Chapter 33 - Holly
Holly
The Surge moved like a machine, fast and precise, but the Panthers weren’t giving an inch.
Every shot, every collision, every scrape of skate against ice made my pulse spike.
I found myself holding my breath when Hunter dropped low, pads out, glove snapping over a puck that could have meant disaster if he missed.
And he didn’t. The puck slammed against his chest, rattled, but he smothered it.
My chest unclenched, only to tighten again as the Panthers pressed forward immediately.
“Boyfriend’s looking good out there, PR!” Tucker’s voice carried over from the bench, teasing, but I didn’t even have time to smile.
Grayson skated past, nodding at me with that brief smirk, a silent acknowledgment that he knew how nerve-wracking this was. I shot back a quick grin, letting the tension slip out in a flicker, but my eyes were glued to Hunter.
Every goal attempt they had, he seemed to anticipate it before it even happened.
A perfectly timed glove save here, a rapid pad stop there, a dive to smother a puck at the last second.
The crowd roared, and I felt it vibrate through the rinkside boards, right through me, straight to my chest. I could see him flinch at the cheers, aware of every eye on him, but focused beyond anything else.
First OT, and the energy didn’t let up. The clock seemed irrelevant. The seconds stretched, every pause taut with the threat of sudden death. Hunter was a fortress. A forward spun toward the net, but he was there, glove raised. The puck skittered off his pad, away from the crease.
“Yes!” I whispered, ducking my head, relief flooding me, but the tension didn’t ease. It never did.
I caught a glance of Mason giving a fist pump on the bench, his grin wild, and even Tucker, trying not to jump up, looked half relieved, half exhausted. I couldn’t imagine what it must’ve been like from where they were sitting. My nerves were shot, good and solid.
Second OT hit, and the pace was brutal. The players were visibly tired, movements more labored, but Hunter was electric, eyes sharp, body coiled, every save precise, every reaction perfect.
A slap shot came barreling toward the top corner, a perfect arc.
He leapt, glove flashing, and I could feel the roar of the arena in my teeth as the puck bounced harmlessly off his pad and out.
I had to resist the urge to clap against the glass, to yell, to throw myself forward.
Somehow, in between saves, he caught my eye, a quick flick, a fraction of a second, and I saw the tension, the weight of responsibility he carried for the team, for the game, for every hope resting on this ice.
I wanted to tell him, to remind him he wasn’t alone, that I was there, but I stayed put, letting my presence speak in ways words couldn’t.
“You really care about him. I can tell.” His mom smiled at me, picking a quiet moment to turn her gaze from the ice.
I didn’t know what to say, except, “I’m in love with your son.”
Then I burst out laughing, and she joined, although there was a hint of sadness in her eyes. “I hope he lets us make it up to him. Missing so much. And I can’t thank you enough for that email. For talking sense into my head.”
“You don’t have to explain,” I said, giving her shoulder a squeeze. “You had your reasons, and you’re here now. That’s what matters.”
By the third OT, every muscle in my body screamed.
My hands were pale from gripping the railing.
My throat was hoarse from yelling encouragement to the Surge and booing Florida.
The Panthers were relentless, desperation baked into every attack.
Hunter barely flinched, but I saw the strain in his eyes, the almost imperceptible tightening around his jaw.
I could almost feel his heartbeat from here.
I pressed my hand to the glass, fingers trembling, and muttered, “Come on, Hunter. Come on.”
He was getting tired. I could spot the fatigue from here.
Then it happened. A breakaway, a perfect, lightning-quick shot from the edge of the circle.
Hunter lunged, glove snapping up, but it grazed the puck instead of stopping it, and it slid past him with agonizing slowness.
A disc caught in slow motion. Suspended outside of time and space.
Nobody in the arena dared to breathe. Or blink.
The net swallowed it, and a stunned silence dropped over us. My heart plummeted, stomach hollow, and the roar that followed was a hurricane of heartbreak and awe.
The Surge players skated back slowly, disbelief etched across every face.
Hunter stayed at the crease for a breath longer, staring at the puck in the net as if willing it out.
I felt my own throat tighten, lips parting, wanting to tell him it wasn’t his fault.
