I nudged him gently. “So, you’re admitting family matters can be beneficial?”
“Only when it doesn’t highlight what I don’t have,” he said softly, eyes flicking down before meeting mine again.
There it was: that subtle pull of melancholy beneath the banter. I didn’t comment. Didn’t need to. The air between us was enough.
We fell into easy conversation, teasing about the luncheon, making dry jokes about the speeches and awards no one would remember tomorrow. “Honestly, I don’t know how you keep that straight face all the time,” I said, letting my voice hold the ease I didn’t feel.
“You get used to it,” he said, almost reluctantly. “Mostly.” He shook his head, giving me a sidelong glance that carried a mixture of humor and something heavier. I saw it, understood it, felt it too.
We laughed softly, letting the sound float between us. Then Hunter leaned against the railing, brushing a hand through his hair. “You know, it’s easier when someone notices the cracks,” he admitted quietly.
I caught his meaning, nodding, letting a small smile linger. “Noticed,” I said. “Loud and clear.”
He let out a short, almost embarrassed laugh. “Don’t make me regret being honest, okay?”
“Who, me? Never,” I said lightly. But my skin prickled at the vulnerability in his tone.
There was a pause, and I found myself watching him closely. “You really handle this better than anyone realizes,” I said, voice quieter now. “I see it. The pressure, everything.”
Hunter shifted slightly, meeting my gaze fully for the first time. “Maybe,” he said. “But only because someone else is smart enough to cover my blind spots.” There was teasing there, but I saw it—his fleeting acknowledgment of me, and the weight behind it.
“And you’re lucky I’m smart,” I quipped.
“Lucky, yeah,” he said, voice low, almost a murmur, and I could hear the warmth, the faint tremor of emotion threading through it.
We lingered in that space for a beat, laughter and lightness layered over the undercurrent of everything we hadn’t said, everything we’d both been holding back. Then Hunter straightened, giving me a sheepish half-smile.
“I should head back in,” he said, as if testing the water.
I nodded, heart tightening in that skin-prickling way. “Yeah. Go on.”
He hesitated, glancing back at me over his shoulder. “See you later?”
“Away from prying eyes and headline-mongers?” I teased, leaning against the railing.
“Deal,” he said, and the sparkle in his eyes lingered. Something that was ours alone, fleeting but real.
He turned toward the doors, then stopped, just for a moment, looking back as if he might say more. I caught the subtle exhale of him letting go of something, and the way his jaw flexed as he turned fully inside.
I stayed on the balcony a little longer, watching the city shift beneath the afternoon sun. The air was warm, the breeze light, and all I could think about was how quickly it would fade once he disappearedinto the crowd inside.
Finally, I let out a breath, a slow, quiet release, the kind that comes after holding your pulse steady for too long. I didn’t think, because thinking would make me pause, and pausing would make me not do the thing. I typed out a quick email, no frills, just the facts as they basically were. The recipient’s address was saved in my contacts as a formality when I first started working for the team; when Bob brought me on as Hunter’s PR consultant. It was part of all the personal information I might need at my disposal.
A soft ding signaled the point of no going back, and I tucked my phone away, heart still tugging at that moment, knowing I had acted, taken a step, and that Hunter didn’t yet know. What came next would either mend or unravel things. But that would be his call, and mine could only wait.
30
Hunter
The roar of the crowd was deafening, a pulse that thumped through my ribs and swallowed everything else. Playoffs. Round 3, Game 6. Dallas. The kind of game people wrote headlines about before it was even over. The kind of game that made or broke careers.
I’d been locked in all night. Hands steady, mind sharper than it had been in weeks. The boys were on it too. We’d been skating like we meant it, fighting like it was our last. Maybe it was. If Dallas took this one, the series was theirs.
The air inside the arena had that electric, tight quality it got when everything mattered. Sweat, ice, adrenaline. It all mixed into one living thing. I adjusted my mask, crouched low, eyes following the puck as it cut across the neutral zone. Tucker blocked a shot, sending it flying our way.
I called out, “Left side!” before it even registered that he’d lost control and the puck was ricocheting toward me.
I caught it cleanly in the glove. Whistle. The crowd erupted.
