Chapter 20 - Hunter
Hunter
The road trip to St. Louis started off poorly, with the Blues scoring in the first thirty seconds of the game. That woke the crowd up, so it felt like we were playing against two opponents.
But we managed to hold on for the next two periods, keeping them from scoring again while our own boys netted two goals of our own.
The locker room still hummed with leftover adrenaline and damp gear smell when Coach came in, clapping his hands once. “Good work out there, boys. That’s the kind of finish I want to see.”
Someone wolf-whistled. A couple of gloves hit the floor. Shawn yelled something about a save I barely remembered making—low blocker side, last period—and the guys whooped like I’d single-handedly won the game.
Coach pointed toward the noise. “Yeah, that one. Textbook. Kept us ahead, Callahan. But you’re not off the hook yet.” The talking simmered down. “Management’s got a youth clinic lined up downstairs. You’ve got fifteen to change and meet the kids on the ice.”
The room groaned.
“Come on, Coach,” Mason muttered, “we just played—”
“You think those kids give a shit?” Coach cut him off. “They’ve been in the stands all morning. You owe ‘em something. Get moving.”
Sticks clattered as guys shuffled to strip out of their gear.
A few weeks ago, I’d have been right there with them. Half out of my pads, already thinking about food, a beer, maybe some down time before the next travel day. But as I unlaced my skates and reached for the spare pair in my bag, I realized I didn’t mind. Not even a little.
Shawn slumped on the bench beside me. “These things always drag. Last time I ended up chasing some kid who kept falling on purpose just so I’d pick him up. Thought it was a game.”
“Yeah,” I said, tugging my shirt over my head, “but that kid probably still talks about it.”
He snorted. “What is this, therapy hour? You’re supposed to agree with me and we go out there unhappy together.”
I grinned, tossing my sweat-soaked jersey aside. “Just saying. Imagine if Patrick Roy hadn’t shown up for one of those things when we were kids. You’d still be playing floor hockey in your mom’s basement.”
He flipped me off, and went to talk to someone who’d commiserate with him.
By the time we hit the tunnel, a few of the guys were still grumbling, but the air changed the moment we stepped toward the rink.
You could hear the chaos before you saw it.
The slap of pucks, a whistle, the squeal of skates too sharp for little feet.
Then the boards opened and twenty or so kids in mismatched gear nearly lost their minds when they saw us coming.
“Surge!” one of them yelled, stick raised like a sword.
The coach from the local youth team — couldn’t have been more than twenty-five — started shouting orders over the noise. “Okay, pros, thanks for joining us! We’ve got five stations: passing, shooting, balance drills, and two goalie zones. Split up wherever you’re most comfortable.”
The guys drifted, some more willingly than others. I caught Holly standing just off the ice near the benches, skates on but her arms folded like she was growing roots where everyone else was a blur of motion.
I hit the ice, took the goalie zone, and within thirty seconds I had two kids sliding around in pads twice their size. One was determined to block every puck with his face mask. The other just wanted to fall down dramatically and laugh about it.
“You ever see a butterfly save?” I asked.
The smaller one nodded hard. “Yeah! But I can’t do it, my pads get stuck.”
“Here,” I said, crouching. “Show me.”
He tried. He flopped sideways like a fish.
“Not bad,” I said, and his grin was instant. “We’ll get there.”
For a while, it was just that. Skates scraping, laughter echoing off the rafters, pucks skidding wild. And then I felt it: the faint pull of someone watching.
Holly hadn’t moved far, still at the edge, pretending she was invisible. I knew that posture by now. The way she watched people like she was cataloguing details she didn’t want to admit mattered to her.
I waved a kid back into the drill and then angled toward her.
Her brow furrowed. “What are you doing? You’re not supposed to leave your station until the coach calls a break.”
“I’m getting reinforcements.”
Her eyes went wide, and she looked around as if she wanted to call for help. Nobody was around for that, everyone was embroiled in some other activity. She hugged the boards. “I’m fine right here.”
“Yeah, no.” I extended a gloved hand to her “Come on. You know you want to.”
“I don’t think so.”
“You skate, right?”
A nervous laugh fluttered out of her. “Not in the way you mean, no. I don’t skate.”
“Well, you’re wearing them.” I clasped her hand in mine. “Might as well put ‘em to use.”
