I took a bite of the sandwich and chewed slowly, tasting the tuna but also the faint salt of the city air coming through the window. Everything around me was technically perfect, efficient, and safe. Everything except the pulse of the life I’d chosen to leave behind. And him, of course.
By the time the clock in the corner of the office hit five, I was packing up my laptop, shutting down the screens that had shown press releases, schedules, and strategic plans for upcoming campaigns. I slung my bag over my shoulder, straightened my skirt one more time, and glanced out the floor-to-ceiling window at the city below. Chicago glittered in the late afternoon sun, tall buildings reflecting each other in an orderly, perfect maze.
I exhaled slowly. Yes, this was the life I had chosen. No chaos, no yelling, no high-stakes adrenaline crises. Just work done, done correctly, and done on schedule. Just me, a corporate drone with a title, a desk, and deadlines.
But as I stepped into the elevator, shutting out the polished floor and controlled calm behind me, I felt the pull of the rink, of ice and sweat and adrenaline and the impossible, maddening, intoxicating presence of Hunter Callahan.
I pressed the button for the street level, tried to shake off the persistent thoughts of him skating, of the locker room banter, of his cheeky grin after a save that had made a game turn on its head. I reminded myself this was exactly what I wanted.
And yet, as the elevator dinged and the doors slid open, I stepped onto the street and took a long breath, the hum of traffic and city lifewashing over me. I had the job I’d fought for, the desk, the coworkers who were kind, brilliant, helpful. Everything a career in PR should look like. And I was totally and utterly underwhelmed.
The apartment was quiet except for the low hum of the TV. I had my laptop closed, a stack of unpacked boxes leaning against the wall, and a beer in my hand, sweating just enough to make it feel like a reward for surviving another day of corporate monotony. I perched on the edge of the couch, every muscle still carrying the tension from moving, and pretending to be completely fine with Chicago, even though every fiber of me was elsewhere.
The screen lit up with the opening faceoff of Game 6. Minnesota Wild versus the Surge, and I could already feel my pulse picking up. I’d tried to stay away from the scores all week, just to avoid the tension, but now? Now I couldn’t look away.
Hunter was in goal, as he should be, standing tall and focused. The first few minutes were a blur of skates, sticks, and puck, but then it happened: Minnesota made a break, the puck skittered toward the crease, and Hunter’s reflexes went from sharp to supernatural. He dove, stretching every inch of him across the ice, and snatched the puck from the edge of the goal. My beer paused mid-air as I audibly swallowed.
I leaned forward on the couch, heart hammering in my ears. Every time the puck came toward him, he was there, slamming it away, guiding it back out to the defensemen, and skating with an intensity that made it impossible to look away. I grabbed a second beer, sliding the first onto the coffee table, my fingers brushing the condensation and ignoring the ping of a new email. Corporate stuff, probably congratulating me on surviving my first week. I didn’t touch it. This was bigger than emails. This was him.
Minnesota got another break. One-on-one now. Hunter crouched, eyes fixed, and I could practically see him calculating angles in real time. He moved like a predator, muscles coiling, then sprung into action, glove outstretched. The puck hit the corner of the net and bounced away, but he followed it instantly, covering it with his stick before it could even settle. I exhaled a breath I hadn’t realized I’d beenholding.
I wasn’t sure how long I’d been watching, beer in hand, barely blinking, until the Surge got a break of their own. The puck flew past the defense, one of the forwards took a shot from the blue line, and it ricocheted off the boards, straight to Hunter. Without hesitation, he passed it down ice, and within seconds, a perfect counter-attack was in motion. Theo, a blur of a defenseman in motion, carried it up the wing, passed to Shawn at the top of the circle, and boom—a clean, unblocked shot. The net rattled, the sound of a perfect goal, and I threw my hands over my face, groaning in exhilaration.
“Come on,” I muttered, bouncing slightly on the edge of the couch. “Come on, guys. Keep it.”
Hunter’s saves didn’t let up. Every time Minnesota tried to get past him, he was there, blocking, tipping, guiding. My beer became a second-hand prop. I barely touched it, too caught up in the game, too aware of his skill and the precision of his movements. My thumb hovered over the fridge handle more than once, grabbing another beer almost reflexively, because focus demanded it.
