8. Rhett
CHAPTER EIGHT
Rhett
My phone buzzes against the bench beside me, screen lighting up with a new message.
I glance down mid-lace, tugging the skate tighter across my foot as I unlock the phone with my thumb.
A notification from a new group chat flashes up: “Storm Troopers.”
I smirk. Of course she named it that.
There’s one message, and it’s from Ivy.
An image, but it takes a second to load.
She’s curled up on our sectional at home, a throw blanket over her bare legs, but not much else. Just one of my long-sleeved practice shirts—oversized, sleeves hanging past her hands, neckline slouching over one shoulder like she pulled it on half-asleep and didn’t bother adjusting it.
Her legs are bent up on the couch, her hair a halo of soft waves. Storm’s curled up across her lap, asleep with his nose tucked into her thigh. The sunlight filters through the penthouse windows behind them, golden and easy.
And she’s smiling.
Not a posed smile. Just that soft little thing she does when she’s trying to pretend she isn’t as happy as she is.
My chest tightens.
I heart the photo immediately and start to type something— “You two look cozy” or maybe “That’s my shirt” —but before I can, Hunter walks in from the locker room, tugging his hoodie over his head.
“Yo,” he says, flopping down beside me on the bench. He smells like eucalyptus shampoo and laundry soap, and his hair’s still damp.
I tilt the phone toward him. “She sent us something.”
He leans in to look. The second he sees the photo, he breaks into a grin. “Damn.”
“She’s really settled in,” I murmur.
“Yeah,” he agrees, dropping his elbows to his knees and giving a low whistle. “That looks like someone who belongs on our couch.”
I glance around the locker room—mostly empty still—and lower my voice. “You think it was too much? Adding her to the building security?”
Hunter shrugs. “She’s stayed over three nights in a row. It would’ve been weird not to.”
I nod. He’s right, but still. The whole thing is moving fast.
We’d only known her a day when I offered to adopt a dog for her.
The next day, she’d spent the night again. Then again. Now she has her own toothbrush at our place.
And having her in our space doesn’t feel like too much.
It feels… comfortable.
“Good thing you let her have the Range, too,” Hunter adds. “Makes it easier on us. We only ever use the black truck to get to practice.”
“I figured she’d need it if she was taking Storm to Brooke’s.”
“She texted Brooke last night about it. Said Jackson was already asking to keep the dog.”
That makes me smile. That kid’s a good one.
Hunter stretches then turns his head toward me. I’ve seen it before—his clenched jaw, the hollowness around his eyes like sleep never really came.
“How bad?” I ask, keeping my voice low, casual.
“What?”
“You know what.”
He shrugs, eyes fixed on the laces of his skates. “Just one. Woke me around three. Didn’t go back under.”
I nod slowly. “You take anything?”
He shakes his head. “Missed my melatonin a couple nights in a row. It’s whatever. I’ll sort it.”
I want to press—tell him to stop brushing it off, remind him that pretending it’s nothing only makes it worse. But I don’t. Not here. Not with half the team about to file in.
“You sure?” I ask instead.
Hunter runs a hand through his damp hair. “Yeah. It’ll pass.” He leans back against the cubbies, stretching his legs out in front of him. “The sex is helping,” he adds, smirking faintly.
I snort. “That’s your prescription now?”
“Hey,” he grins, “best medicine out there. Pretty girl, good sleep, worn-out muscles.”
“Ivy would roll her eyes so hard at that.”
“And then climb on top of me,” he deadpans.
I shake my head, chuckling under my breath. “You’re sick.”
“Yeah. She makes it worse.”
The door to the locker room bangs open and suddenly the volume spikes.
Deke strides in first, chirping Kieran about his slow-ass drills yesterday. Asher follows, towel around his neck, talking about some girl who ghosted him. Typical.
Within seconds, the place is a blur of motion—tape being torn, helmets tossed onto hooks, pads slapped into place. Familiar chaos.
Then Coach Leo walks in, already clapping.
“Alright, gentlemen. Good win against Dallas. That overtime goal”—he jerks a thumb toward Asher—“was textbook.”
Asher does a stupid double bicep flex that earns a barrage of boos, and someone (probably Deke) wings a roll of sock tape at him.
Leo doesn’t flinch. “Third line, your backcheck was ass. Way too many clean entries on your zone. We’ll fix that today.”
He turns to me and Hunter. “You two—nice work. Clean transitions, tight spacing. You’re rotating left-side responsibility this week. Don’t make me regret it.”
