39. Hunter
Thirty Nine
Hunter
I couldn’t unclench my fists.
The steering wheel creaked under my grip, the leather threatening to split. I hadn’t spoken since we left the diner because I didn’t trust my voice not to shake apart with the rage still burning a hole in me.
Those pathetic little motherfuckers. The way they’d boxed her in, the way their voices had dragged her back to a place I knew she never really escaped.
I should’ve broken them. Cracked ribs, shattered teeth. Left a warning written on their bodies so no one in this town would ever dare breathe her name again.
The only reason they were still breathing was her hand on my arm, her voice cutting through the haze.
Hunter, please.
She didn’t even know how close I’d been. How much it had cost to stop.
Her hand was still on my thigh now, small and warm. It wasn’t shaking anymore, and she left it there like she was the one steadying me.
And maybe she was.
We turned off the main road onto a narrow lane lined with sagging mailboxes and overgrown ditches. Pine trees leaned in on both sides, and cicadas screamed in the branches.
Somewhere in the dark, a dog barked. The headlights illuminated a porch swing swaying in the breeze and a rusting tractor in a field.
In her world, warmth didn’t feel forced. Instead of echoing off cold marble walls, laughter filled the cozy confines of her home. It was filled with the smells of home-cooked meals and polished wood, and its worn floors had carried generations of her family.
Mine had been different. It had expensive finishes, sprawling rooms and empty halls filled with silence so thick and heavy it crushed your chest.
Money? Sure. Plenty of it.
But no one to come home to, no hugs, no voices making you feel seen. Just cold light and colder people — at least after Mom died.
When Ella looked over at me, though, her eyes were soft and her lips curved into a smile completely at odds with how wrecked I still felt inside. She smiled like I hadn’t almost killed three men in front of her, like she wasn’t scared of me.
“Sweetheart!”
Ella bolted out of the car before I cut the engine. I sat there for a moment longer, trying to control my breathing and push the rage back down so it wouldn’t spill out here.
As I climbed out of the cab, the woman’s eyes found me, and she beamed a wide, open and welcoming smile. Ella’s mom was slender, with perfectly curled auburn hair which, while not quite as striking in color as her daughter’s, was still very distinctive.
She started toward me with her arms outstretched, and I froze.
Before she could touch me, Ella stepped in front of me, her hand reaching back to press against my stomach reassuringly.
“Mom, can we hold off?” she asked gently but firmly. “He’s not okay with that right now.”
Relief hit me in a rush, and my muscles unclenched. My skin stopped screaming. She didn’t lecture or pity me. She just stepped in and protected me. The way I always wanted to protect her.
Her mother paused, slightly surprised, but nodded nonetheless. The warmth in her eyes didn’t disappear; it just shifted slightly to give us some space.
I wanted to tell Ella just how much this mattered to me. It was so rare to have someone see you so completely and understand the subtle nuances without needing explanations.
She didn’t make me feel broken; she stood up for me and protected me, the same way I’ll always protect her.
I cleared my throat. “Sorry, Mrs. Kincaid, it’s not you, it’s–”
“Hunter, sweetheart, don’t you worry about a thing,” she drawled, the southern twang in her voice so much more pronounced than Ella’s or even Dom’s.
Then she pointed an accusing finger at me, and I almost jerked back in surprise at the sudden stern expression taking over her kind face. “And none of this Mrs. Kincaid nonsense. I’m Darlene, sweetheart.”
“Yes, Ma’am.”
“Come on, supper’s ready,” Darlene said, stepping back and brushing at her apron, leaving us the space we needed while still welcoming us into her home.
I ducked my head, my next words only meant for my girl’s ears. “You’re amazing,” I muttered under my breath, letting her guide us inside.
Inside, the smell of fried chicken, collard greens, and fresh cornbread wafted through the air. It struck me like a blow to my solar plexus.
I didn’t have memories like this, of home or of food meaning love. For me, food has always been about fuel and survival. Here, it meant belonging.
A tall man stood waiting by the table.
Ray Kincaid — I’d done my research — was broad-shouldered, blond, and almost as big as me, but solid in a way that came from years of steady work instead of training camps. His handshake was firm, his gaze appraising but not hostile.
Ella’s little cousin came barreling in from the living room, a wiry blur of freckles and energy. Before I knew it, he latched onto my leg like a fucking koala, chattering football stats so fast I barely caught half of them.
“Did you know Brady threw for forty touchdowns one season? And Patrick Mahomes, he can throw sidearm, like, ninety miles an hour! Do you throw sidearm? Can you? Do you think you’ll be better than him?”
