I frowned. “What?”
“I already gave your statement to the relevant outlets. You don’t need to say anything more.”
“You what?”
Her gaze didn’t waver. “I handled it. Go home.”
Something in me snapped, not anger so much as exhaustion cracking open. “I can speak for myself. Especially after tonight. I was captain. How’s it gonna look if I–?”
“It’s going to look how I want it to look,” she replied simply.
I stared at her, sweat still drying on my neck, helmet dangling from my hand. The hallway was empty except for us. The hum of vending machines filled the silence.
Holly didn’t move. Didn’t blink.
I imagined brushing past her, just walking into that press room and saying whatever I damn well pleased. Then I imagined her face if I did that. The fallout.
So I just stood there, jaw tight, while she held the line.
“Go home, Hunter,” she said again, and pushed off the wall, her heels clicking down the hallway.
I watched her go, the noise of the arena still echoing in my ears, the sting of the loss and her cool dismissal tangled in my chest.
11
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?”