“We’ve got it,” Hunter says with a nod, already reaching for his helmet.
Leo points toward the tunnel. “Ice in fifteen.”
Everyone gets to work. Jerseys pulled over pads, sticks checked and re-taped, the usual scramble.
But I’m still half-stuck on the conversation from two minutes ago.
Hunter’s tough. He always has been. The golden boy who took hits like he was made for it. But there’s something about his nightmares—the way he dismisses them like they’re seasonal allergies—that gets under my skin.
He’s not okay.
And I don’t know if it’s just sleep he’s missing or if it’s something deeper—something from long before Ivy ever curled up in our bed and made the silence feel safe again.
Still, I don’t push. I’ll keep an eye on him, like I always do.
As we walk down the tunnel toward the rink, the cold air hits my face and I try to focus. But even with the chill and the adrenaline and the sharp bite of the rink under my skates, one thought keeps circling in my head.
Ivy.
She’s only been with us three days, but it already feels like longer.
Like she’s always been part of the routine—her toothbrush next to ours, her bare feet padding across the kitchen tiles, her laughter echoing off the high ceilings of the penthouse while Storm trails behind her like a bodyguard in training.
She brought light in with her.
I’m not saying I’m in love. But I really, really like having her around. And from the quiet way Hunter keeps checking his phone between drills, I don’t think I’m alone in that.
We stop by the grocery store on the way home, mostly because Hunter insists he needs “real electrolytes” and not “whatever half-sugar Gatorade the rink stocks.”
“I don’t want to cramp mid-fuck, man,” he mutters as we push the cart through the supplement aisle.
I snort. “That’s why you’re pounding coconut water like it’s holy?”
He shrugs, already tossing two bottles into the cart. “Hydration is foreplay.”
The trip takes longer than it should. We end up picking out three different dinner options, because I can’t decide between cooking Thai green curry or roasted poblano enchiladas. Hunter throws in a pint of mango sorbet “just in case Ivy wants dessert.”
I grab ingredients for all the dishes.
When we finally pull into the underground garage beneath our building, I ease the truck into the narrow spot marked Penthouse A . The Range is already in Penthouse B ’s slot, parked neatly like always.
But a third vehicle sits in the third reserved slot. Unfamiliar plates. Not ours. An Audi.
Hunter notices it as he hoists the grocery bags from the backseat. “Someone move in?”
“Maybe,” I say, peering at the coupe. Clean. No decals. Tinted windows. Looks like it’s been freshly detailed. “Could be corporate leasing.”
“Or someone with really rich parents.”
We take the elevator up. No sign of whoever owns the new car. No sounds from the hallway either.
The penthouse is quiet when we walk in—Storm doesn’t even lift his head from the couch. Ivy must have taken him out earlier.
“I need a nap,” Hunter says, dropping the bags onto the counter and heading for the hallway, already yawning. “Wake me in ten.”
I start unloading groceries and wave him off. “You’ll be asleep in ninety seconds and you need the rest. Go sleep.”
Once the fridge is restocked, I grab my phone and step into the living room, pacing near the window as I dial my mom. She answers after three rings, her voice warm and a little breathless like she’s been running around.
“Hey, kiddo. Everything okay?”
“Yeah, just checking in.”
We talk for a bit, nothing urgent. She asks about practice, how the game went, if I’m eating enough. I tell her I’m cooking tonight and mention the girl I’m kind of seeing, carefully avoiding details.
I know she’ll ask eventually, but for now, I like keeping that part for myself.
After we hang up, I start prepping dinner.
I text Ivy.
Spicy dinner or no?
She replies a few seconds later.
Either. Surprise me :)
I smile, tucking the phone onto the counter and turning back to the vegetables. I’m halfway through slicing poblano peppers when there’s a knock at the door.
Not the buzzer. An actual knock.
That’s weird. No one knocks up here unless it’s delivery, and we didn’t order anything.
Wiping my hands on a dish towel, I cross the kitchen and open the door.
And freeze.
There’s a baby.
A real baby.
Nine, maybe ten months old, tucked in a soft gray carrier seat. She’s got a mop of golden-brown curls that fall over her forehead and giant brown eyes that look up at me without blinking.
Beside her is a canvas diaper bag, a smaller tote with a teddy bear sticking out the top, and what looks like a week’s worth of neatly folded baby clothes.
The baby is quiet. Not crying. Just… watching.
I don’t move.
Inside her carrier is a folded letter. It’s sitting right on top, wedged next to what I now realize is a birth certificate.
