“Got it,” he said, voice quieter this time.
I watched him step back toward the crowd, moving with a growing ease I hadn’t seen before. He interacted with a local reporter, giving a brief quote about the ribbon-cutting and the community, then turned back toward me with the ghost of a grin and a geeky thumbs up.
I drifted around, staying close enough in case he needed me to jump in and save the day. But that moment never came. Hunter had them eating out of the palm of his hand.
“I’ve got this ribbon-cutting thing down,” he said, coming back over to me. “Everyone loves me. Now what?”
I motioned toward the hors d’oeuvres again. “Now we survive the rest of it. Don’t say or do anything stupid and in a couple of hours, you’ll have your first public event under your belt.”
He chuckled softly, shaking his head. “Since I can’t exactly bring up a YouTube video, do you have any step-by-step instructions for me?”
“Remember what we talked about. Keep it light, keep it easy. You’re doing fine.”
“Easy,” he repeated. “Of course. Why didn’t I think of that?”
His anxiety was rising, and it was my job to nip it in the bud before it tanked the whole night.
“One step at a time. Ribbon first, photos second, interviews last.”
He nodded, and we moved toward the staging area. The owner stepped back, holding out the giant oversized scissors with a flourish. Hunter leaned down to get a better grip, and I quietly reminded him, “Thumbs on top.”
He shot me a look, half amused, half exasperated. “You’d be surprised how many online tutorials there are on this.”
I bit back a laugh as he found his mark, scissors aligned. He sliced through the ribbon in one clean motion. The crowd erupted into polite applause and camera flashes. He lifted his head and looked out over the lot, his grin widening, a brief flicker of triumph. A seemingly small moment, but one that eased the undercurrent of his dad’s story.
The media swarmed briefly, microphones thrust forward. Hunter didn’t flinch; he answered questions in short, steady bursts, letting me guide the pacing with a subtle nod here and a gentle redirect there. Each time his hand brushed mine a small charge ran through me. It was quiet, almost imperceptible, but undeniable.
After the last photo was snapped, I pulled him toward a quieter side of the showroom, where a small table of appetizers and drinks offered a bit of reprieve. “See? Nothing exploded in your face. Easy. Like I said.”
Hunter cracked a grin. “No explosion yet, you mean.”
“Yet,” I echoed, watching him carefully. The cameras were still there, but he was handling it. He was growing into this, slowly, and I could see it. He wasn’t just surviving; he was becoming the version of himself that didn’t freeze in front of all these eyes.
He picked up a slider, then looked at me, a question in the tilt of his head.
“What?”
“In the spirit of not needing to control every last detail,” he said, dropping his eyes for a brief moment. “You should join us at the team dinner later.”
Then he coughed. Which was weird. And trained his eyes on something across the room that apparently was way more interesting than what was happening here. I followed his gaze, but found a blank wall. When I turned back, his attention had moved to the corner of the crumpled napkin in his hand.
“Uh–”
“I mean, it’s not a big deal,” he said, clearing his throat. “I was just asking, you know, if you have nothing else going on tonight. Or–”
“I’ll be there,” I said, not bothering to hide my smile.
20
Hunter
The road trip to St. Louis started off poorly, with the Blues scoring in the first thirty seconds of the game. That woke the crowd up, so it felt like we were playing againsttwoopponents.
But we managed to hold on for the next two periods, keeping them from scoring again while our own boys netted two goals of our own.
The locker room still hummed with leftover adrenaline and damp gear smell when Coach came in, clapping his hands once. “Good work out there, boys. That’s the kind of finish I want to see.”
Someone wolf-whistled. A couple of gloves hit the floor. Shawn yelled something about a save I barely remembered making—low blocker side, last period—and the guys whooped like I’d single-handedly won the game.
