Chapter 3
Hunter
I sat on the bench in the locker room, elbows on knees, gloves dangling between my skates. Guys getting ready, tape ripping, sticks clacking, somebody’s playlist buzzing in the background. My chest felt too tight in my gear.
“You’re gonna chew through your mouthguard before the puck drops.” Mason’s voice cut through my head.
I glanced up. He was standing across from me, jersey half-pulled on, chin strap loose. Calm, always calm.
“I’m fine,” I muttered.
“You’re vibrating,” he said. “Like, visibly.”
I shoved my mask aside. “I’m not nervous.”
He crouched in front of me, resting his forearms on his knees. “Listen to me. You’ve done this all before, and you’ve been great at it. History repeats itself, remember that. I trust you. The guys trust you. All you have to do is go out there and save every attempt at goal.”
Even my laugh sounds shaky. “Easy as pie.”
“Exactly,” he said, slapping my shoulder. “I’ll make you a deal. Every save you make, I’ll go put one away in their net.”
My shoulders were still wound tight, but things were starting to loosen up. “Deal.”
The horn in the tunnel blew. Time to go.
We hit the ice to a wall of sound: Chicago fans had traveled, and they were loud. Our own crowd roared back, ready to believe the best in us after that disastrous opening game and the media storm that followed.
I hadn’t made one of Holly’s meetings this week. People were gonna talk. I didn’t see the point in training to be a puppet when there were more important things to practice. Like keeping pucks out of the back of my net, for instance.
The boards rattled under my skates as I slid out, cutting hard, testing edges. The crease looked smaller tonight. Or maybe I looked bigger. Hard to tell.
Theo skated past and tapped my pads with his stick. “Don’t blow it, Kelly-Ann.”
“I won’t if you keep the fuckers off my crease, Barbara.” We both laughed, and another boulder lifted off my chest.
We lined up for the anthem, and my heart hammered so hard I could feel it in my throat. When the puck finally dropped, it felt like a starter’s pistol.
Chicago came out flying. First shift, they dumped it deep and forechecked like sharks. I tracked the puck, eyes sharp, legs coiled. The first shot came from the point—screened, heavy. I kicked it out with my pad, rebound cleared by Theo.
Okay. One save. In the books.
We got hemmed in for the first three minutes, my crease a war zone of sticks and bodies. I caught a wrist shot through traffic, covered, and held on as two Blackhawks crashed the net. The whistle blew. My gloves trembled, but my head stayed up.
Mason leaned on his stick. “You awake now?”
“Wide awake,” I muttered. “You owe me, by the way.”
The next shift we flipped the ice. Mason broke up a pass at our blue line, turned it into a rush. He cut left, snapped a pass to Griff, who wired it far side. 1–0, Surge.
The crowd erupted.
I thumped my stick twice against the ice. One goal in the bank.
Chicago answered hard. Their top line pinned us deep, working the puck low-to-high. A quick seam pass, one-timer. I slid across and caught it with my glove, flash save. The crowd gasped. My heartbeat steadied.
“Nice snag,” Theo laughed as he skated by.
“About time you cleared the slot,” I shot back.
Midway through the second, Chicago tied it. Bad bounce off a shin pad, puck slid under me before I could seal the post. My mask thunked against the crossbar as I stood. 1–1. The crowd groaned, and I could see it all slipping away. That hope the guys tried to give me.
Because what if I wasn’t cut out to be number one?
Seven years with the Surge and it never occurred to them to put me up here ‘til now. Until they had no other choice. That’s all I was. A last ditch replacement who couldn’t cut it any other time.
I skated a tight circle in the crease, breathing through my nose. Reset. Reset.
Mason skated past, tapping my pads. “Shake it off. Next one’s ours.”
He was right. Two shifts later, Griff worked a forecheck, Mason came late up the slot, ripped one top corner. 2–1, Surge. Mason pointed at me as he celebrated. Promise kept.
Chicago pressed harder in the third. They cycled, crashed, threw pucks from everywhere. I slid, sprawled, fought through screens. One glove save off a point-blank rebound had me flat on my stomach, puck pinned under me.
