Page 119 of Coach's Temptation

Hunter took one look at me and agreed to let me rest. We arranged he’d come over in the morning so we could finally talk.

And now?

Now I’m a fucking nervous wreck.

I groan, pressing the heels of my hands into my eyes before sitting up.

I’m alone. Inmybed. Inmyapartment. And for the first time since the renovations, it actually feels like mine.

Sunlight filters through brand-new blackout curtains that actuallywork, not the thin, barely-there ones I used to have. My comforter is thick, plush, the kind that should make me feel like I’m floating on a cloud—but somehow, I still feel like I didn’t sleep at all.

I stumble out of bed, and even my kitchen smells different. Like amazingly rich coffee, cinnamon, and something warm and buttery. I follow the scent, heart hammering, and stop dead in my tracks.

Hunter Brody is in my kitchen.

Like he belongs there. Like he’s done this a million times before.

And he has—except this time, there’s a difference.

He's got a big bag of Summit Café pastries.

My stomach tightens.

Because of course he’s doing this. Feeding me. Taking care of me in the only way he knows how, even when he’s the one who broke my heart in the first place.

I clear my throat. “Is this your way of making peace?”

He looks up, and fuck, I feel it. The weight of everything we didn’t say last night, pressing thick between us like a storm cloud that hasn't yet hit.

“Figured if I’m fighting for my life, I should at least keep you fed.”

A choked huff escapes me. Because it’s so Hunter, this wholeact first, talk laterroutine. It’s how we got into this mess in the first place.

He nudges a plate toward me. A perfectly plated cinnamon bun and my favorite blueberry scone.

I step forward, my legs like jelly. His scent reminds me of that body wash I love and the fresh laundry fragrance that lingers on his bedding. His hair is still damp from a shower, and he's got a casual Icehawks tee-shirt on that clings to his muscles in a way that makes me want to forget this whole thing completely.

He shifts, watching me carefully. “Big win last night.”

I pick up my coffee and sip instead of responding.

“We get Game Two, we go to Vegas up two-nothing.”

I nod, taking a slow sip. Small talk. Safe talk.

But nothing about this is safe.

His bruised knuckles catch my eye, and my fingers twitch, instinct begging me to reach out, to check on him, to press my lips over the raw skin and tell him I love him.

Instead, I exhale sharply and set my coffee down.

“Is this you pretending everything’s fine, or are we actually going to talk about it?”

Hunter goes still and releases a long, heavy sigh.

Then, finally, he leans back against the counter, arms crossing over his chest. A defensive position. A battle stance.

“Okay. You wanna talk? Fine.” His voice is low, rough. Tired. “But I’m not doing it on an empty stomach.”

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