He froze, jaw tight, and I could see the hurt flaring behind his eyes. The same hurt he’d carried the night he told me about his mom and little brother, the same one he’d tried to bury beneath humor and bravado.
“I’ve been taught to face things head-on,” he muttered, voice lower now but trembling. “You think I’m ready to skate around it forever?”
“And what exactly are you going to say, Hunter?” I leaned forward, voice sharp, cutting through his self-righteous indignation. “I haven’t seen my deadbeat dad in years. I’m nothing like him. Now please buy tickets to the next game? Or are you going to apologize for him?Confess to a world that doesn’t care beyond the shock value? You don’t get a special platform just because it hurts. You’re not unique here.”
He sagged back, the words hitting him in ways he hadn’t anticipated. For a moment he was quiet, rocking back on his heels, trying to reconcile the truth of my delivery with his instinct to fight. Then he muttered, almost reluctantly, “Yeah, something like that.”
I let the silence settle, knowing exactly the effect it would have. “Something like that isn’t enough,” I said with a scoff. “You have no idea what you’re dealing with. You think a few heartfelt words will change the media cycle? You think sincerity matters when you’re a commodity? Honesty never wins.” My tone was steady, icy even, but my mind was racing to balance every consequence, every leak I’d managed to kill, every media contact I’d leaned on to hold this together. This was my world, and I had to control it.
He narrowed his eyes, the hurt curdling into defiance. “It’s the truth, isn’t it? How is it ever a bad thing to be honest?” His words were deliberate, sharp, meant to cut.
I watched as the statement reverberated through the space between us, and I could see the impact before I even responded. His shoulders stiffened, and his jaw ticked. A mix of challenge and pain.
“Because truth doesn’t matter in the headlines,” I said. “All that matters is perception. And right now, perception is everything. You don’t get to waltz in here and treat the world like it owes you an understanding it will never give. You are not immune, Hunter. You are not special.”
He flinched, the words landing like stones in his gut. His gaze dropped, then rose again, sharper, harder. “You think you can tell me how to live my life?” There was fire in his voice now, a challenge, a test. He was trying to regain footing, but he didn’t understand the full extent of what I was balancing, the stakes of my role. “I’m the one out there. I should be allowed to deal with this, not just wait while you spin everything for me.”
“You’re not allowed to do anything until I say you can,” I shot back, tone unyielding. “Do you think I enjoy having to protect youfrom your own skeletons? Do you think it’s easy to hold back a story that’s already gone viral? You’re not negotiating here, Hunter. You’re in no position to do that. What you do now is follow my instructions.”
A flash of something dark passed through his eyes, and he leaned forward, voice dropping to a low, cutting edge. “So, it’s all business. You don’t give a damn about me as a person. Just the brand.”
The accusation hit me with more force than I expected. He was right, in a way. I was balancing, managing, protecting, and somewhere beneath it all, my own reaction to him—the lines between professional and personal always thinner than anyone would guess—was straining. But he couldn’t know that.
“I care about what you can do, Hunter,” I said, each word measured, lethal in its honesty. “And you care about what you can’t control. That’s where we’re at. Stop acting like I don’t see you, like I don’t understand what this is doing to you. I do. But it doesn’t matter. Because if this goes sideways, it’s more than your feelings that get hurt. It’s your career, the team, every person depending on you to be a pro. That matters more than anything else.”
I could see the subtle shift in his stance, the way his hands flexed at his sides, the tight exhale. For a moment there was a pause, a reckoning moment, a weightless second where everything we’d built—the trust, the late-night sessions, the subtle intimacies, the glimpses of connection—balanced on a knife edge.
His jaw tightened, eyes hard. “You always put the job first, don’t you? Everything’s about the narrative, the spin, the brand. And me? I don’t even exist outside of it. No wonder you’re alone in all of this.”
I stared at him, the words slicing through, but I didn’t soften. I didn’t move. I had to be steel in this moment, because the stakes were real.
“Get out,” I said, voice steady, unwavering. “Let me do my job.”
He hesitated, hurt flickering across his features, one last attempt to push, to argue, to reclaim some part of the conversation. “You don’t get it—”
“I said get out and let me do my job.”
With a growl, he turned, the office door slamming behind him. The echo reverberated long after he was gone. I sank into my chair, letting the air in the room settle. Alone now, I allowed the weight to press down. The responsibility, the anger, the frustration, the personal stake. The room was quiet and still enough for me to feel the tug of every decision I’d just enforced, every line I’d drawn between professional necessity and personal feeling.
I closed my eyes for a moment and let it all sit. The headlines, the viral posts, the brand, the man behind it, and the wedge I’d just driven between us. Everything was fine in theory, perfectly managed. But the theory had cracks. And somewhere deep, I felt the strain, the tug, the reminder that even the most controlled chaos carries the risk of collateral damage. I had done my job, but the ache of it lingered.
18
Hunter
“Tonight, Pittsburgh isn’t coming in for a friendly skate,” Coach said, leaning against the bench, voice carrying through the locker room. “They’re coming in to prove they’re better than us, and every line, every shift, counts. Don’t let them dictate the pace. Make them adjust to you, not the other way around.”
I nodded at the speech, even though my mind wasn’t in the room. Holly’s words from earlier in her office kept hammering in the back of my skull. Her telling me to leave, insisting my feelings had to wait while she did her job. It still stung, sharper than any puck I’d ever faced.
Theo shifted beside me, tossing a towel onto the floor. “You look like hell, man. Get it together.”
I offered a half-smile I didn’t feel. Coach’s eyes swept the room again, resting briefly on me. “Callahan, tonight you’re the wall. Don’t give them an inch. Eyes up, head sharp.”
I exhaled, trying to anchor myself to something tangible: the weight of the pads, the feel of the stick, the sound of the rink doors sliding behind the other guys. Keep it mechanical. Keep it simple. Focus.
The locker room door opened. Holly stepped in, purposeful, poised. But she wasn’t here for me. Instead, she went straight to Coach, tapping a folder in his hand.
“Coach, I need a moment. It’s the post-match presser script. I’ll run you through the points so nothing slips.”
