“I have my moments,” she replied, and then she held my gaze while she smoothed her hair and put it back up. “Better?”
“I prefer it down.”
She bit back a shy smile, then said, “I meant, are you feeling better?”
Well, shit.
I gave a nervous laugh and shifted in my chair. “Yeah, thanks. Way better.”
She leaned back again, neutral on the surface, but I noticed the faint softening around her eyes. She’d just allowed me to see a crack, a tiny sliver of who she was beneath all the control and professionalism. And instead of being weird about it, covering up before it goes any further, she was comfortable to let it sit there.
“You know,” I said, trying to lighten the moment, “our sessions would go a lot better if we do this kind of thing first.”
“Not a chance.” She suddenly needed to shuffle papers and urgently check something on her laptop. “I have professional boundaries, and they won’t be compromised.”
I laughed, low and genuine. “Of course, I’d never get in the way of you doing your job.”
“Oh, please,” she said without looking away from her screen. “You couldn’t if you tried.”
“Give me another week, Griswold. I can tell you’re getting soft on me.”
She froze for a fraction of a second, and I braced myself for her witty comeback. But it never came. Nothing did. Aside from the searching look she gave me, the corners of her mouth tilting up just a smidge. Not quite a smile, but enough to make me do a double-take. A subtle acknowledgement of what I’d said without conceding anything at all.
Go figure.
15
Holly
The roar of the crowd hit me the second I stepped into my seat right across from Hunter’s posts. The arena lights glared against the ice like a stage set, and the Surge were already flying. There were no lazy line changes tonight, no sloppy puck control. Every pass was crisp, and every hit timed to perfection. And Hunter—God help him—was a wall.
He moved like the net was an extension of himself. One moment crouched low, stick flat; the next, springing up to snatch a wrister out of the air with his glove. The sound of the puck against leather cracked like a whip. He flicked it away, no big deal, as if the entire arena hadn’t just gasped. As if hundreds of women weren’t almost passing out with delirium over his performance.
I shifted forward on the edge of my seat without meaning to. Totally rapt. Sweat had already slicked his hair to his forehead, his mouthguard tugged slightly between his teeth. For a ridiculous second I caught myself fixating on the way his shoulders flexed beneath his jersey as he pushed off the post. So strong and capable. He didn’t look anything like the guy sulking through interview drills in my hotel room not too long ago.
“Holy shit!” Mason shouted from the ice as he streaked past a defender on the breakout. “Nice block, Callahan!”
Theo skated backward just long enough to jab at him with his stick. “Now you’re just showing off!”
Hunter didn’t even acknowledge them. He was dialed in.
The Oilers pressed hard. Two-on-one, then a sneaky pass to the slot. Hunter tracked it the whole way, kicked out a pad, and sent the rebound screaming into the corner. The crowd behind me jumped to their feet, beer sloshing, voices hammering against the glass.
I pressed my lips together to hide the smile creeping up. He deserved this. The noise, the pure, unfiltered rush. This was the part of his life that no press release or sponsorship deal could bottle up and market to the masses. This was all him.
Maybe it was everything that had happened between us in the last few weeks. Maybe it was that provocative sneaker shoot with the strategically placed props.
Whatever the reason, those glimpses under his armor held on, clattering around in my head even as he squared up in the crease.
Another slapshot came screaming in from the blue line. Hunter dropped low, stick angled, then punched the puck out with his blocker. The rebound ricocheted to Theo, who cleared it good and solid.
The surge of adrenaline around me was contagious. I was on my feet and yelling when Mason took a feed from Shawn, and barreled down the right side on a breakaway. The Oilers’ goalie sprawled, Mason deked, then flipped it in. Goal horn. The arena exploded.
I caught Hunter’s glance across the ice while the guys mobbed Mason. The briefest acknowledgment, but it landed hard and settled with enough warmth to make me flush.
I sank back into my seat with a silent reminder that I was on the job.
The rest of the game blurred in bursts of motion. Edmonton answered back with a power-play goal, tying it up. Hunter slammed his stick once against the post, jaw tight. Then he reset, ready. In the third, he sprawled for a desperate glove save that had the crowd chanting hisname. “Cal-la-han! Cal-la-han!” I caught myself whispering it under my breath before I realized what I was doing.
