an honor to wear the number one jersey. I’m focused on being part of my team’s success.’ ”
“Again,” I said. “Less hostage video, more conviction.”
His laugh was full-bodied and loud. “You’re relentless.”
“Because I care whether you succeed,” I said. “Even if you don’t.”
That shut him up. He tried again, voice steadier: “ ‘It’s an honor to wear the number one jersey. I’m focused on being part of my team’s success.’ ”
“Better,” I said. “Add a smile.”
“I don’t do smiles on command,” he muttered.
“Try anyway.”
He gave a half-smile that glinted in his eyes, and struck something in me that was totally, and absolutely uncalled for.
“Satisfied?”
I cleared my throat, and found something far more interesting in a loose thread on the open garment bag. “It’ll have to do. I’m fine– I mean, it’s fine. You should finish up. We have to get back to the arena.”
*
The arena was already humming when we arrived. Reporters lined the barriers, cameras slung over shoulders, microphones poised. I straightened my blazer, checked my notes, and gestured for Hunter to follow.
He did, long strides eating up the concrete. For a guy who hated the spotlight, he walked like he owned it. The suit helped. So did the way heads turned as he passed.
We slipped through the security doors and into the staging area. Coach McAvoy was waiting, flanked by Grayson. Both looked like they’d stepped out of a commercial for Midwestern grit, all square jaws, pressed suits, and the kind of smiles that said they’d seen every kind of player come and go.
“Looking sharp, Callahan,” McAvoy said, shaking Hunter’s hand. “You ready?”
Hunter nodded. “As I’ll ever be.”
“Man, am I glad there’ll be photos of this,” Grayson said. “You in a suit? You’re killing it.”
I hovered at Hunter’s elbow and murmured. “By the way, you don’t have to bother with the whole ‘Trey’ avoidance. It’s handled.”
He frowned at me, and was about to ask something when a staffer came around, and said, “We’re set.”
McAvoy clapped Hunter on the back. “Let’s do this.”
The press room had been transformed into a stage. Team banners hung behind a podium, a long table set with microphones, and rows of folding chairs filled with reporters. Camera flashes popped as soon as Hunter stepped out with the coach and Grayson. I stayed off to the side, watching it all unfold.
McAvoy took the mic first, launching into a practiced speech about legacy and leadership. “It’s my pleasure to officially welcome Hunter Callahan as the new starting goalkeeper for the Surge,” he said, voice ringing with authority. “We’re mighty thrilled to have him in our net.”
Applause. Flashes. Hunter stood still, hands clasped loosely in front of him, the picture of composure. I could see the pulse beating at his throat from where I stood, but his face didn’t give it away. Good.
Then Grayson stepped forward, grinning wide. “This is a special moment for our team, and we wanted to do something a little different. We asked a former teammate to join us today and present Hunter with his jersey.”
The crowd murmured, and Hunter shot a confused look my way. I should’ve told him, but that would’ve ruined the surprise.
A door at the back opened, and Trey walked in.
The room erupted. Shouts, flashes, the scrape of chairs as reporters leaned forward. Trey, the team’s ex-goalie, still golden in the public eye despite his messy exit, strode up to the stage with a jersey in his hands.
My heart pounded. This was either going to be a disaster or a PR coup.
Trey shook McAvoy’s hand, then Grayson’s, then turned to Hunter. For a beat, neither said anything. Then Trey smiled and held out the jersey. Number one, bold and gleaming.
Hunter’s surprise was subtle, just a flicker in his eyes, but he accepted the jersey without hesitation. They shook hands, and hugged it out. Flashes went off like fireworks.
“This is the future of the Surge,” Trey said into the mic, voice smooth. “I’m sorry for how I left, but take nothing away from this amazing team. I’m super proud to hand over this jersey to Hunter Callahan.”
It was perfect. Better than perfect. My throat went tight with relief. This was the photo every paper and sports blog in the country would run tomorrow. The narrative had shifted in one clean move. We weren’t a team in crisis anymore. We were a team passing the torch.
Hunter held up the jersey, camera flashes strobing across his face. “It’s an honor to wear the number one jersey,” he said, his words filled with heart. “I’m focused on being part of my team’s success.”
His voice was steady. Confident. Like he meant it.
I exhaled a slow sigh of relief. Good boy.
After the ceremony, the team spilled into the hallway to meet him, the mood light and celebratory.
“We’re heading out. Drinks on Theo,” Mason said, clapping Hunter on the back.
Hunter was unbuttoning his jacket, rolling his shoulders like he’d been holding tension for hours.
I pulled him aside, and with a low voice said, “Remember, all eyes are on you now. One stupid move and this whole PR win goes up in smoke. Understood?”
He smirked faintly. “Yes, ma’am.”
“I’m serious, Hunter. You’ve got momentum. Don’t blow it.”
He studied me for a moment, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes. Then he said, “Come with us.”
I blinked. “Excuse me?”
“Come out,” he said, like it was the simplest thing in the world. “Make sure I behave. Consider it overtime.”
And his cocky smile when he said it, well it damn near knocked the script right out of my head.