His words came out like machine-gun fire. I just blinked down at him, caught somewhere between panic and amusement. My hands hovered awkwardly in the air, useless, like I’d forgotten how to be human around small people.
“Uh …” My throat clicked. “That’s a lot of stats, kid. Also, um, I’m not the quarterback? So I don’t really throw the ball, you know.”
He grinned up at me, all teeth, completely unbothered by my lack of enthusiasm. “I bet you could beat him. You’re huge. Mom says you’re scary huge. Are you scary?”
My chest locked. Out of the corner of my eye, Ella’s dad watched the exchange with a slight smile, not rescuing me, just letting me dangle.
I swallowed hard, trying not to wince. “Sometimes,” I admitted carefully.
The kid gasped like I’d confessed to being Batman. “Cool.” Then he tugged harder at my leg. “You gotta throw the ball with me later, okay? Please? Please?”
My shoulders were tense as we sat down for dinner, sure, every second of this was a test. Waiting for the moment they’d see through me and kick me out.
But Ella laughed softly from across the table, like she already knew the truth: no one here was judging me.
They were just pulling me further in.
Her mom leaned forward, eyes bright. “So, Hunter, how was it playing with Dom? He’s quite the character, isn’t he?”
I stiffened. Dom was loud and full of energy, the exact opposite of me. “Uh … yeah. He’s … energetic,” I said carefully, my voice clipped.
Her dad chuckled. “That’s one way to put it. Did he drive you crazy?”
I swallowed, trying not to wince. “Sometimes. But he’s a good teammate.”
Her mom tilted her head, studying me, but her smile was warm, not interrogative. “And the draft! We heard congratulations are in order. How does it feel to be picked?”
I blinked, caught off guard. The words felt enormous in the quiet moment. “It … it’s good,” I said finally. “Exciting. Nerve-wracking.”
Ella squeezed my knee under the table, a small, grounding gesture.
“See? You’re fine,” she whispered.
I forced air into my lungs, unclenched my jaw, and took a tentative bite. Ella’s dad leaned in, grinning. “You’ll have to tell us all about the Combine stories someday. I bet you’ve got some crazy ones.”
I nodded, my words caught somewhere between awe and nerves. The room felt heavy with attention, but with Ella there, her hand quietly reassuring me, I didn’t completely crumble.
Her mom laughed again, just lightly, not mocking, and asked, “Tell me, Hunter, do you actually like playing with her little brother, or are you just being polite?”
I swallowed, a smirk tugging at the corner of my mouth despite myself. “He’s a handful. But yeah, he’s good.”
Ella’s small laugh beside me was enough to steady me. For the first time at the table, I let a little of myself show, just enough to feel human.
Slowly, the warmth seeped back in.
Darlene piling food onto my plate, telling me I looked too thin. Her dad asking about the Combine, about drills and scouts. The little cousin tugging at my sleeve, begging me to throw the ball with him in the yard after dinner.
And Ella, beside me, laughing louder than anyone, her hand brushing mine whenever she passed me something.
Every touch was subtle but deliberate. Her way of saying, You’re mine. I’m yours.
For once, I didn’t feel like an outsider.
After dinner, when the table was cleared, Darlene shooed Ella and Ray toward the living room with a drawled, “Go on now, I’ll keep Hunter to help me in the kitchen.”
I froze, unsure if this was a punishment or some kind of test. But Ella squeezed my wrist, eyes saying, It’s okay , before disappearing down the hall.
Darlene filled the sink, rolled up her sleeves, and handed me a dish towel. “You dry, I’ll wash.” Her tone wasn’t bossy, more matter-of-fact, like I already belonged here.
For a while, the only sounds were the clink of dishes and the rush of warm water. I didn’t know how to fill the silence, but she did.
“You know,” she said softly, eyes on the plate in her hands, “Ella’s always been able to spot people worth fighting for. She got that from me.”
My throat closed. I stared at the towel in my hands like it held answers.
“You’re not broken, Hunter,” she added in a low but steady voice. “You’re just carrying more than most boys your age, and I want you to know—” She turned then, suds dripping down her wrists and her eyes shining. “We’re real glad you’re here. We want you here.”
The words gutted me. My chest ached like she’d reached right in and rewired something. This wasn’t pity or judgment, but a warm, genuine kind of acceptance.
I swallowed hard and blinked fast, but my voice still cracked when I said, “Thank you.”
Darlene didn’t press. She just bumped my shoulder lightly with hers and handed me another plate. “Now, you better get used to it, sugar. ’Cause around here, you’re family.”