Page 50 of Dear #47, You're the Worst
Down on the ice, Hunter slams a puck into the net with brutal precision. I see the moment he clocks Patrick. His whole body shifts. Less relaxed, more coiled.
Jessa follows my gaze. “Uh-oh. Hunter sees him.”
“Yeah,” I murmur. “He always sees him.”
It feels reminiscent of college. Hunter and Patrick were on the same team then and they still got in an astounding number of fights with each other. They’d wait until a fight started and then jump in, hitting the other ‘by accident’.
Patrick skates too close. Hunter’s head snaps toward him like he’s been waiting for the opportunity. They ram their shoulders as they skate past each other in a way that’s definitely not accidental. Patrick is smaller than Hunter and takes the hit harder.
A dark part of me gets excited watching my fake fiancé demolish my terrible ex-boyfriend. I’m already wired to think hockey boys are hot, but now I’m doubly invested in what’s going on.
Ivy whistles. “Patrick’s about to get wrecked.”
“I should be embarrassed by how satisfying that would be,” I say with a wince.
“You shouldn’t,” Jessa says. “Let him suffer.”
I look back at Hunter. He skates like he’s angry at the world, like the ice owes him something. But when his eyes flick up to the suite and meet mine, it’s like the chaos fades for one heartbeat. There’s a moment of tangible connection.
And worse?
I like it.
Seattle Havoc rolls out in full force, and they are not fucking around. They snap into formation like muscle memory. It seems like every person on this team was born for this.
Patrick plays center for Houston and sidles up against Thorne, waiting for the puck drop. He keeps looking behind him though. I would be too if I were Patrick, because Hunter is hovering within a few feet of him, gliding lazy laps in the neutral zone like a predator biding his time.
The puck drops, and the first shift is brutal. Sticks clash, bodies crash, and nobody’s playing nice. The forecheck is aggressive, the kind of hit-first, ask-later style they love to talk about in practice.
Thorne snags the puck and skates away toward the goal. Patrick trails behind him as he smoothly passes the puck to Grayson, who moves down the ice with the fierce motion of a hurricane. Tight turns. Hard strides. No hesitation.
When Patrick and Hunter draw even, Hunter checks him into the boards so hard that I suck in a breath. It isn’t just a hit. It’s a message.
“Damn.”
Jessa’s eyes sparkle. “That’s your man down there.”
“Jessa.” My cheeks warm. “He’s not my anything.”
Hunter looks up and points at me, a dark grin on his face. Jessa squeals and grips my elbow.
“See?”
I can’t help the small smile I give Hunter. Then there’s a tussle farther down the ice, a full-on scrum behind the net, and Hunter’s attention swings that way.
The game moves on, but my heartbeat is still racing.
Jessa elbows me. “He clearly did that for you.”
“Huxley hates Patrick. Any excuse to fuck him up is more than enough.”
I avoid Jessa’s knowing gaze and focus on the game, watching as the Havoc cycle the puck deep in the offensive zone, relentless and hungry. Hunter goes after Patrick three more times, tripping him, slamming him into the boards. Hunter is so smooth that the refs never call him on it; he makes it seem like a part of gameplay. Patrick gets frustrated and tries to grab the back of Hunter’s jersey. He shouts something at Hunter, which makes Hunter turn bright red.
Hunter waits until Patrick’s head is down for half a second and absolutelyobliterateshim with a legal open-ice check. Textbook hit. Brutal timing. The entire crowd gasps. Patrick trips and goes flying, stick falling by the wayside. Patrick sprawls and Hunter falls on top of him, putting his gloved hand to the back of Patrick’s helmet and grinding his face down into the ice.
The fans go apeshit, screaming their heads off and waving their foam chainsaws. They love Hunter behaving badly. The refs pull Hunter off and the whole thing is over in less than two minutes. But when Hunter skates away, acting like it meant nothing, he points to me again.
This time, I grin. He earned it for making my ex look like a limp dishrag. Hunter heads to the penalty box for two minutes, but he doesn’t seem to mind. He sticks his tongue out, clearly enjoying himself as he skates backward.
