Chapter 29 - Holly
Holly
I pushed my chair back quietly and slipped from the staff table, telling myself I just needed a drink. The glass in my hand wasn’t for me, not really. It was an excuse to wander, to let my eyes sweep over the room without looking like that’s what I was doing.
The banquet hall was electric with pre-game energy, except there’d be no game today.
Families clustered around tables, kids laughed and jostled for attention, partners were trying to keep track of camera crews, and a few of the younger players nervously fidgeted with their napkins.
I moved to the bar along the far wall, glass clinking lightly against the counter as I poured sparkling water into it.
All seemingly nothing actions to hide the fact I was watching Hunter.
He wasn’t with anyone. He was standing a little apart, leaning casually against the edge of one of the food tables, watching as the other players interacted with their parents and siblings. The faint crease between his brows told me exactly what he was thinking.
I swallowed hard, finding it hard to breathe past the squeeze in my chest. It’s like I could feel the tension in his shoulders from here. Could feel the quiet ache of absence, the way he watched but didn’t participate, like he was on the outside of something he desperately wanted to be part of.
I should’ve looked away. I should’ve concentrated on the drinks, the chatter around me, the clinking of glasses. But I couldn’t. My stomach sank a little at the sight of him, and I realized how thoroughly I’d let myself care. How invested I’d become.
“Watching the kid again, huh?”
I jumped slightly, spinning toward the sound. Coach McAvoy stood beside me, glass in hand, his eyes following the same path I’d just been fixated on. My heart hit a quick staccato in my chest.
“I— uh, just getting a drink,” I said, trying to keep my voice casual.
He chuckled in a way that suggested he wasn’t buying it. “It’s okay. I feel bad for him too. Every year the team has their family luncheon, and every year I gotta look at him moping around without any.”
“We all have our stuff,” I said, working hard to sound unaffected. He had a reason. He was Hunter’s coach. I was supposed to be nobody. “Besides, he’s not the only one without family here today.”
He downed the last of his drink and poured a refill immediately after. “Makes me ten times more grateful I have Cass around.”
“She’s your daughter?”
“What, you don’t see the resemblance?” Then he laughed, loud and hearty. I had no choice but to join in. It was either that, or point out how I seemed to have missed Cass’ rotund form and balding head.
Coach’s eyes softened. He leaned against the counter a little, giving me a side glance, as though he was gauging my reaction. “You know, that’s why it’s good the boy’s got you around. Keeps him grounded. Stops him from feeling like he’s missing something he can’t get back.”
The faintest warmth crept up my neck, tinged with something deeper. It wasn’t just pride. It wasn’t just satisfaction at doing my job well. It was heartbreak, too, and a sudden awareness of just how much I’d grown to care for him. More than I had any right to.
I nodded, keeping my eyes on the bubbles rising in my glass. “He’s… one hell of a player. Amazing on the ice,” I said quietly, letting the words hover there, true but careful.
Not too much, not a confession. Just acknowledgment.
Coach lifted a brow. “Amazing, yeah. But he’s human, too. Needs people to notice the stuff that doesn’t make the highlight reels. That’s why he keeps you close. He trusts you.”
I blinked, taking in the gentle weight of his words.
My heart thudded in my ribs, a slow, insistent rhythm that made it impossible to turn my gaze away from Hunter.
He was laughing now at something a teammate said to a parent, leaning just slightly to ruffle a kid’s hair.
The crease between his brows softened, but the edges of that old loneliness lingered in his posture, and it made me ache in a way I hadn’t expected.
I took a slow sip of my water, trying to steady myself. “I guess I just… it’s hard sometimes. Watching him, seeing what he doesn’t have, and wanting to—” I stopped, realizing I was about to say too much. I looked at Coach, forcing a smile. “—help in whatever way I can.”
He gave me a small nod, understanding more than I said. “That’s all anyone can ask. Just be there. That’s enough. More than enough, actually.”
I glanced at Hunter again. The way he was standing, casual yet tense.
And it hit me all over again how much he carried on his own, how much he needed someone paying attention, someone invested.
And there I was, feeling both pride and the sting of helplessness, knowing that no matter what I did, I couldn’t replace his family.
“And hey,” Coach said, breaking through the fog in my head, “don’t get all caught up in feeling like you have to fix him. He’s going to do what he’s going to do. But he notices. And he remembers. Trust me on that.”
I nodded, swallowing back the lump in my throat. My gaze flicked to him once more, and I saw the faintest brush of a smile cross his face when he caught me watching. Not the full, knowing smile, just a subtle acknowledgment that I was there.
Coach clapped a hand on my shoulder, shaking me gently out of my reverie. “Don’t let him see your pity. It’s a useless emotion anyways.”
I chuckled softly, grateful for the diversion, and let my eyes sweep the room one last time.
My gaze lingered on Hunter just a beat longer than it should have, and then I turned back to the bar.
I poured another glass of water for myself, letting the cool liquid ground me, and took a slow, deliberate sip.
Coach took a step back, giving me a small, approving nod. “Go on,” he said. “Do what you do best. Keep him… balanced.”
