She didn’t say anything. Just looked at me.
“Sorry, it’s just… you mentioned why I play,” I said, backpedaling faster than nostalgia and years of hurt knew what to do with. “He was a deadbeat. Loved with his fists. I had to get out of that house.”
The quiet was tender, and she let me be in it.
“If it weren’t for hockey,” I went on, feeling an uninvited clamp over my heart. “Well, I’m sure you can fill in the blanks.”
She placed a hand on my shoulder, and there was none of that mild annoyance that normally came when I went off on a tangent. It was the tiniest crack in her professional armor, and it hit me harder than any puck ever could. The understanding I saw in her eyes.
I placed a hand over hers, and held her there. Closed my eyes to the weight of her touch on me.
“Okay.” Holly cleared her throat, pulling back her hand as if she’d been burned. “That’s enough for tonight. Good job. Go get some rest.”
I couldn’t resist a smirk. “Don’t get used to me being this compliant.”
“Noted,” she replied lightly. But I didn’t miss the smallest hint of pity in her tone.
I walked to the door, angry at myself for overstepping. I should never have gotten that personal. Not with someone who took being professional to a whole other level. I blamed it on exhaustion, the whiskey, the lie of intimacy wrapped in this hotel room.
“Good night.” Her voice pulled me out of my head when I reached the door.
I looked over, and a soft tension settled between us. Her eyes were locked on mine, seemingly acknowledging the change that happened here tonight. We weren’t professional sparring partners anymore, that was for sure.
The seconds stretched. I wanted to say something, but all the words became lodged in my throat. I caught the faint curve of her lips, the way her hair framed her face, the softness beneath her sharp edges that she kept so well-hidden.
Holly opened the door, gesturing with a lazy arm in case I’d forgotten the way. The signal couldn’t be clearer, and I stepped out with a quiet ‘Good night’.
The walk to the elevator was slow and drenched in overthinking, despite how tired I was. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but I knew I didn’t totally hate her anymore.
9
Holly
My office was technically an old storage closet, but it was mine. A small, cluttered desk, laptop perched on one side, stacks of campaign notes on the other. Nothing glamorous, but more than enough for me to do what needed to be done.
“Really impressive work, Holly,” Bob said, looming behind me with that familiar tone that suggested condescension rather than praise. “I mean, for someone this new to the world of hockey.”
“Thanks, Bob.” My fingers moved over the keyboard without stopping. “I just make sure the work speaks for itself.”
He huffed, like that was cute or funny. “Yes, yes, but the public? They don’t see the work, you see. They only see the final product. That’s why I’ve been supervising you closely. To make sure your instincts are–”
“—on point. I know, and I appreciate the oversight.”
I appreciated nothing about the man, and my tone spelled it out loud and clear. But Bob was the kind of guy who didn’t pick up on nuance, which was one of the biggest reasons he was so bad at his job.
His eyebrows twitched. “Good. Because you’re dealing with Hunter, and I don’t need a repeat of last season’s disasters. Clear?”
“Crystal,” I said, opening his familiar frustration like a door I’d already stepped through.
While he droned on, I pulled up Hunter’s social media feed, knowing that one slip here could undo all my careful work. I clicked through his posts, scanning the DMs, his tagged photos, any hint of behavior I needed to prune or reframe. My fingers hovered over one particular DM, the one that made my stomach tighten ever so slightly, the one from some model Hunter had tagged weeks ago. I ignored the first pang of irritation, the warmth of jealousy that tickled at the edges. It wasn’t jealousy. There was nothing to be jealous about.
Bob’s voice continued, cutting through the quiet of the corner office. “I mean, Holly, honestly—sometimes I wonder if you’re actually keeping up with the pace of a pro athlete’s life. It’s relentless. You need to stay ahead of the curve, yes?”
My eyes were still glued to my screen, but I nodded to hide the spike of tension in my chest.
“Good. Because you’re dealing with sponsorships, with public appearances, with…”
I bit back a sigh, scrolling down through the DM thread. The latest message was provocative, flirtatious, a reminder that Hunter existed in a world I couldn’t always control. I clicked over to the model’s profile. Work, nothing more. It was my job to know what we were dealing with. Perfect photos, perfect lifestyle, every shot curated and glossy. Sunsets in Santorini, poolside mornings in Capri, flawless angles of her flawless body in every frame.
