Page 48 of Coach's Temptation

But instead, his eyes cut to mine.

"Yeah. You slept okay?"

His voice is lower than before. I assume it's because we're not telling anyone I'm staying at his house.

My brain stutters.

"Uh… yeah. Great, actually." I force a grin, waving it off. "Your mattress is like sleeping on a cloud."

He nods once. Just a simple, short movement. But I don’t miss the way his jaw shifts. The way his eyes drop to my mouth.

Almost like he’s remembering something Ishouldremember, too.

"Alright!" Hunter's deep voice cuts through the café chatter. "To all my boys! Bus leaves in twenty. Anyone late runs suicides tomorrow."

Through Summit Café's window, Main Street is electric with a carnival like atmosphere. Fresh snow dusts the sidewalks, and Icehawks banners flutter from every lamppost.

The whole town sparkles like a giant playoff snow globe.

It's picture perfect, but that's when I hear it. The low rumble of a diesel engine.

The café goes eerily silent, soft murmurs and whispers replacing the shouts of excitement and confidence. Every set of eyes turns to the window.

The Vancouver team bus rolls down Main Street.

My stomach drops as those familiar orca logos pass by, frame by frame, through the café's windows.

The entire café is silent. Forks freeze mid-bite. Conversations die mid-word. Even Clara stops wiping down the counter.

Those jerseys. That logo. They're here, in our town, on our streets.

This isn't just another game anymore.

This is war.

I watch Hunter's reflection in the window. His jaw clenches, and his knuckles go white around his coffee cup. Twenty years of buried history written in the lines of his face.

The Vancouver players file off their bus, all swagger and confidence. They've been here before. Done this before. Ended dreams before.

But they've never faced our Hunter Brody.

I want to reach for him, to squeeze his arm, to remind him he's not that injured rookie anymore. He's the coach who took an underdog team to the playoffs. The man who literally just made a little boy's dream come true with playoff tickets.

The man who carries his old wounds like armor.

Henry presses his face against the window, his signed jersey wrinkled against the glass. He's silent too, staring in awe at the sight before the entire town.

As the bus comes to a halt, Hunter's voice carries through the silent café.

"Icehawks. Let's go."

Holy shit. This is real.

Chapter Twelve

Hunter

Every seat is filled, thousands of voices merging into one deafening hum.

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