“Nothing you can’t do with Wi-Fi and YouTube at your disposal,” he said, as though the conflict from earlier never happened. “It’s called a Nicky knot, in case you were wondering. I picked it because of the name, not the look.”
“And here I was thinking you developed some culture while I wasn’t looking.”
He laughed out loud, hand still on the door handle. “Oh, Griswold, you should know better by now.”
I smiled despite myself and pushed the email out of my mind. Chicago could wait. Right now, this ribbon-cutting event is whatmattered. The one I went to great lengths to secure so we could salvage his image.
We walked toward the exit together, our strides almost in sync, the late afternoon light streaming across the concrete floors. “So what do you think? Do I look like someone who can cut a ribbon?” he asked with a teasing grin.
I quirked an eyebrow. “Maybe after a few more weeks to buff up your arms.”
His laugh was full and light, and I caught a glimpse of who he must’ve been before all this pressure came down on him. Just a guy who loved hockey, cutting up the ice.
I kept my tone easy as we continued to the car. “You’ve got to be on your best behavior. Cameras, crowds, questions. They’re all coming for you. Don’t get sloppy. Don’t let your guard down. They’ll be fired up to bait you. Don’t take it.”
“I’ve got this,” he said, and there was a flash of the old confidence I’d seen him wield before. But behind the words, I knew he was still feeling the sting of the latest headlines. He didn’t need to say it out loud. After everything he confided in me about his family, I didn’t expect anything less.
We stepped outside, the sun lower now, brushing the horizon with an amber glow. The wind carried the distant sounds of post-game cleanups and occasional laughter from the crew still lingering. The city smelled faintly of asphalt warmed by the day, the faint tang of coffee from the arena concessions, and the promise of something big waiting down the road.
“If all this goes to plan, you’ll be out of the shitstorm by morning,” I said, more to convince myself than him.
*
The doors slid open, and we stepped into the showroom, a wall ofsunlight bouncing off polished chrome and sparkling new paint. The banners hanging from the ceiling caught the late afternoon light, bold letters spelling outLone Star Auto. Hunter’s eyes tracked everything, moving quickly from the ribbon stretched taut across the entrance to the small stage where a local news camera crew was setting up. I could feel him taking it all in, saw the weight of it pressing lightly against his shoulders.
The dealership owner came forward, waving both of us over.
“We couldn’t have asked for a better showstopper than the newest Surge star,” he said, slapping Hunter on the back.
Hunter’s hand went to the ribbon like he wasn’t sure where to rest it, the corners of his mouth turning up slightly as he nodded. “Pleasure to be here, sir. Especially because I like cars.”
The guy laughed so hard his belly rolled beneath his dress shirt. “A few of my admin staff sure like you, so I guess it’s turning out to be a good deal for all.”
My gaze followed the thumb he hiked over his shoulder and sure enough, a gaggle of women (receptionists, probably) were staring at Hunter.
I caught the small twitch of his fingers as he adjusted his jacket, the brief pause before his smile widened just enough to show the surprise, the humility in the middle of all the attention. Not awkward exactly, just absorbing it all, figuring out where he fit in this spotlight.
“Now, I’ve got to take care of a phone call,” the owner said, waving us off and disappearing down a side hallway.
I waited a beat, letting the moment settle, then stepped close. “Follow me,” I said, steering him toward a small table set up with sliders, fruit skewers, and sparkling water. It was tucked away from the throng of media, quiet enough to get through to him.
He trailed behind, hands at his sides, shifting his weight once, twice, before finally letting his attention relax on the tray of food. I gestured for him to grab a plate, not taking my eyes off him.
“Sorry,” he muttered. “I’m trying to be normal and stuff. It’s just…”
“Here’s the plan.” I put him out of his misery by taking point. “You’re going to do exactly what you did when you were on the ice tonight: breathe, focus, and keep it simple. Everyone here wants a picture, a quote, a soundbite. Give them what they need without giving them anything they can twist.”
He gave an exasperated sigh and tugged at his tie. “How am I supposed to know what they’ll twist or not? I mean, it sounds simple, but–”
“It’s never simple. But you can do this,” I said, sliding a small skewer into his hand. “You’ve handled worse. Trust me.”
He swallowed hard, and I watched the tension in his jaw ease just slightly as he nodded.
“I can do it,” he said. Not the bravado I expected, just a quiet affirmation. I allowed myself a small satisfaction. This was him at his core, beneath all the media noise, showing the control he always had on the ice.
We moved together a few steps toward the edge of the room, just far enough from the reporters. A faint brush of his hand as he reached for a drink made my stomach lurch slightly. A small, fleeting contact that spoke more than a look ever could. I didn’t acknowledge it, just offered instructions to keep the fluttering in my belly from wreaking too much havoc.
“Keep it light, friendly. Smile, but not too wide or you’ll seem desperate. Or crazy. Or both. Nod when they ask questions, answer in a sentence or two, then move on. You’re the story, and you decide which chapters they have access to. Got it?”
