Chapter 8
Hunter
The door closed behind me, and for the first time since I’d met Holly, I realized she wasn’t just a professional forcefield in a perfectly pressed blazer. Her hotel room was lived-in, already with touches of her personality even though we’d only been in Colorado for a couple of days.
She kicked off her shoes and padded around in socks, jacket tossed over a chair, sleeves rolled up to her elbows.
I caught the faint line of her bra beneath the button-down she’d left untucked in a way that made her look less formal, less…
inaccessible. She ran her fingers through her hair, letting it fall loose over her shoulders.
I cleared my throat, trying to remind myself this woman was actively ruining every chance at fun I had. But the longer I stood there, the more she seemed normal and nothing like the PR gauntlet I’d come to know.
“Thanks for handling the club thing.” My voice came out rough from the day’s energy, but I meant it. “Could’ve gotten ugly in that locker room.”
She popped the cap on a bottle of still water, and sank onto the couch with a tired sigh. “You know what I’m about to say to that, so I won’t.”
“You were just doing your job,” I smirked, amused at the faint tug at the corner of her mouth. She was trying to be professional, but the smugness was impossible to fully erase. That little flash made me grin despite myself.
“You know, a ‘you’re welcome’ wouldn’t hurt you.”
She pulled her legs up under her as she relaxed deeper into the soft cushions. “I’d rather not risk it, thanks.”
I chuckled, letting the tension between us dissolve just a little. It was like being up here, in her space, left all the rest of it out there where it couldn’t pick and scratch at me. All that noise that had me totally annoyed with her half the time.
She gestured toward the open seat beside her. “Sit. We’re going over those interview notes one at a time.”
I dropped into the cushions, stretching my legs out and letting my shoulders sag. “Why not just corner me on the plane like you did when we flew up here?”
“Thought I’d cut you a break,” she replied. “Lay off humiliating you in front of your team.”
I couldn’t hide my surprise. Not only had she heard me out on that, but she was changing her schedule to acknowledge it.
“Close your mouth and sit up straight,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Start at the beginning. They’ll introduce you with the bio I provided, then you’ll say ‘Thanks, it’s great to be here.’”
I cleared my throat dramatically, earning a glance that clearly said, seriously?
“What morning show is it? You never said.”
“I’ll tell you after you give me the line,” she said, totally meaning it too. “And smile.”
We went through it a few times. I forgot my name, butchered rote responses to possible talking points, and when I got tired of feeling like a clown, I started using humor to deflect.
“Save the adlibs for when you’re doing stand-up,” she said, stopping me short. “Or when you’re comfortable enough to hold your own out there.”
I groaned, running a hand through my sweat-damp hair. “You’re relentless.”
“I’m trying to save you from looking like an oaf on national television,” she shot back, but somewhere behind her defenses was the hint of amusement.
I threw myself back into the sofa with a dramatic sigh. “Yeah, okay, fine. You win. But if I die of brain-fry before the flight, it’s on you.”
“You’ll need a brain to fry,” she deadpanned.
I gaped at her, and once I saw her lips curve into a smile, we both started laughing.
It struck me. Not that she could chill out like an actual human, but that she looked so good doing it.
Comfortable now, natural, and the contrast between the professional Holly I knew and this easy version was… something else.
“Don’t get distracted,” she said with some amusement, and I realized I’d been staring. “Focus. Let’s run it again.”
I raised my hands in surrender. “Yes, ma’am.”
We went through the lines again. And again.
I stumbled over a punchline. She corrected me.
I mispronounced a name. She corrected me again.
Exhaustion was setting in—my shoulders sagging, my brain fuzzy—but there was a rhythm developing.
A pattern of playful tension and soft reprimand, laughter between corrections, her smirk softening when I threw a particularly bad inflection back at her for fun.
“Eyes forward,” she said, tapping that ever-present tablet. “And smile. This isn’t amateur hour.”
I shook my head, laughing, rubbing my eyes. “More like exhaustion-hour.”
She didn’t smile outright, but there was the faintest lift of the corner of her lips. “Keep your focus. We’re almost there.”
I believed her, and settled into another go-around. Minutes stretched. We recycled the same lines, the same phrases. Each repetition loosened something between us. The friction softened into a rhythm that felt collaborative, instead of combative.