I gave a light tug, steady pressure until she gave in and slid onto the ice with me. Her free hand shot out to the boards for balance.
“I swear to God, Hunter—”
“There are no wallflowers in hockey,” I said, pulling her gently toward center ice.
She wobbled, muttering under her breath, and a few of the kids laughed. Not making fun exactly, just amused to see an adult try to remember how gravity worked. She gave me a look that could have cut glass, and I couldn’t help but laugh.
“Don’t,” she warned.
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
But I kept going anyway. We ended up back at the goalie station, where the two little guys were now arguing about who got to wear the glove next.
I pointed at Holly. “Coach Holly’s taking over.”
Her head snapped toward me. “Excuse me?”
“Show them a few tricks to beginner goalkeeping. You’ve watched enough games. Share your wisdom.”
“I’m not—”
“Sure you are.”
She sighed like she wanted the ice to swallow her, but then something changed. She crouched down between the boys, adjusted one kid’s blocker, and pointed to his knees. “If you’re too wide, you’ll fall backward. Try again.”
The kid reset, dropped, and stuck it perfectly. Holly’s face softened.
“Nice,” she said, barely loud enough for him to hear.
That’s how it went—me tossing pucks, her coaching in bursts, both of us laughing when a puck ricocheted off a pad and caught me in the hip.
After a while, I forgot about the crowd, the noise, the schedule.
The clinic could’ve gone on another five hours and I wouldn’t have cared.
Holly skated smoother the longer she stayed out there, muscle memory kicking in.
There was a moment when she slid sideways to catch a loose puck and stopped dead.
Totally balanced. And she looked over at me, breath fogging in the chill, and I couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen her smile like that.
“Did you see that?” A giddy laugh rippled out of her.
“You’ve been holding out on me, Griswold.”
It wasn’t about the kids anymore, not really. It was about the space between us. About pulling her into something she didn’t ask for and watching her come alive anyway.
When the whistle finally blew to end the clinic, half the kids mobbed her instead of me.
And I didn’t even mind.
By the time we finished packing up, my legs felt like concrete. The bus idled outside the arena, taillights cutting through the dark Missouri air. Holly was walking backward in front of me, juggling her bag, her tablet, and a coffee that looked criminally fresh.
“Today kicks off the road trip press junket,” she said, half to me, half to her notes. “You, Mason, Grayson, and Coach. I’ll handle scheduling and prep.”
“Prep?” I asked, climbing the bus steps.
“Yeah, prep.” She slid into the seat beside mine, laptop already open. “As in, making sure you don’t tell reporters you ‘just played your best game ever’ for the fifth interview in a row.”
I leaned back and shut my eyes. “No promises.”
“Hunter.”
Her voice had that warning tone I’d learned to both dread and secretly like.
I cracked one eye open. She was typing at the speed of light, headset already in.
The rest of the guys were slumped across seats or half asleep, jerseys sticking out of duffel bags.
The hum of the engine was the only thing keeping me awake.
She angled toward me. “It’s a full schedule today. Four stops, maybe five if Coach agrees to the radio segment. You’ll get breaks, but—”
“Snacks?”
She paused. “Yes, snacks. You’re welcome in advance.”
I smiled and let my head fall back against the seat. “You’re a saint.”
“Don’t push it.”
The rest of the day blurred like a reel stuck on repeat.
Different logos, same questions, same stale coffee.
Every hallway smelled like hotel carpet and overworked air freshener.
Cameras flashed, recorders beeped, and somewhere between the third and fourth interview, I lost count of how many times I’d said the words great team effort.
Grayson handled it like he was born for it. He had that easy charm, full-on captain smile, lines delivered crisp and clean. Mason amazingly had jokes ready at the drop of a hat. Coach went full politician.
Me? I was just trying to string sentences together that made some kind of sense.
Holly stayed close, managing the press, keeping our schedule alive.
Every time I felt my brain short-circuit, she appeared with water or something to chew on.
At one point, she slid a bran muffin into my hand mid-question, like she was feeding a zoo animal.
Hours passed. The world became lights, fake laughter, handshakes, and the constant buzz of “just one more photo.”
When we finally staggered out of the last interview of the day — a local TV spot in a beige conference room with fake plants — I was running on fumes. Holly looked about the same.
I stretched my arms, trying to wake them up, and recited the line I’d just delivered for what felt like the hundredth time: “It’s all about trusting the guys in front of you and staying calm under pressure.”
