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.”
