Page 123 of Coach's Temptation

"Let's win Game Two, and then baby, before we fly to Vegas, I've got one last stop."

I narrow my eyes. "Where?"

He smirks.

"To see your parents."

Hunter just slaps me on the ass and grabs another damn pastry.

Like he didn’t just drop that nuclear bomb right here in my kitchen.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

Chapter Thirty

Hunter

Ipull up to the Hayes' house, killing the Ferrari's engine. The suburban cookie-cutter home sits pristine and lifeless - beige siding, manicured shrubs, not a blade of grass out of place.

Nothing like the beautiful vibrant chaos that is their daughter.

My hands tighten on the wheel. This is where Natalie learned to make herself small. Where she watched love become a daily negotiation of criticism and silence.

I take a breath, step out, and make my way up the short walkway. The wind rattles an old wind chime by the door, the kind that should sound peaceful but somehow just… doesn’t.

Martha opens the door before I reach it, her perfectly coiffed hair at odds with her confused expression.

“Hunter?” She glances past me like she’s expecting to see Natalie. “She’s not here…”

“I know.” I slide my hands into my pockets. “I came to talk to you both.”

Her eyebrows lift, suspicion flashing through her sharp brown eyes. “Oh?”

Before she can grill me any further, a voice grumbles from inside.

“Who is it?”

Martha sighs, stepping back to let me in. Harold Hayes barely glances up from his newspaper, a steaming cup of coffee at his elbow.

The back page of the paper screams last nights victory in bold print: "ICEHAWKS TAKE 2-0 LEAD!" Any other time, that headline would fill me with pride.

Right now, it barely registers.

The kitchen smells like toast and burnt coffee. The table is old wood, lined with small cracks that have never been fixed. Everything in this house looks like it’s been kept just functional enough. No warmth. No indulgence.

"Mr. Hayes." I keep my voice firm but respectful. "Mrs. Hayes. I think it's time we had a real conversation."

Harold doesn’t move. Doesn’t even gesture to the seat across from him. He just keeps his hands folded over the paper, staring at me like I’m some kid who wandered into his yard.

Alright, old man. We doing this the hard way?

I grab the chair myself, drag it back with a slow scrape across the tile, and sit like Iownthe damn room.

Seeing them together like this—the silence between them, the way Harold’s shoulders never quite loosen, the way Martha’s gaze is sharp but tired—it all clicks.

This isn't just about getting their blessing.

This is about showing them, and their daughter, that love doesn't have to be earned through perfection. That sometimes it's messy and loud and absolutely worth fighting for.

---