“Watching the kid again, huh?”
I jumped slightly, spinning toward the sound. Coach McAvoy stood beside me, glass in hand, his eyes following the same path I’d just been fixated on. My heart hit a quick staccato in my chest.
“I— uh, just getting a drink,” I said, trying to keep my voice casual.
He chuckled in a way that suggested he wasn’t buying it. “It’s okay. I feel bad for him too. Every year the team has their family luncheon, and every year I gotta look at him moping around without any.”
“We all have our stuff,” I said, working hard to sound unaffected. He had a reason. He was Hunter’s coach. I was supposed to be nobody. “Besides, he’s not the only one without family here today.”
He downed the last of his drink and poured a refill immediately after. “Makes me ten times more grateful I have Cass around.”
“She’s your daughter?”
“What, you don’t see the resemblance?” Then he laughed, loud and hearty. I had no choice but to join in. It was either that, or point out how I seemed to have missed Cass’ rotund form and balding head.
Coach’s eyes softened. He leaned against the counter a little, giving me a side glance, as though he was gauging my reaction. “You know, that’s why it’s good the boy’s got you around. Keeps him grounded. Stops him from feeling like he’s missing something he can’t get back.”
The faintest warmth crept up my neck, tinged with something deeper. It wasn’t just pride. It wasn’t just satisfaction at doing my job well. It was heartbreak, too, and a sudden awareness of just how much I’d grown to care for him. More than I had any right to.
I nodded, keeping my eyes on the bubbles rising in my glass. “He’s… one hell of a player. Amazing on the ice,” I said quietly, letting the words hover there, true but careful.
Not too much, not a confession. Just acknowledgment.
Coach lifted a brow. “Amazing, yeah. But he’s human, too. Needs people to notice the stuff that doesn’t make the highlight reels. That’s why he keeps you close. He trusts you.”
I blinked, taking in the gentle weight of his words. My heart thudded in my ribs, a slow, insistent rhythm that made it impossible to turn my gaze away from Hunter. He was laughing now at something a teammate said to a parent, leaning just slightly to ruffle a kid’s hair. The crease between his brows softened, but the edges of that old loneliness lingered in his posture, and it made me ache in a way I hadn’t expected.
I took a slow sip of my water, trying to steady myself. “I guess I just… it’s hard sometimes. Watching him, seeing what he doesn’t have, and wanting to—” I stopped, realizing I was about to say too much. I looked at Coach, forcing a smile. “—help in whatever way I can.”
He gave me a small nod, understanding more than I said. “That’s all anyone can ask. Just be there. That’s enough. More than enough, actually.”
I glanced at Hunter again. The way he was standing, casual yet tense. And it hit me all over again how much he carried on his own, how much he needed someone paying attention, someone invested. And there I was, feeling both pride and the sting of helplessness, knowing that no matter what I did, I couldn’t replace his family.
“And hey,” Coach said, breaking through the fog in my head, “don’t get all caught up in feeling like you have to fix him. He’s going to do what he’s going to do. But he notices. And he remembers. Trust me on that.”
I nodded, swallowing back the lump in my throat. My gaze flicked to him once more, and I saw the faintest brush of a smile cross his face when he caught me watching. Not the full, knowing smile, just a subtle acknowledgment that I was there.
Coach clapped a hand on my shoulder, shaking me gently out ofmy reverie. “Don’t let him see your pity. It’s a useless emotion anyways.”
I chuckled softly, grateful for the diversion, and let my eyes sweep the room one last time. My gaze lingered on Hunter just a beat longer than it should have, and then I turned back to the bar. I poured another glass of water for myself, letting the cool liquid ground me, and took a slow, deliberate sip.
Coach took a step back, giving me a small, approving nod. “Go on,” he said. “Do what you do best. Keep him… balanced.”
I smiled faintly, the weight in my chest both lighter and heavier at the same time. I was here for the playoffs, for the team, but more than that, I was here for him. And watching him navigate these family moments, the brief glimpses of what he wished he could have, made my heart ache.
I took one last look before returning to the staff table, adjusting my composure, slipping seamlessly back into professional mode. My hand lingered on the glass for a moment, and I let my mind quiet down. The chatter and laughter of the room washed over me, but my eyes kept finding him where he was, unaware of the exact weight of my gaze, the little ache in my chest that was equal parts protectiveness, admiration… and yes, love. Though I wouldn’t dare name it out loud.
I pressed send on a quick schedule email for the post-game press and let my hands rest in my lap, letting my breath even out. Nothing about this moment would show outwardly. Everyone around me would see calm, control, professionalism. But I’d seen him, really seen him, and it was enough to leave me both exhilarated and achingly raw.
As the luncheon wound down I spotted him slipping out onto the balcony, giving himself a little space from the crowd. I followed, not too close, just enough to catch him before he disappeared completely. The afternoon sunlight spilled across the terrace, warm against my skin, carrying the faint hum of the city below.
“Nice break from all the noise in there?” I asked, leaning on the railing beside him.
He glanced at me and shrugged, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Yeah. Not exactly my natural habitat.” His eyes flicked toward the tables inside, where the rest of the team lingered with their families. “Though, Tucker… he’s a different guy with his grandmother around. Even stopped cussing.”
I laughed. “Really? The same Tucker who made three of us spill our drinks last week?”
“Same guy,” Hunter said, shaking his head. “She’s good for him. Keeps him grounded.” There was a humor in his voice, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. I could see it, the small weight of what he didn’t have.
