11. Hunter
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Hunter
By the time Rhett and Ivy walk through the door, I’ve already fed Chloe, rocked her twice, and almost spilled formula down the front of my hoodie.
“She’s down to half a bottle,” I say, cradling the baby in one arm while trying to coax her to drink the last few drops. “Not bad for a rookie, right?”
Ivy’s eyes land on us, and she freezes, her whole expression shifting into something soft and complicated. Rhett moves past her and sets a grocery bag on the counter, but I don’t miss the way he keeps glancing back at her like he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop.
She crosses over slowly, sets her purse on the couch, then looks between us. “Okay, what happened?”
I shake my head and lift Chloe’s bottle in surrender. “Feeding success. She might even nap again. You never know. Miracles happen. So why was the building security calling you?”
Rhett steps forward, hands in his pockets. “She scratched our new team lawyer’s car.”
“What?” I ask.
“The guy’s Audi was parked next to ours in the garage,” Rhett says, voice calm. “Ivy didn’t even notice it.”
“I’m so sorry.” She looks genuinely horrified, cheeks flushing. “I was distracted. I—fuck. I didn’t even see another car.”
“It’s all good,” Rhett says quickly. “The guy didn’t seem mad, just wanted details for the company. We’ll handle it.”
“He seemed… uptight,” Ivy mutters.
I snort. “I think he might be.”
“I’ll call the building office,” Ivy says, clearly still stressed. “Maybe I can pay for it.”
Rhett waves her off. “We’ve got it.”
She nods, eyes still on Chloe, who’s now falling asleep against my shoulder, head tucked into the crook of my neck.
“I feel awful,” Ivy says again.
Rhett walks over, rests a hand on her lower back. “It was an accident.”
“I’ll do something to make up for it.”
“You’re literally saving our asses right now,” I remind her. “With this one.”
She lets out a breath and brushes her fingers lightly down Chloe’s curls. “You should’ve called me earlier.”
“She was already asleep,” I say. “We didn’t want to bother you.”
Rhett eyes me, then says to Ivy, “Maybe I’ll skip practice today. Stay with her, just to make sure she’s okay.”
Ivy tilts her head, studying him. “You really don’t have to.”
“I want to help.”
“I get that. But don’t forget, this isn’t just on you.” She reaches up and cups his jaw gently, thumb brushing across his stubble. “Are you okay?”
He hesitates. “Honestly? I’m a little bit in shock.”
Her eyes soften. “That’s fair.”
She presses a kiss to his cheek, lingering there for a beat before stepping back. “You’re doing great.”
He gives her a small nod, like the words anchor him.
I sit down on the edge of the couch, shifting Chloe gently in my arms. “We’ll figure out a plan tonight. For now, it’s just one day.”
“Exactly,” Ivy says. “Let’s just focus on what we can control.”
Rhett raises an eyebrow. “Like what?”
“Well…” She folds her arms. “For starters, let’s talk about diapers.”
I groan.
“If you guys are going to take care of her, you need to know what’s going on under those footies,” she says.
I mutter something that sounds like a prayer.
She laughs. “Don’t be such a baby about the baby.”
“Have you seen what comes out of those tiny bodies?”
Rhett drags a hand down his face. “She blew out her onesie last night. I thought it was nuclear waste.”
“You survived,” Ivy says. “Barely.”
I gesture toward Chloe. “Teach us, oh wise one.”
She turns to the baby bag, thankfully stocked with wipes, diapers, and at least one backup outfit. She moves with a calm certainty, not rushed or annoyed, just focused.
While she’s pulling out supplies, Rhett catches my eye. “Do you think we should tell Brooke?”
Ivy glances over her shoulder. “Honestly? She’s married to two of your teammates, but she knows how to keep a secret. And if anyone can give practical advice, it’s her.”
“Alright,” Rhett says, nodding. “Let’s talk to her tonight.”
Ivy turns back to us with a fresh diaper. “First lesson. Someone hand me the child.”
I offer Chloe over. “Here. Take her before she leaks.”
Ivy takes her and lays her on the blanket on the coffee table. She’s fast but careful, talking through the process as she peels back the onesie and unsnaps the diaper.
“She’s asleep,” Rhett whispers, as if we’re in church.
“She’s fine,” Ivy says. “Babies don’t care. They’ll sleep through a fire drill.”
“She moved,” I hiss.
“She twitched,” she corrects.
I let out a deep breath. “I’m ready.”
“You’re going to learn this by doing, not by watching.”
“Don’t you have any trust in my observational skills?”
She lifts her eyes. “You couldn’t even find the pacifier last night.”
“That pacifier was in stealth mode.”
She doesn’t smile at my lame joke. “Take this wipe.”
I blink. “Why?”
“Because you’re doing the cleanup.”
I groan but take it. Rhett leans on the back of the couch, grinning like this is the best show he’s seen all week.
“Here,” Ivy says, handing me a fresh diaper. “Slide it under her. Make sure the frills go out, not in.”
“Frills?”
“The little ruffle edges. Keeps leaks in.”
By the time we’re done, Chloe’s still asleep and looking more angelic than before. I lean back, hands in the air.
“Boom,” I say. “I know how to handle my shit.”
