Chapter 11 - Holly
Holly
The arena concourse smelled like cinnamon pretzels and Sharpies.
Hunter’s signature curled across puck after puck, jersey after jersey, while a line of kids and adults snaked around the table.
His smile was polite but thin, a little too practiced, like someone holding up a wall with his shoulder. We’d have to talk about that later.
I leaned against the barrier a few feet away, tablet in hand, pretending to check logistics while mostly watching him. The bruises under his eyes hadn’t faded from last night’s loss, but he still made small talk with a six-year-old in a Surge jersey like he had all the time in the world.
“You’re up next,” the event coordinator whispered to me.
“Five minutes,” I said, glancing at the clock, then nodded toward Hunter. “Let him finish.”
The kid walked away clutching a signed cap like it was an early Christmas present. Hunter caught me staring, and quirked one eyebrow.
“What’s next?” he asked under his breath, leaning toward me as the next fan slid a jersey across the table.
“Tux shopping,” I said. “Charity gala tonight, remember?”
He groaned softly. “Exactly how I wanted to spend my day off.”
I ignored him, and pulled up the schedule. “You’re due at Bianchi’s in an hour. Measurements, fitting, everything. Try not to get too much of that marker on your hands. It’s hell to get off.”
“Can I skip it?” His pen hovered over another puck. “This charity thing is more Mason’s gig anyway. The guy cleans up so good people throw money at him.”
“No,” I said sweetly, batting my lashes. “You’re one of the faces of this team, remember? That means you put on the suit and get out there.”
He flashed a cheeky smile. “You just want to dress me up. Admit it.”
I didn’t answer. Just took a breath and watched the line of fans dribble forward with their merch.
An hour later, he was slumped in the passenger seat of my SUV like a sulky teenager. I killed the engine in Bianchi’s parking lot, and waited.
“I thought pro hockey meant ice baths, stick tape, and maybe the occasional endorsement. Not… tuxedo drills and memorizing lines.”
“Why can’t it be both?” I asked, halfway out of my seat. He still didn’t move. “Why can’t you be a hockey star and also not look like a frat boy at a formal event?”
He laughed, low and rough. “Wow. Harsh.”
“Not harsh,” I corrected, grabbing my bag. “Accurate. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear those sweatpants were glued to your skin.”
Hunter finally slid out of his seat and met me round front. “Wait, how do you know better?”
“I’ve seen you in jeans,” I said with a shrug.
Inside Bianchi’s, the lighting was soft and expensive. The store smelled of cedar and wool, with rows of black and navy suits lining the walls like soldiers. A clerk appeared immediately, eyes bright when he recognized Hunter.
“Mr. Callahan, this is an exciting honor,” the clerk said. “How can I help you today?”
Hunter glanced my way, eyes pleading for help. I decided to enjoy the moment, and said nothing.
He fumbled awkwardly, then finally got out something that sounded like, “Black tux, I guess.”
The clerk frowned, then shot me a concerning look which made me give in.
“Let’s go with a midnight blue Barathea weave, single breasted. One button, and no outseam,” I said, moving us deeper into the store. “We don’t want him looking like he borrowed his little cousin’s prom suit.”
Hunter mumbled something under his breath but followed the clerk toward a fitting room. I trailed behind, scrolling through my notes on tonight’s guest list. Dressing to the nines was going to be only half the battle. I had to make sure he was ready for everything else that came with it.
He came back out a few minutes later in the first tux. A slim-cut number, with a peak lapel and crisp white shirt. The jacket hung open, bow tie dangling in his hand.
“Well?” he asked with a boyish grin.
My words got caught in my throat. He wasn’t even fully dressed yet and still… the suit did something. Broad shoulders, clean lines, every inch of him sharpened. Elegant, despite his messy hair hanging into his eyes.
I forced my expression back to neutral. “Better than your press-conference hoodie, at least.”
He smirked. “High praise.”
“The tie,” I said, setting my iPad down. “Give it here.”
He snapped it out of my reach. “I can do a tie.”
“I don’t believe you.” I lunged for it, stumbling into him in the process.
A mischievous gleam sparked in his eye and once he was sure of my annoyance, he doubled down.
We wrestled around like a couple of idiots, Hunter laughing harder each time I tried to grab the tie from him and failed.
In a final grab for dominance, I kicked his shin, and the tie floated cleanly out of his hands and into mine.
“I never took you for a dirty player,” he said, grimacing as he rubbed his leg.