The elevator chimes, and I look up just in time to see the brushed-steel doors sliding shut.
A woman in oversized sunglasses is stepping into the cab. Blonde hair. High heels. I can’t get a good look at her face, but there’s something familiar about her.
I swear under my breath and take a few steps into the hallway, yelling, “Hey! Wait!”
Too late. The elevator’s already gone.
I debate chasing her down but the baby lets out a loud yelp. Instead, I crouch next to the carrier, my heart still punching against my ribs, and gently lift the folded sheet of paper from the seat.
Hunter walks in behind me, rubbing his eyes. “What’s the?—”
He stops cold when he sees the infant at my feet.
“Holy shit.”
“No kidding.”
He moves past me and crouches beside the carrier next to me, staring down at the baby, then at me. “Where the hell did she come from?”
“She was just left here. Right outside the door.”
I pass him the letter and the birth certificate. He scans both quickly, his jaw tightening as he reads.
The baby’s name is Chloe. She’s nine months old.
And the letter is handwritten—slanted cursive in purple ink, the words clumsy and rushed.
Hi. I’m really sorry for doing this like this. I don’t have anywhere else to go. Her name is Chloe. She’s one of yours. I think. I’m not sure which of you—Hunter or Rhett—but she’s yours. We hooked up a few times.
You probably don’t remember me. My name is Macy. I was a promo girl for the Icemen sponsor events. One of the brand hosts, remember? I just got signed to a modeling agency in Milan and I can’t take Chloe with me.
I thought I could do this on my own, and I really tried. But I can’t anymore. Please don’t call the police. I’ll get arrested. Please take care of her. She’s really good and she loves yogurt melts and naps. I’m so sorry.
Hunter lets out a sharp breath, then says softly, “She’s a puck bunny.”
I nod slowly. The term’s not flattering, but it’s accurate.
Puck bunnies are women who hang around the team—some hired for brand activations, others just in it for the hookup culture. They’re not staff, not exactly fans either.
We’ve both been guilty of falling into their beds during road trip after-parties. No promises, no attachments.
Until now.
Hunter crouches lower, brushing a knuckle along the baby’s soft curls. Chloe coos and grabs his finger.
“Damn,” he whispers.
“She left her here.”
I reach for my phone again and call the number listed on the letter. It rings twice before connecting.
“Macy?” I ask, voice tight.
A beat.
Then her voice comes through, fast and panicked. “I’m sorry. I had to. I don’t have a job that lets me have a baby. I’m about to fly to Milan. Please don’t call the cops.”
“You left a baby at our front door. What the hell were you thinking?”
“I thought one of you would take care of her. You make enough money. She deserves more than I can give. Please. I’m sorry.”
“You don’t just leave a kid—” I try to reason with her.
“I have no other option,” she says.
“Macy!” I growl, putting the call on speaker.
Hunter curses. “We need to know—are you sure one of us is the father?”
“It was one of you,” she says, voice shaking. “I haven’t slept with anyone else since you guys, I swear. I didn’t even know I was pregnant until months later. And by then, I didn’t want to—look, please don’t call the police. They’ll say I abandoned her. Please.”
Hunter’s jaw flexes. “You can’t just dump her and walk away.”
“I left everything. Her papers. Her things. She has a routine. I love her, okay? But I can’t do it. Not with this contract. I’m sorry.”
“You need to come back here right now,” I tell her.
“I have to go,” she says, and the line goes dead.
I stare at the screen.
Hunter stands up, still holding Chloe’s birth certificate. “She really just did that,” he says.
“We need to get her checked out. Pediatrician, hospital, something.”
“Yeah,” he agrees, voice low. “But first, we need to figure out if one of us is her dad.”
I glance down at the baby. She’s blinking slowly now, her tiny hand wrapped around a corner of her blanket.
Her name is Chloe. And she might be mine.
Or his.
Either way, she’s ours now.
I step back inside and start moving, mind racing, heart still somewhere between shock and disbelief. The groceries are still on the counter, the curry bubbling gently on the stove.
But everything else?
Everything else has changed.
“We need to pick her up,” Hunter tells me.
Chloe gurgles in her seat. Kicks one socked foot and starts to fuss.
I walk toward her, slowly, and pick her up. Her body is soft and warm, her breath hitching in tiny hiccups.
She curls against my chest like she already knows how to be held.
Hunter leans against the counter. “This is real.”
I nod. “It is.”
“What the hell do we do now?”
I rock her gently, thumb rubbing slow circles on her back.
“I don’t know,” I say.