“Please never say that again,” Rhett mutters.
“I mean it,” Ivy says, pulling the blanket over Chloe’s legs. “You’re both doing good. We’ll figure this out.”
Rhett pulls out his phone. “I’m going to order breakfast. What do you want?”
“Anything that isn’t powdered formula or mashed carrots,” I say.
Ivy stands, brushing off her hands. “While you do that, I’m going to teach you how to swaddle.”
I blink. “There’s more?”
She smiles. “This is just the beginning.”
And even though I’m exhausted and my shirt has formula stains and there’s a possibility I might be a father, I don’t hate this.
As long as Ivy is here to guide us.
In fact, there’s a strange part of me that really doesn’t want her to leave tonight.
We park just outside the building, the Range’s engine ticking softly as it cools beneath the morning sun. Rhett kills the ignition, but neither of us move.
The radio’s off. Windows up. Just the hum of air conditioning and the soft, rhythmic hiccups of silence we don’t know how to fill.
I’m gripping my thigh harder than necessary. Not out of fear, exactly. Just tension.
The tight, bracing kind that sits deep in your gut when your life has just split into a before and an after.
“She looked okay,” Rhett says finally, breaking the silence. “The baby.”
“Yeah.” I nod. “Healthy. Calm. Didn’t cry once when I left.”
I don’t tell him I miss her already. I don’t tell him that the apartment felt a little too quiet when I handed Chloe off to Ivy and walked out.
And I sure as hell don’t tell him that Ivy looked like she belonged there with her—like some beautiful, accidental snapshot of a life I didn’t even know I wanted.
I pull out my phone. “I’ll check in.”
He glances over as I tap into our group chat, the one Ivy renamed “Storm Troopers.” I smile despite myself. She’s already texted.
One new photo.
Chloe’s lying on her back on the rug, wearing a onesie that says “I’m the boss now.” Her curls are a mess of soft golden fuzz, eyes wide and blinking up at the camera like she knows exactly how cute she is.
Storm is flopped out beside her, undoubtedly snoring through his nose like a lawnmower.
Under the pic, Ivy’s typed: Still in charge. Don’t worry. We’re good.
I show Rhett. His face softens instantly.
“She’s a natural,” he says.
“Yeah,” I answer. “She really is.”
We sit with that for a moment. The comfort. The guilt.
“You think we’re actually gonna be able to do this?” I ask him.
Rhett takes a breath. Rolls his neck like the question landed right between his shoulders. Then he shrugs, gaze forward, voice steady.
“We can handle anything. You know that.”
And I believe him. I always have.
Because if it weren’t for Rhett, I wouldn’t even be here.
Not just in this parking lot. Not just on this team. But here —living this version of my life instead of the one that could’ve swallowed me whole.
I was the quiet kid. The one who brought comic books to lunch and drew sketches in the margins of his homework.
My freshman year of high school, I transferred into the district where Rhett and the rest of the older guys had already carved out their legacies.
Rhett was a junior. Fast, loud, talented. Magnetic in a way I still can’t explain.
And I was nobody. Worse than nobody.
I got jumped in the locker room the second week of school. Hazed by seniors who thought I didn’t belong. They taped my skates together. Dumped my bag in the toilet. Called me every slur in the book.
But I kept showing up. Because I liked the way skating made me feel. Like maybe I could be something more than the nervous kid hiding behind his locker door.
Rhett found me one afternoon cleaning spitballs off my jersey. He didn’t say much, just handed me a clean towel and asked if I wanted to hit the ice.
We skated in silence for twenty minutes.
That was all it took.
The next day, the same seniors tried to corner me in the hallway. Rhett stepped in, said, “He’s with me.”
No one messed with me again.
He taught me to fight. To push back. To shoot clean, hit harder, take up space. We were different, but it worked. He gave me room to find my place.
I’ve relied on him ever since. Even if I pretend I don’t.
“Hey,” I say, turning to him. “I know I don’t say it enough, but thanks.”
He looks over, frowns slightly. “For what?”
“Everything. Letting me crash at yours back when my parents were losing the house. Getting me into hockey. Hell, even just… showing up.”
He shakes his head, like none of it was a big deal. But it was.
He saved me from drowning in silence. Gave me something to build a life around.
“You’d have figured it out eventually,” he says. “You’re not exactly built to stay quiet.”
I laugh at that. “Says the guy who once broke a vending machine because it wouldn’t give him his protein bar.”
“I had low blood sugar.”
“You were hangry.”
He grins. “I was.”
We both look back at the building. Time to head up. But I can feel his hesitation.
“You good?” I ask.
He nods, but it’s tight. “Yeah. Just… not what I expected this week to look like, you know?”
“Nope.” I stretch my neck. “But maybe that’s not a bad thing.”
He glances sideways. “You like her, don’t you?”
I hesitate. “Ivy?”
“Yeah.”
I don’t answer right away. Instead, I pull the keys from the ignition, letting the jingle speak for itself.
Then I say, “I think she makes things feel possible.”
Rhett doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t have to.
We head inside.
By the time we’re in the elevator, I’m already picturing Chloe’s gummy smile again, her tiny hand grabbing my hoodie string like she owns me.