“In my line of work?” I gave a low chuckle. “Shows how much you know.”
I looped the tie around his collar, keeping my gaze fixed firmly on the task at hand. He smelled faintly of aftershave and the clean cotton of a freshly pressed shirt. My fingers brushed the warm skin of his neck as I adjusted the knot, and I saw his jaw twitch.
“Look up,” I murmured.
He obeyed, eyes on the ceiling. “You do this for all your clients?”
I tightened the knot with a sharp tug. “Just the ones who can’t tie a half-Windsor without choking themselves.”
“So I’m special.” Hunter finally looked down at me, but I could barely meet the shit-eating grin he wore.
I slid my palms down the lapels to smooth them and stepped back. Away. Because enough of that.
“There. Don’t undo it.”
He turned to the clerk with a smirk. “They pay her extra to be this bossy.”
“Whatever gets the job done,” he quipped, and turned to leave.
“When you’re done insulting me to the staff, turn around and see how well you clean up.”
He turned to the mirror, and tilted his head. “Feels weird.”
“Doesn’t matter how it feels,” I said, smoothing the lines of the jacket over his shoulders. The sculpted muscle underneath tightened then relaxed. “As long as you look good.”
He glanced back at me. “And you?”
“What about me?” I absently picked at stray pieces of lint, but could feel his unshifting gaze on me.
“You can’t show up to a gala in a pencil skirt,” he said, eyes narrowing. “I mean, it’s great for a day at the office, but–”
“We’re here for you.” I picked up my tablet again. “There are two more tuxes to try on.”
He laughed under his breath and disappeared into the fitting room again.
By the time we left, he had a garment bag slung over his shoulder and a faint smile playing at the corner of his mouth. The drive back to his place was more light-hearted and quiet, thank goodness.
“You’re good at this,” he said when we pulled up.
“At what?”
“This.” He gestured vaguely between us. “Making all this chaos seem… less chaotic. I don’t know. Manageable.”
I kept my eyes faced forward, and pressed the fob that unlocked the doors. “Just doing my job.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know.” And he was laughing when he got out.
*
That night, the gala sparkled under chandeliers as tall as trees. The ballroom smelled of champagne and polished wood. Surge banners hung between floral arrangements and glass towers of hors d’oeuvres.
I kept to the edge of the room, scanning for potential sponsors but also headline-hungry reporters. Hunter had been so overwhelmed by the tuxedo drama that we barely had time to go over his soundbites for the night.
“Wow.”
I turned.
He stood a few feet away, tux perfectly fitted, hair slicked back. But it was his eyes that caught me off guard. They were on me, grazing over my length all the way down to my shoes.
The dress was one of my stock formals for these types of occasions.
Simple black, low back, silk light as air as it skimmed my hips.
For tonight, I left my hair down in waves that made it look like I didn’t bother, which was the point.
I had no business standing out, but the way he looked at me now made me feel like I was the only woman in the room.
“Wow,” he said again, quieter.
I tried to play it cool. “You’re supposed to be charming donors with the rest of your team, not staring at me.”
“Right,” he said, but he didn’t look away.
I felt my pulse tick faster, and scrambled inwardly to get a damn hold of myself.
“Straighten your jacket.” I brushed past him toward the bar.
Behind me, I heard him exhale, a low sound that wasn’t quite a whistle, and then, “I need a drink, too.”
The ballroom was a blur of sequins and diamonds. A string quartet played something soft near the stage, easy conversation rising and falling like waves. Hunter stood at my side, and I moved with him as though tethered, keeping just close enough to intercept, redirect, coach.
“Your smile’s getting creepy,” I whispered, brushing invisible lint from his lapel before another sponsor approached. “Ease up a notch.”
“My cheek’s been cramping for the past half hour,” he said through gritted teeth, that smile still plastered in place.
I bit back a laugh. “Take a sip of your drink when that happens. Gives you a chance to relax and reset. I thought that was common knowledge.”
He fixed me with a deadpan look. “Nothing about this is common for me, and you know it.”
The sponsor grabbed Hunter into a quick talk about power plays and penalties, then made me the photographer for his photo op. When I handed back his phone, Hunter leaned in and whispered, “Poor bastard doesn’t know that’s being deleted right after he posts it.”
“No tags unless they run it by me first,” I said, moving us through the crowd. I pointed to an elderly couple standing next to the ice sculpture. “They’re the ones sponsoring your team’s youth program.”
“Next stop?”