Chapter 25 - Holly #2
I wasn’t sure how long I’d been watching, beer in hand, barely blinking, until the Surge got a break of their own.
The puck flew past the defense, one of the forwards took a shot from the blue line, and it ricocheted off the boards, straight to Hunter.
Without hesitation, he passed it down ice, and within seconds, a perfect counter-attack was in motion.
Theo, a blur of a defenseman in motion, carried it up the wing, passed to Shawn at the top of the circle, and boom—a clean, unblocked shot.
The net rattled, the sound of a perfect goal, and I threw my hands over my face, groaning in exhilaration.
“Come on,” I muttered, bouncing slightly on the edge of the couch. “Come on, guys. Keep it.”
Hunter’s saves didn’t let up. Every time Minnesota tried to get past him, he was there, blocking, tipping, guiding.
My beer became a second-hand prop. I barely touched it, too caught up in the game, too aware of his skill and the precision of his movements.
My thumb hovered over the fridge handle more than once, grabbing another beer almost reflexively, because focus demanded it.
Somewhere in the second period, I heard the ping of another email and glanced at the screen.
Work again. A colleague congratulating me on a successful first week, just a small note of support.
I ignored it. Everything in me was back there, in San Antonio, in the rink, standing behind Hunter, knowing every move he made, knowing what he was capable of, and feeling that helpless flutter of being somewhere else entirely while he was in the moment of his life.
By the third period, it was down to a single point difference.
Minnesota pressed hard, pushing everything forward.
The Surge were tired, their faces slick with sweat, jerseys sticking, sticks raised and angled, passes sharp and precise but their goalie was untouchable.
Hunter’s body bent and twisted with perfect timing, and I could barely believe what I was seeing.
One shot deflected off the post, he snatched it midair, spinning it back out.
The crowd’s roar echoed through my TV speakers, and I knew that the Surge fans in the arena were losing their voices screaming for him.
And then it happened, the final minute. Minnesota broke through the defense, three-on-one.
I jumped, gripping the beer like a lifeline.
Hunter read it, moved with a precision I hadn’t thought possible, blocked the first shot, smothered the second, and passed it forward.
Grayson carried it down ice, flung a perfect wrist shot toward the empty net, and it was over.
Surge won. Playoffs still alive. I exhaled in a rush of relief and disbelief, leaning back on the couch, feeling my chest and stomach unclench. My fingers grazed the condensation on the beer can, then absently tapped it, staring at the screen as the players celebrated.
But the post-game highlights weren’t over.
There was a segment showing the players coming off the ice, some smiles, some exhaustion, cameras flashing everywhere.
I watched, waiting. My pulse quickened when the cameras focused on the tunnel.
I didn’t realize I’d stood, beer forgotten on the coffee table.
Hunter emerged first, sweat-slicked and glowing, helmet under his arm.
Reporters crowded the space, mics angled toward him, questions flying.
He answered each one with charm, wit, and ease, the kind of smooth professionalism he had honed with me at his side.
He laughed at one joke from a reporter, glanced down the tunnel, and I froze, waiting for the moment I knew was coming.
And then, softly but clearly, he said, “Honestly… I wouldn’t be here without Holly Griswold. She’s been incredible, guiding me, keeping me on track, making sure I can focus on my game. I wouldn’t be standing here without her.”
I blinked. My stomach lurched, a warmth I couldn’t name spreading through me.
My beer slipped from my hand and hit the rug with a wet thud, but I didn’t care.
He… he said it. My name. He credited me, publicly, wholeheartedly.
For the first time, the magnitude of what I’d done and what we’d done together hit me full force.
I sank to the couch, clutching the edge of the cushion.
Tears pricked my eyes, hot and unbidden, and I pressed a hand to my mouth, shaking slightly.
I couldn’t—wouldn’t—believe it if someone else had told me.
And yet there he was, the man I had walked out on, giving me the credit I’d never thought I’d deserve.
I thought about the bar fight, the PR statements, the pressure, the stress, the chaos I’d navigated to get him here.
And I’d faltered. I’d left him. I’d doubted him.
I’d doubted myself. And now, hearing him say my name like that, admitting that he’d relied on me and trusted me?
It felt like every misstep, every decision, every moment of panic I’d felt was worth it, and yet… it stung.
My vision blurred, and I leaned back, the couch pressing against my back. I couldn’t stop the thought from surfacing: he’d been counting on me. And I’d left.
The reporter moved on, and Hunter’s team members crowded around, congratulating him, lifting sticks, slapping backs.
But my focus didn’t shift. I was seeing him in a way I hadn’t let myself fully admit before.
Every calculated pass, every perfect save, every sly smile, every moment of trust I’d earned and failed to protect came together in a single, awful, beautiful rush.
I didn’t move for several minutes, just watching him on the screen, letting the weight of it all settle over me. And then I did it, almost without thinking: I opened my laptop, searched flights, and typed in San Antonio.