Chapter 25 - Holly
Holly
I adjusted my blazer one more time, smoothed the hem of my pencil skirt, and tried to convince myself that I belonged here.
The office smelled of expensive coffee, new furniture, and that faint ozone scent that always lingers in gleaming high-rise buildings.
Everything gleamed. Everything was pristine.
And every polished surface, every quiet corner, every carefully curated piece of modern art on the walls screamed control.
I tapped my keyboard a little too loudly, scrolling through a press release that had been drafted and re-drafted three times before hitting my inbox.
My new boss, Juliet, was hovering over my shoulder, a mug of coffee in hand and a grin that made the stress of a thousand corporate headaches seem manageable.
“You’ve got this, Holly,” she said, pointing at a sentence I’d highlighted in red. “Maybe swap out ‘leveraging our key demographics’ for something a little punchier. You don’t need to sound like a robot.”
I glanced at her, smiled, and nodded. “Got it. Punchier, not robotic.”
“Exactly.” She laughed, the sound warm and real. “That’s why I hired you. You can make the stuffy stuff sound like people actually want to read it.”
I felt a tiny spark of pride, the kind you get when someone notices your skill without ever patronizing you.
Juliet was everything Bob Trent was not: smart, funny, patient, willing to explain without lecturing, genuinely approachable.
It should have been enough. It should have made me settle in, feel at home in this corner office, high above the streets of Chicago. But it didn’t.
I watched a junior staffer walk by, balancing a stack of notebooks and an armful of sticky notes, and I thought about the chaos back in San Antonio.
That locker room, the smell of ice and sweat and adrenaline, the way Hunter’s presence seemed to fill a room without him even saying a word.
Here, there was no droning muttering, no shouting in hallways, no sudden bursts of laughter at a joke half-heard across the room.
No unexpected chaos to handle or personalities to navigate.
Just clean lines, quiet voices, and spreadsheets that needed attention.
I printed the release, scanning it one last time, then sighed.
Everything was correct, everything polished.
Nothing would explode mid-interview, nothing would go sideways during a press junket, nothing would make headlines because of a misstep on my part.
The safety net was intact. The world was orderly.
And yet.
I tapped the corner of the paper with a pen, the click against the plastic a tiny, hollow sound in the quiet office.
I remembered the chaos of Game 1 against Minnesota.
The way Hunter had skated across the ice, heart hammering, blocking shots with split-second decisions that left the crowd cheering and the cameras rolling.
I remembered him after the fight at the bar, standing there like he’d been punched through the world, trying to figure out what he’d done wrong while keeping the team from falling apart.
And I remembered the way I’d had to step in, every calculated word, every spin, every carefully positioned gesture to make sure the team’s reputation survived while he—
I shook my head and set the paper down. The contrast between that life and this one was glaring.
Here, the only things in danger were typos and deadlines.
There were no humans depending on your decisions in the middle of high-stakes chaos.
No phones lighting up with urgent texts about media crises, no players’ egos to smooth over, no adrenaline-fed fights to manage.
“Lunch?” Juliet’s voice pulled me out of my head. “I’ve got a sandwich for you. Tuna, extra capers. You’ll thank me later.”
I laughed quietly. “You know me so well already.”
“Come on, eat.” She waved me over. “You’ve been at it for three hours straight. You need a break.”
We walked to the small kitchenette together. I grabbed a chair, balanced the bag on my lap, and started peeling back the wax paper. It was all orderly here, even lunchtime. Just tuna and capers and the faint hum of the air conditioning.
“You okay?” Juliet asked, raising an eyebrow as she sat down across from me.
I stared at my sandwich and shrugged. “Yeah. Just… thinking.”
She tilted her head, curious. “About the release?”
“No,” I said, voice low. “Other things.”
I wanted to say him. Hunter. The way he’d skated, how I’d watched him absorb chaos and still somehow come out the other side looking like a hero. The way I’d gotten used to managing the storms around him, and now… now I wasn’t there and it was just the hollow echo of what we’d built together.