The whistle blew, bringing the crowd to their feet.
Theo skated over, breathing hard. “Show-off.”
“Just trying to keep you employed,” I said, starting to actually enjoy myself.
With five minutes left, Chicago pulled their goalie for an extra attacker. My crease turned into a minefield. Puck zipped cross-ice, deflected, came back again. I dove, stick extended, tipped it just wide. The crowd’s roar swelled.
“Thirty seconds!” McAvoy barked from the bench.
The Blackhawks set up one last play. Point shot, double screen. I tracked it with laser focus, dropped, pad save, the rebound kicking out. Theo cleared it, Mason flipped it high. Horn sounded. Game.
2–1 Surge.
I stayed on my knees a second, head down, the noise of the arena washing over me. My gloves shook, but not from nerves this time. From adrenaline.
Theo skated by, smacking my helmet. “Not bad, Kelly-Ann. You might keep this job, after all.”
I got to my feet, grinning, and just in time to be engulfed by Mason. “The Surge is back, baby! What did I tell you? Didn’t I tell you?”
I tugged off my mask, hair plastered to my forehead. “You did.”
He clapped my shoulder. “First game as lead, first win as lead. Remember this one.”
We lined up for the handshake, then headed off. In the tunnel, sweat dripping and my pads heavy, I could still hear the crowd chanting my name. Callahan. Callahan.
I barely had time to peel off my chest protector before Holly materialized in the tunnel, like she’d been waiting to pounce. She didn’t even let me hit the locker room. Just, “Follow me,” and she was off, heels sharp against the concrete.
Now I was sitting on a rickety chair in a space that smelled like fresh paint and old coffee. The walls were a pale gray, no windows, one beat-up filing cabinet jammed into the corner. A broom leaned against it. This wasn’t an office. It was a closet someone had bullied into being an office.
I glanced at her as she perched on the edge of her desk. “Why did you drag me in here?”
“Fewer distractions,” she said without looking up, flipping through a folder.
I snorted. “Right. Because this room’s so ambient and relaxing.”
Her skirt hit just above her knees, a dark pencil cut that moved when she shifted her weight. She leaned forward to scribble something, and the fabric rode up her thighs a fraction. I dragged my eyes away, jaw tight. So much for no distractions.
She set the folder down. “First of all—good game.”
“Thanks.”
“You held them to one goal. Made highlight-reel saves. That’s how you win over a city. That’s how you start a season.”
I shrugged. Compliments were fine. Compliments with strings attached were something else.
She reached for a comb on her desk, gesturing. “Come here.”
I frowned. “Why?”
“Because you’re about to be on camera and you look like a guy who wrestled a grizzly.”
“I did. The bear was wearing a Blackhawks jersey.”
She gave a small laugh but didn’t back down. “Seriously, Callahan. Cameras magnify everything. You can’t be sweaty and unkempt. You have to look the part.”
I stayed put. “I’m a goalie, not a senator. I look the part as is.”
“You’re about to become the new darling of the NHL if you let me do my job.”
I leaned back until the old chair threatened to stop holding me up. “I’m not interested in being anyone’s darling.”
Her eyes flicked up, locking with mine. Calm, direct. “Then be interested in helping your team. PR is part of that.”
The room felt even smaller. She stepped closer, comb in hand, and before I could protest, she smoothed a piece of hair back from my forehead. Her perfume was different to how she acted sometimes. Softer. It cut through the lingering smell of sweat coming from my gear.
“Hold still,” she murmured.
I couldn’t have moved if I wanted to. Her fingers were warm on my jaw, holding my head in place while she fixed my hair.
“Alright. Listen. Post-game scrum. You stick to the script.”
I exhaled. “I’m not a dog on a leash, Holly.”
“No,” she said with a measured tone. “But you’re the face of a franchise now. You can either control the narrative or let it control you.”
I looked at her. “You really think coaching will fix me?”
“I know it will.”
We held the stare a beat too long. She was still standing close, one hand flat on my chest where she’d just adjusted my shirt. Her expression gave nothing away, but I could’ve sworn I saw something flash behind her eyes.
