Page 31 of Shootout Daddies
I want to press—tell him to stop brushing it off, remind him that pretending it’s nothing only makes it worse. But I don’t. Not here. Not with half the team about to file in.
“You sure?” I ask instead.
Hunter runs a hand through his damp hair. “Yeah. It’ll pass.” He leans back against the cubbies, stretching his legs out in front of him. “The sex is helping,” he adds, smirking faintly.
I snort. “That’s your prescription now?”
“Hey,” he grins, “best medicine out there. Pretty girl, good sleep, worn-out muscles.”
“Ivy would roll her eyes so hard at that.”
“And then climb on top of me,” he deadpans.
I shake my head, chuckling under my breath. “You’re sick.”
“Yeah. She makes it worse.”
The door to the locker room bangs open and suddenly the volume spikes.
Deke strides in first, chirping Kieran about his slow-ass drills yesterday. Asher follows, towel around his neck, talking about some girl who ghosted him. Typical.
Within seconds, the place is a blur of motion—tape being torn, helmets tossed onto hooks, pads slapped into place. Familiar chaos.
Then Coach Leo walks in, already clapping.
“Alright, gentlemen. Good win against Dallas. That overtime goal”—he jerks a thumb toward Asher—“was textbook.”
Asher does a stupid double bicep flex that earns a barrage of boos, and someone (probably Deke) wings a roll of sock tape at him.
Leo doesn’t flinch. “Third line, your backcheck was ass. Way too many clean entries on your zone. We’ll fix that today.”
He turns to me and Hunter. “You two—nice work. Clean transitions, tight spacing. You’re rotating left-side responsibility this week. Don’t make me regret it.”
“We’ve got it,” Hunter says with a nod, already reaching for his helmet.
Leo points toward the tunnel. “Ice in fifteen.”
Everyone gets to work. Jerseys pulled over pads, sticks checked and re-taped, the usual scramble.
But I’m still half-stuck on the conversation from two minutes ago.
Hunter’s tough. He always has been. The golden boy who took hits like he was made for it. But there’s something about his nightmares—the way he dismisses them like they’re seasonal allergies—that gets under my skin.
He’s not okay.
And I don’t know if it’s just sleep he’s missing or if it’s something deeper—something from long before Ivy ever curled up in our bed and made the silence feel safe again.
Still, I don’t push. I’ll keep an eye on him, like I always do.
As we walk down the tunnel toward the rink, the cold air hits my face and I try to focus. But even with the chill and theadrenaline and the sharp bite of the rink under my skates, one thought keeps circling in my head.
Ivy.
She’s only been with us three days, but it already feels like longer. Like she’s always been part of the routine—her toothbrush next to ours, her bare feet padding across the kitchen tiles, her laughter echoing off the high ceilings of the penthouse while Storm trails behind her like a bodyguard in training.
She brought light in with her.
I’m not saying I’m in love. But I really, really like having her around. And from the quiet way Hunter keeps checking his phone between drills, I don’t think I’m alone in that.