Somewhere in the second period, I heard the ping of another email and glanced at the screen. Work again. A colleague congratulating me on a successful first week, just a small note of support. I ignored it. Everything in me was back there, in San Antonio, in the rink, standing behind Hunter, knowing every move he made, knowing what he was capable of, and feeling that helpless flutter of being somewhere else entirely while he was in the moment of his life.
By the third period, it was down to a single point difference. Minnesota pressed hard, pushing everything forward. The Surge were tired, their faces slick with sweat, jerseys sticking, sticks raised and angled, passes sharp and precise but their goalie was untouchable. Hunter’s body bent and twisted with perfect timing, and I could barely believe what I was seeing. One shot deflected off the post, he snatched it midair, spinning it back out. The crowd’s roar echoed through my TV speakers, and I knew that the Surge fans in the arena were losing their voices screaming for him.
And then it happened, the final minute. Minnesota broke through the defense, three-on-one. I jumped, gripping the beer like a lifeline. Hunter read it, moved with a precision I hadn’t thought possible, blocked the first shot, smothered the second, and passed it forward. Grayson carried it down ice, flung a perfect wrist shot toward the empty net, and it was over.
Surge won. Playoffs still alive. I exhaled in a rush of relief and disbelief, leaning back on the couch, feeling my chest and stomach unclench. My fingers grazed the condensation on the beer can, then absently tapped it, staring at the screen as the players celebrated.
But the post-game highlights weren’t over. There was a segment showing the players coming off the ice, some smiles, some exhaustion, cameras flashing everywhere. I watched, waiting. My pulse quickened when the cameras focused on the tunnel. I didn’t realize I’d stood, beer forgotten on the coffee table.
Hunter emerged first, sweat-slicked and glowing, helmet under his arm. Reporters crowded the space, mics angled toward him, questions flying. He answered each one with charm, wit, and ease, the kind of smooth professionalism he had honed with me at his side. He laughed at one joke from a reporter, glanced down the tunnel, and I froze, waiting for the moment I knew was coming.
And then, softly but clearly, he said, “Honestly… I wouldn’t be here without Holly Griswold. She’s been incredible, guiding me, keeping me on track, making sure I can focus on my game. I wouldn’t be standing here without her.”
I blinked. My stomach lurched, a warmth I couldn’t name spreading through me. My beer slipped from my hand and hit the rug with a wet thud, but I didn’t care. He… he said it. My name. He credited me, publicly, wholeheartedly. For the first time, the magnitude of what I’d done and what we’d done together hit me full force.
I sank to the couch, clutching the edge of the cushion. Tears pricked my eyes, hot and unbidden, and I pressed a hand to my mouth, shaking slightly. I couldn’t—wouldn’t—believe it if someone else had told me. And yet there he was, the man I had walked out on,giving me the credit I’d never thought I’d deserve.
I thought about the bar fight, the PR statements, the pressure, the stress, the chaos I’d navigated to get him here. And I’d faltered. I’d left him. I’d doubted him. I’d doubted myself. And now, hearing him say my name like that, admitting that he’d relied on me and trusted me? It felt like every misstep, every decision, every moment of panic I’d felt was worth it, and yet… it stung.
My vision blurred, and I leaned back, the couch pressing against my back. I couldn’t stop the thought from surfacing: he’d been counting on me. And I’d left.
The reporter moved on, and Hunter’s team members crowded around, congratulating him, lifting sticks, slapping backs. But my focus didn’t shift. I was seeing him in a way I hadn’t let myself fully admit before. Every calculated pass, every perfect save, every sly smile, every moment of trust I’d earned and failed to protect came together in a single, awful, beautiful rush.
I didn’t move for several minutes, just watching him on the screen, letting the weight of it all settle over me. And then I did it, almost without thinking: I opened my laptop, searched flights, and typed in San Antonio.
26
Hunter
The knock pulled me from the fog of sleep, every nerve still tangled in the remnants of dreams. I stumbled to the door, half-blind.