Wanting to give him a quick kiss, a reminder that I was here, that I saw his efforts and they were good enough.
I leaned forward, practically pressing myself against the boards. As he skated back toward the bench, jaw clenched, shoulders stiff, I met him halfway, leaning over to press my lips to his cheek quickly.
“You did amazing,” I whispered, just enough for him to hear over the chaos. “I’m proud of you. Every single save—amazing.”
He didn’t say anything. Just a stiff nod, a flash of emotion crossing his face that almost made me break apart, then he turned away, sinking onto the bench, helmet off, hair plastered to his forehead with sweat.
The rest of the guys were just as quiet. Numb. Coach McAvoy didn’t have any words to lift them out of it, either.
“Is it over?” his mom asked, a look of concern on her face.
All I could do was sigh heavily.
The Panthers were already celebrating in tiny clusters, their own relief and triumph mixing with the charged silence from the crowd.
The Surge locker room would be a battlefield, but right here, right now, I just wanted to be closer, wanted to remind him in some physical way that it was going to be okay.
I pulled a deep breath, steadying myself, fingers still pressed against the glass.
My chest burned, adrenaline still thrumming through me.
I watched him sit there, gloves loosened, stick resting across his knees, hair matted.
I leaned closer again, brushing his shoulder softly with my hand as he passed.
Mason shouted something stupid and Tucker laughed loudly, and Hunter’s brief glare at them made me smile despite the weight in my stomach. They teased, but he was only half there, wrapped in the quiet storm of emotion. And I knew—he always was. Always carried it all alone.
As the crowd slowly began filing out, I lingered.
Hunter didn’t look at me, didn’t reach out, didn’t ask for comfort.
And I understood. Sometimes just being present, just being visible, was all you could offer.
I pulled back slightly, letting the rush of the game and the weight of the loss wash over me.
The roar of the fans, the claps, the cries, the lingering suspense.
This was what it meant to care. This was what it felt like when someone you loved poured everything they had into something, and you watched helplessly from the edge.
I let my fingers brush along the railing one last time, watching him collect himself, muscles tight, jaw firm.
I knew there would be a hundred conversations, a thousand ways to reach him once we were alone.
But here, now, I just let myself be. Watching, aching, and ready to step in the second he allowed it.
The team came around, congratulating, patting shoulders, swapping nods and small smiles, but the heat in the pit of my stomach, the ache in my chest, it all remained centered on him.
Hunter. Always Hunter. Every save, every glance, every fraction of a second mattered.
I knew he could feel the tension behind my words and my touch even when it was slight, even when all I could do was murmur encouragement.
And when he finally glanced back at me, eyes meeting mine, I felt the tiniest shift, a hint of something softer, warmer, that told me he hadn’t forgotten. He hadn’t closed me out. Not completely.
His lips twitched. Just the smallest curve of a smile. And I pressed a quick, impulsive kiss to his cheek again, before pulling back. The clock had run out. The final whistle had blown. And I knew in that instant, that even in defeat, even in heartbreak, we would be okay.
*
The locker room was quiet in the way that comes after everything explodes at once.
The scoreboard numbers were gone, the echoes of the final buzzer faded, but the pulse of the game lingered, thrumming behind my ribs.
I stepped in, careful not to crash into the guys as they moved between lockers, stretching, peeling off pads, shaking their heads, muttering under their breath.
Hunter was already at his locker, helmet in one hand, gloves tossed to the bench, shoulders slumped.
The sharp edge of disappointment cut across his face, but it didn’t erase that fire in his eyes, the one that had kept us alive through triple overtime.
I didn’t know where to start. Every instinct screamed at me to fix it, to patch the heartbreak.
But this wasn’t a puzzle I could solve with a press release or a carefully timed statement.
This was raw, human, and there was nothing that could smooth it over.
I took a slow breath, feeling the heat still lingering from the ice, the sting of the arena lights, the adrenaline that had held everyone taut for hours.
“Hey,” I said softly, crossing the floor toward him. He glanced up, lips tight, eyes flicking to mine and away again. His body relaxed just a fraction at the sound of my voice, but his posture stayed guarded, coiled like a spring.