Finally, she stepped back. “Key points: Team effort. Excited for the season. Respect for Chicago. No mention of Trey. None. You got it?”
“I got it.” I sighed and readjusted my shirt that suddenly felt like it didn’t fit me.
“Say it back to me.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Seriously?”
“Yes.”
I sighed. “Team effort. Excited, uh, excited about respect?”
“You’re not even trying,” she said, waving an arm in frustration. She rounded her desk and dropped into her chair. Leather. The only nice thing in here. Aside from her, of course.
“Just let Coach and Griffin do the talking.” I got up and paced the length of the room. Which wasn’t much, and had me turning every three strides. “Or even Mason. Everybody loves him.”
“I never thought I’d say this, but Bob’s right.” She looked like she might gag. “About you being the story. It’s your time, Callahan. You gotta take it.”
I was afraid she’d say that. “What if I just play my game?”
She leaned back, and the leather creaked beneath her weight. The shift made the buttons on her shirt strain a little too, which… didn’t add to the ‘fewer distractions’ theory either.
“You mean like you’ve been doing for the past seven years?” she asked, tilting her head slightly. “Is that what you really want?”
I shoved my hands into the pockets of my shorts. “You’re really scary, you know that? And bossy. Anyone ever tell you that?”
“They were my nicknames in kindergarten. Now can we get back to work?” Her mouth curved into a half-smile that softened up her face. “Team effort. Excited about the season–”
“Don’t say anything about Trey. Got it.”
She eyed me with a raised brow. “Do you?”
“Yes, Coach.”
Her mouth twitched like she wanted to laugh, but she pursed her lips and forced it away. “Let’s go.”
She led the way to the press room, where the noise hit like a wall. Reporters packed shoulder-to-shoulder, cameras already trained on the podium. Bright lights, too hot after the cold of the ice. I hated this part.
Bob was there, of course. Big grin, loud handshake, already talking like he owned the place. Coach strolled in looking over it already, and Bob waved me over to the table.
Holly glanced back at me. “Remember. Script.”
I took a seat next to Coach, and flashes went off like strobe lights. The first few questions were easy. Team effort, Blackhawks put up a good fight, we were all looking forward to a banging season.
Then a voice from the back cut through. “Hunter—Ryan Tate, Chicago Herald. Big shoes to fill after Trey’s exit. How’s the room holding up? Some say morale’s down. Crisis talk. Your thoughts?”
My grip on the mic tightened. The word “crisis” was like a needle scratch in my brain, and I looked over to Holly. She gave a small nod.
Stick to the script. Don’t talk about Trey.
“Morale’s fine,” I said evenly.
“But losing a leader in the net, like Trey—”
“I said it’s fine,” I snapped, sharper than I meant. “If you wanna know about Trey, go ask him.”
A ripple went through the room. The reporter raised his brows, leaning forward like a shark smelling blood. “So no issues in the locker room? No tension with the coaching staff?”
I opened my mouth—
“If I may…” Holly appeared at my shoulder out of nowhere, calm as anything. “The team’s focus is hockey, not rumors. We’re looking ahead to the ultimate prize, and don’t have time to speculate with you. That’s all for tonight, thank you.”
Her hand touched my elbow, a subtle signal to get up. Coach McAvoy stood too.
“Hey, I have one more question—” someone called.
“That’s all for tonight,” she repeated, a professional smile on her face.
She steered me offstage, cameras still flashing. My pulse thumping in my ears.
Back in the hallway, she stopped, turning to me. “That is exactly what we don’t do.”
I dragged a hand down my face. “He kept going on about Trey. It got me all confused with the script and stuff.”
“He was baiting you. That’s his job. This–” She gestured between us. “-is mine. And if you want to survive this season, you’ll let me do it.”
I didn’t answer.
She exhaled, squaring her shoulders. “We’ll try again tomorrow.”
Then she walked off down the hall, heels clicking, leaving me standing there, wondering how someone could be that calm in chaos. And how she could look so good doing it.