I watched her move around the room, gathering notes, sliding her tablet from hand to hand, adjusting her posture, kicking off her socks.
She crossed and uncrossed her arms, leaned over the couch, untucked the edge of her shirt slightly.
The line of her bra peeked again, subtle but noticeable. It shouldn’t have mattered. But it did.
“You’re ridiculously meticulous,” I said in a mix of fatigue and admiration, raiding the minibar to distract myself from that damn bra under her shirt.
“Meticulous keeps you from making a fool of yourself,” she said lightly, without looking up. “Now again.”
I stifled a yawn, and cracked a bottle of whiskey. “Okay, but try not to look like you’re enjoying this so much.”
She glanced at me then, the smallest flicker of amusement in her eyes. “I don’t enjoy seeing you flail. I enjoy seeing you get it right.”
I groaned, but couldn’t deny that here in this small hotel room, Holly was becoming more than the force controlling my every move off the ice. She was someone I could end up tolerating.
We worked through the last round of lines, her corrections precise but not cruel. What’s more, her patience seemed endless. And maybe it was the tiredness setting in, but she even managed to crack a few jokes.
“Okay,” I said finally. “I think we’ve officially beaten this into my skull.”
I was three bottles in, and the burn of whiskey had settled into my chest. It left me feeling loose, and my eyelids heavier than ever. Not drunk, just soft around the edges. Pleasantly unfocused.
And more than a little out of my depth with Holly hovering over me with her tablet and the next instruction.
The tension that had built all day shifted into something lighter, something easy in the back of my mind, as if the game, the club incident, the endless travel, all of it could wait for a few minutes.
I plopped back onto the edge of her bed, bottles discarded, and let her direct me through the next round of lines.
“Eyes forward,” she said. “And remember why you’re doing this. Focus on the reason you play the game.”
Her words caught me in a way I hadn’t expected. Not just the line about the interview, but the reminder that there was a purpose behind all this. My mind drifted away from hockey and interviews for a second.
“I haven’t thought about my dad in years,” I murmured. More to the bed than her. And when I looked up, expecting her to course correct me back to total focus, the look on her face made my heart stutter.
She didn’t say anything. Just looked at me.
“Sorry, it’s just… you mentioned why I play,” I said, backpedaling faster than nostalgia and years of hurt knew what to do with. “He was a deadbeat. Loved with his fists. I had to get out of that house.”
The quiet was tender, and she let me be in it.
“If it weren’t for hockey,” I went on, feeling an uninvited clamp over my heart. “Well, I’m sure you can fill in the blanks.”
She placed a hand on my shoulder, and there was none of that mild annoyance that normally came when I went off on a tangent. It was the tiniest crack in her professional armor, and it hit me harder than any puck ever could. The understanding I saw in her eyes.
I placed a hand over hers, and held her there. Closed my eyes to the weight of her touch on me.
“Okay.” Holly cleared her throat, pulling back her hand as if she’d been burned. “That’s enough for tonight. Good job. Go get some rest.”
I couldn’t resist a smirk. “Don’t get used to me being this compliant.”
“Noted,” she replied lightly. But I didn’t miss the smallest hint of pity in her tone.
I walked to the door, angry at myself for overstepping. I should never have gotten that personal. Not with someone who took being professional to a whole other level. I blamed it on exhaustion, the whiskey, the lie of intimacy wrapped in this hotel room.
“Good night.” Her voice pulled me out of my head when I reached the door.
I looked over, and a soft tension settled between us. Her eyes were locked on mine, seemingly acknowledging the change that happened here tonight. We weren’t professional sparring partners anymore, that was for sure.
The seconds stretched. I wanted to say something, but all the words became lodged in my throat. I caught the faint curve of her lips, the way her hair framed her face, the softness beneath her sharp edges that she kept so well-hidden.
Holly opened the door, gesturing with a lazy arm in case I’d forgotten the way. The signal couldn’t be clearer, and I stepped out with a quiet ‘Good night’.
The walk to the elevator was slow and drenched in overthinking, despite how tired I was. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but I knew I didn’t totally hate her anymore.