Chapter 7
Holly
I leaned against the frame of the locker room doorway, tablet in hand, trying to focus. The team was already inside, and their pre-game laughter and chatter filtered through the door. Somewhere in the mix were murmurs I didn’t need to hear but couldn’t help catching.
“Babysitter’s here and waiting,” Mason said with a laugh. “Can’t wait to see Hunter’s face when he gets here.”
I didn’t look up. Didn’t respond. My job was to make sure Hunter didn’t walk into the game carrying last night’s shit-show on his shoulders and more importantly, that the press didn’t either.
Tucker snorted. “Seriously, man, is she going to be following him around now? Everywhere?”
“Guys, stop,” Shawn said. “She’s just doing her job.”
I ignored them, fingers flying across the tablet.
Josie’s posts were the first order of business: a half dozen questionable tags, clips of Hunter from last night, moments that would make him look like he’d traded his pads for a club coat.
I deleted, untagged, swapped captions. Nothing scandalous.
Nothing that could be twisted by reporters looking for drama.
I worked quickly, methodically, blocking every potential misstep before it could reach anyone’s feed.
“Seriously?” Hunter stopped right in front of me, halfway into the locker room, half-out. Irritation flashed across his face, deepening once he noticed the socials on my tablet.
“I’m just–”
“Doing your job, yeah, I know.” His jaw clenched, and he glanced inside to check that the others weren’t looking. They were, but quickly got busy doing everything else when his head snapped round.
“Idiots,” I mumbled under my breath, and squared my shoulders. “Ready for the game?”
“You humiliate me in front of my team and then want to carry on with small talk like nothing happened?”
This was the dance we did. I’d push, he’d resist, we’d both get frustrated, then repeat it ad nauseum. I always thought I was the champion of being stubborn, but this goalie was grasping at my gold medal with each passing day.
“Getting caught up in a fight with the team you’re supposed to play today would’ve been more embarrassing,” I said, sticking out my chin. “Harder to explain. Which is why I spent most of last night and all of this morning deleting whatever I could find.”
“You really don’t give up, do you?” he asked, exhaling sharply.
“I don’t,” I said. “And the sooner you get used to it, the better for both of us.”
His mouth twitched as if he wanted to argue, but the team’s laughter and chatter drew his attention. The merriment died down soon after, when Coach McAvoy walked in from his office.
“Great,” Hunter muttered, finally letting his shoulders drop, “now he’s gonna lay into us about last night too.”
I hung around in the doorway, watching as he took his seat next to Theo.
All of them braced for the inevitable. The room stilled instantly, the team snapping to attention with that practiced blend of respect and anticipation.
Murmurs died down, helmets were set aside, and I allowed myself to take a step back, letting them all fall under the coach’s gaze.
“Alright, everyone, circle up!” The coach centered himself in the room, and studied his clipboard. “I want to go over some of the plays for today.”
He didn’t start with a lecture. Didn’t scold them for sneaking out. Didn’t even hint that he knew what went down. He went straight into the pre-game talk of strategy, positioning, energy, focus.
The team’s reactions popped up carefully.
Subtle glances, raised eyebrows, shocked looks shared in secret.
The realization settled in slowly, one player at a time, that they were in the clear.
They were expecting to get reprimanded, but found nothing.
The tension melted into quiet relief, some of it almost palpable, the kind that comes from narrowly avoiding disaster.
That alone made my sleepless night worth it.
Hunter’s eyes found mine across the room. A flicker of recognition, of understanding. He knew, without me saying a word, that I’d saved them from the fallout. And while he wouldn’t admit it, I could see he was impressed.
I gave him a small nod, just enough to acknowledge the moment, then allowed a faint smirk to cross my face before stepping into the hallway.
I lingered for a moment longer, watching them move, listening to the low hum of conversation, the occasional clatter of equipment, knowing that every post, every image, every potential distraction had been neutralized.
No one would know, and that was exactly how it should be.
I finally walked off, tablet tucked under my arm, a quiet satisfaction settling in my chest. The game awaited, the arena lights, the crowd, the ice… but the first battle of the day, the one nobody would ever see, was already mine.
And Hunter? Well, he could stew on that however he wanted.
*
I settled into the seat just behind the goal, close enough to see every shift of Hunter’s body, every movement of his stick, every flicker of concentration in his eyes.
The arena hummed around me, a living thing, full of Colorado fans chanting, Surge fans screaming, the scent of popcorn and energy filling the air.
I had my tablet propped on my lap, fingers hovering over the feed, but my eyes were mostly on him.
The puck dropped, and the game was chaos wrapped in ice.
Colorado moved fast, aggressive, their forwards darting like predators.
But Hunter… Hunter was rock-solid. Every shot fired at him, he met with reflexes that had the crowd gasping.