This time, I threw in a dramatic bow.
Holly broke first, laughter spilling out, raw and tired. “God, don’t. I can’t. I’ll start crying if I laugh any harder.”
I grinned, dragging a hand over my face. “I’ve said that line so many times today I think it’s tattooed inside my skull.”
“Well,” she said, fishing in her bag, “that was the last time for today. So, congratulations, you can officially take a breather.”
She handed me another protein bar. I took it and peeled the wrapper, chewing without thinking. “Yeah, right. And then we do it all tomorrow again.”
She chuckled. “It’ll be fun, I promise.”
I pointed at her bag. “You got anything in there with alcohol in it?”
She smirked. “No, but I plan on raiding the minibar back at the hotel.”
That earned a tired laugh out of me. I held up a hand. “Now you’re talking.”
She high-fived me, a small smack, both of us too worn out to put any kind of effort into it.
We reached the hotel just past midnight. The parking lot buzzed under yellow lights, bugs swirling lazy above them. Inside, the lobby was small, quiet. The guys weren’t around.
Holly frowned, scanning the empty space. “We were supposed to meet in the lobby, right?”
I nodded, adjusting my duffel. “Yeah. Guess they ditched us.”
“Great.” She set her bag down and sighed. “I’m surprised. Mason’s usually glued to you.”
“He’s probably already convincing Grayson to go find a bar or something…”
Her lips quirked. “And you’re not joining them?”
“The only party I want right now is the one happening in my dreams. With my head smashed firmly into a standard grade hotel room pillow.”
“Fair.”
She stepped up to the desk. “Hi, booking for San Antonio Surge.”
The clerk’s face lit up like he’d been waiting for that line all night. “Welcome! You folks were amazing this morning. My nephew was at the clinic.” He tapped the keyboard, smiled, and returned with a single keycard.
Holly blinked. “Just one?”
The clerk checked the screen again, his thin lips pouting. “Uh, looks like… three rooms total. Four players sharing a double each, one for the coach.”
“Of course Coach gets his own room,” I muttered.
“I’m not a player,” Holly explained. “There should be a separate booking for media staff.”
He winced, but it was so clearly for show more than any real kind of pain over her dilemma. “I’m sorry, ma’am. This is the booking we have.”
She exhaled, rubbing her temples. “I’ll pay for my own room. Whatever rate you have, I don’t care.”
“Nothing left.” He shook his head. The pout was back. “We’ve got a tournament in town. Every room’s booked.”
I took the key from her hand before she could take the negotiation any further. “Don’t be weird about it. It’s fine. We’ll share.”
“Hunter—”
“Come on. We both need to crash. We’ve got a six a.m. call tomorrow.”
“I’ll find another hotel. There’s got to be one close.”
“And what, drive around St. Louis at one in the morning until you find a vacancy sign?” I raised an eyebrow. “Bad idea.”
She hesitated, jaw tight, eyes flicking toward the key in my hand.
“Tell you what,” I said, trying to sound lighter than I felt. “We’ll raid the minibar. You can drink the tiny bottles of vodka, and I’ll take the tiny pretzels.”
That earned the faintest laugh. “You’re impossible.”
“Resourceful in a pinch,” I corrected.
She finally gave in, muttering something under her breath that sounded like a threat, but she followed me down the hall anyway.
We stopped outside the door. The hallway was narrow, lit in the sickly glow of travel fatigue. Holly leaned against the wall while I slid the keycard into the reader. For a second, neither of us moved.
She crossed her arms, eyes drifting toward the faded carpet. “You really think there’s a minibar worth raiding in a place like this?”
“I like to believe in miracles.”
That earned the smallest laugh, soft and tired. She reached for her overnight bag, and as she brushed past me to the door, her shoulder grazed mine. Nothing much, but enough to pull every nerve into a state of blazing wakefulness…
“You’re still only getting the pretzels,” she said.
“Deal.”
The lock clicked open. I stepped aside to let her in first. She started talking, something about the morning call sheet, but her words trailed off almost instantly.
I followed her into the narrow entryway. She’d stopped just past the threshold, frozen mid-step, mid-sentence.
Her bag slipped from her hand and thudded to the floor. I came up beside her, tracing her line of sight.
One bed. Center of the room. Too small for the silence that followed.