I smiled faintly, the weight in my chest both lighter and heavier at the same time. I was here for the playoffs, for the team, but more than that, I was here for him. And watching him navigate these family moments, the brief glimpses of what he wished he could have, made my heart ache.
I took one last look before returning to the staff table, adjusting my composure, slipping seamlessly back into professional mode.
My hand lingered on the glass for a moment, and I let my mind quiet down.
The chatter and laughter of the room washed over me, but my eyes kept finding him where he was, unaware of the exact weight of my gaze, the little ache in my chest that was equal parts protectiveness, admiration…
and yes, love. Though I wouldn’t dare name it out loud.
I pressed send on a quick schedule email for the post-game press and let my hands rest in my lap, letting my breath even out.
Nothing about this moment would show outwardly.
Everyone around me would see calm, control, professionalism.
But I’d seen him, really seen him, and it was enough to leave me both exhilarated and achingly raw.
As the luncheon wound down I spotted him slipping out onto the balcony, giving himself a little space from the crowd.
I followed, not too close, just enough to catch him before he disappeared completely.
The afternoon sunlight spilled across the terrace, warm against my skin, carrying the faint hum of the city below.
“Nice break from all the noise in there?” I asked, leaning on the railing beside him.
He glanced at me and shrugged, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Yeah. Not exactly my natural habitat.” His eyes flicked toward the tables inside, where the rest of the team lingered with their families. “Though, Tucker… he’s a different guy with his grandmother around. Even stopped cussing.”
I laughed. “Really? The same Tucker who made three of us spill our drinks last week?”
“Same guy,” Hunter said, shaking his head. “She’s good for him. Keeps him grounded.” There was a humor in his voice, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. I could see it, the small weight of what he didn’t have.
I nudged him gently. “So, you’re admitting family matters can be beneficial?”
“Only when it doesn’t highlight what I don’t have,” he said softly, eyes flicking down before meeting mine again.
There it was: that subtle pull of melancholy beneath the banter. I didn’t comment. Didn’t need to. The air between us was enough.
We fell into easy conversation, teasing about the luncheon, making dry jokes about the speeches and awards no one would remember tomorrow. “Honestly, I don’t know how you keep that straight face all the time,” I said, letting my voice hold the ease I didn’t feel.
“You get used to it,” he said, almost reluctantly. “Mostly.” He shook his head, giving me a sidelong glance that carried a mixture of humor and something heavier. I saw it, understood it, felt it too.
We laughed softly, letting the sound float between us. Then Hunter leaned against the railing, brushing a hand through his hair. “You know, it’s easier when someone notices the cracks,” he admitted quietly.
I caught his meaning, nodding, letting a small smile linger. “Noticed,” I said. “Loud and clear.”
He let out a short, almost embarrassed laugh. “Don’t make me regret being honest, okay?”
“Who, me? Never,” I said lightly. But my skin prickled at the vulnerability in his tone.
There was a pause, and I found myself watching him closely. “You really handle this better than anyone realizes,” I said, voice quieter now. “I see it. The pressure, everything.”
Hunter shifted slightly, meeting my gaze fully for the first time. “Maybe,” he said. “But only because someone else is smart enough to cover my blind spots.” There was teasing there, but I saw it—his fleeting acknowledgment of me, and the weight behind it.
“And you’re lucky I’m smart,” I quipped.
“Lucky, yeah,” he said, voice low, almost a murmur, and I could hear the warmth, the faint tremor of emotion threading through it.
We lingered in that space for a beat, laughter and lightness layered over the undercurrent of everything we hadn’t said, everything we’d both been holding back. Then Hunter straightened, giving me a sheepish half-smile.
“I should head back in,” he said, as if testing the water.
I nodded, heart tightening in that skin-prickling way. “Yeah. Go on.”
He hesitated, glancing back at me over his shoulder. “See you later?”
“Away from prying eyes and headline-mongers?” I teased, leaning against the railing.
“Deal,” he said, and the sparkle in his eyes lingered. Something that was ours alone, fleeting but real.
He turned toward the doors, then stopped, just for a moment, looking back as if he might say more. I caught the subtle exhale of him letting go of something, and the way his jaw flexed as he turned fully inside.
I stayed on the balcony a little longer, watching the city shift beneath the afternoon sun. The air was warm, the breeze light, and all I could think about was how quickly it would fade once he disappeared into the crowd inside.
Finally, I let out a breath, a slow, quiet release, the kind that comes after holding your pulse steady for too long.
I didn’t think, because thinking would make me pause, and pausing would make me not do the thing.
I typed out a quick email, no frills, just the facts as they basically were.
The recipient’s address was saved in my contacts as a formality when I first started working for the team; when Bob brought me on as Hunter’s PR consultant.
It was part of all the personal information I might need at my disposal.
A soft ding signaled the point of no going back, and I tucked my phone away, heart still tugging at that moment, knowing I had acted, taken a step, and that Hunter didn’t yet know. What came next would either mend or unravel things. But that would be his call, and mine could only wait.