One save in particular—diving, stick extended, catching the puck at an impossible angle—made me flinch with surprise and relief.
A quiet thrill ran through me. Not pride exactly, not satisfaction exactly.
More like acknowledgment. He was good. Really good.
Better than I’d expected from watching old tapes.
And the tricky part? I could see the moments where he was thinking beyond the game, the micro-adjustments that showed intelligence, instincts, the kind of focus that could make him unstoppable.
I tapped a few notes into the tablet, flagging social media posts for after the match, moments to highlight his saves, the team’s energy, his calm under pressure. No drunken selfies, no blurred out-of-context clips, just pure, controlled content.
The Surge were pushing hard, and the Avalanche weren’t giving in.
I could feel the tension in the arena through the boards, every slice of ice and swing of a stick making my pulse tick faster.
But the thing I loved most? Watching Hunter rise to the moment, letting the game dictate his actions rather than the chaos around him.
Late in the third period, a flurry of Colorado shots came in succession.
Hunter’s eyes narrowed, muscles coiling.
The puck came toward him from an impossible angle.
He dove. The arena erupted. I exhaled sharply, fingers gripping the edge of the seat.
That save was the kind of thing that made headlines, the kind of moment that could define a career.
And it had.
The final buzzer sounded. Surge had won.
Colorado slumped in their corners, the Surge erupted, and somewhere in the chaos of sticks hitting ice, the cheers, the shouting, I could feel the weight of what had just happened.
Hunter had performed. He’d controlled the narrative before the press even had the chance to pick it up.
I rose from my seat, smooth and efficient, tablet tucked under my arm. The team swarmed each other, celebrating, but I was already moving toward the tunnel to intercept him.
“You’re not going to the post-match presser,” I said firmly.
His brow furrowed. “What?”
“You heard me,” I said. “You’re not going.”
“Why the hell not?” His voice was rough, still vibrating with adrenaline. “I have to be out there. That was my game. They’ll want to hear from me.”
“I haven’t vetted any of the outlets,” I said, meeting his gaze without backing off. I knew this would be a fight, and I was ready for it. “You’re done for the night. Come with me.”
The city streaked across my SUV windows in neon. Hunter’s hands drummed against his knees, the leather seat squeaking beneath him. I kept my eyes on the stretch of road and waited for it.
“You’re way overbearing.” He was right on time. “It’s just a few reporters, not a hostage situation.”
“Watch the headlines in the morning, and we’ll have this talk again.”
“The whole team’s already up my ass about you,” he replied, getting more and more agitated. “This is just the capper on a shitty trip, and you know it.”
“You need to keep your head in the game,” I countered. “And you need to trust that I know what I’m doing. You’ve got a lot riding on these first few months, and a few careless quotes can undo it instantly.”
He let out a frustrated laugh, one that was half-amused, half-irritated. “You’re not controlling the game, Holly. You’re not the one making the saves, you’re not the one on the ice. So stop acting like—”
“This isn’t an act, Hunter,” I said, glancing over at him to make sure he was listening. “And I keep saying it, because it’s true. I’m doing my job. I’m making sure you don’t do anything stupid to derail your standing with the team.”
He leaned back, exhaling sharply, eyes narrowing. “Yeah well, your job is making it impossible for me to do mine.”
“You seemed pretty fine on the ice tonight.”
There was a beat, and he said, “That’s not what I mean. I’m talking about everything else.”
“Well, everything else isn’t your job. It’s mine.” The statement was simple and final.
He muttered something under his breath I didn’t catch. I knew enough. Enough to smirk, enough to let the silence stretch while tension curled in the car.
The conversation hopped seamlessly from post-game pressers to the guys teasing him, to his outrage at my “overbearing ways.” Every topic escalated. Every topic fed the friction between us, the spark of irritation layered over respect neither would admit.
By the time we pulled up to the hotel, the argument was a confused jumble of taut wire between us, both of us unwilling to yield, both of us strangely energized by the tension. The lobby lights glinted off polished marble, the elevator doors dinged into the silence neither of us broke.
We moved inside, the tight space amplifying every movement, every sound. I pressed the button, steeling myself against the way his shoulder brushed mine when he shifted. It was just us, and the remnants of sweat, ice, and effort to fill the gaps.
“Hungry for a fight still?” I asked right before we reached my floor. “Or are you ready to work with me?”
“I wouldn’t have to fight if you just listened to me once in a while.” His damp hair stuck lightly to his forehead, making him look much younger than his twenty-six years.
The elevator stopped, and he stepped forward instinctively, freezing only once he was standing in the hallway.
“This isn’t my floor.”
“It’s mine,” I said, moving toward my hotel room. “We have to prep for your TV appearance back home.”