“You miss it?” she asked gently. “The other job. Back in Texas?”
I couldn’t help the small smile, even if it was tinged with frustration. “Every damn day.”
She laughed softly. “I get it. There’s a buzz you can’t replicate in a boardroom, no matter how swanky the office or how perfect the deadlines.”
“Exactly,” I said. “I think the chaos was addictive and I’m fighting through withdrawals.”
It was a joke and she was supposed to laugh, but she didn’t. “Sounds like you’re fighting ghosts. But at least you’re on solid ground while you do it.”
I nodded, appreciating her perspective, but it didn’t reach the part of me that ached for San Antonio. For the sharp focus of Hunter’s eyes when everything else blurred. The way he moved through it like he was born for it, even when I was trying to corral him, guide him, protect him.
I took a bite of the sandwich and chewed slowly, tasting the tuna but also the faint salt of the city air coming through the window. Everything around me was technically perfect, efficient, and safe. Everything except the pulse of the life I’d chosen to leave behind. And him, of course.
By the time the clock in the corner of the office hit five, I was packing up my laptop, shutting down the screens that had shown press releases, schedules, and strategic plans for upcoming campaigns.
I slung my bag over my shoulder, straightened my skirt one more time, and glanced out the floor-to-ceiling window at the city below.
Chicago glittered in the late afternoon sun, tall buildings reflecting each other in an orderly, perfect maze.
I exhaled slowly. Yes, this was the life I had chosen. No chaos, no yelling, no high-stakes adrenaline crises. Just work done, done correctly, and done on schedule. Just me, a corporate drone with a title, a desk, and deadlines.
But as I stepped into the elevator, shutting out the polished floor and controlled calm behind me, I felt the pull of the rink, of ice and sweat and adrenaline and the impossible, maddening, intoxicating presence of Hunter Callahan.
I pressed the button for the street level, tried to shake off the persistent thoughts of him skating, of the locker room banter, of his cheeky grin after a save that had made a game turn on its head. I reminded myself this was exactly what I wanted.
And yet, as the elevator dinged and the doors slid open, I stepped onto the street and took a long breath, the hum of traffic and city life washing over me.
I had the job I’d fought for, the desk, the coworkers who were kind, brilliant, helpful.
Everything a career in PR should look like.
And I was totally and utterly underwhelmed.
The apartment was quiet except for the low hum of the TV.
I had my laptop closed, a stack of unpacked boxes leaning against the wall, and a beer in my hand, sweating just enough to make it feel like a reward for surviving another day of corporate monotony.
I perched on the edge of the couch, every muscle still carrying the tension from moving, and pretending to be completely fine with Chicago, even though every fiber of me was elsewhere.
The screen lit up with the opening faceoff of Game 6. Minnesota Wild versus the Surge, and I could already feel my pulse picking up. I’d tried to stay away from the scores all week, just to avoid the tension, but now? Now I couldn’t look away.
Hunter was in goal, as he should be, standing tall and focused.
The first few minutes were a blur of skates, sticks, and puck, but then it happened: Minnesota made a break, the puck skittered toward the crease, and Hunter’s reflexes went from sharp to supernatural.
He dove, stretching every inch of him across the ice, and snatched the puck from the edge of the goal.
My beer paused mid-air as I audibly swallowed.
I leaned forward on the couch, heart hammering in my ears.
Every time the puck came toward him, he was there, slamming it away, guiding it back out to the defensemen, and skating with an intensity that made it impossible to look away.
I grabbed a second beer, sliding the first onto the coffee table, my fingers brushing the condensation and ignoring the ping of a new email.
Corporate stuff, probably congratulating me on surviving my first week.
I didn’t touch it. This was bigger than emails. This was him.
Minnesota got another break. One-on-one now.
Hunter crouched, eyes fixed, and I could practically see him calculating angles in real time.
He moved like a predator, muscles coiling, then sprung into action, glove outstretched.
The puck hit the corner of the net and bounced away, but he followed it instantly, covering it with his stick before it could even settle.
I exhaled a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding.