I truly believe he can succeed in the NHL without letting the lifestyle corrupt him. Don’t get me wrong—I can see how it would freak him out. Garrett Graham can’t leave his house without a disguise, for God’s sake. And Garrett’s girlfriend told me at the nightclub that there’s a woman who lurks outside their city brownstone hoping to catch glimpses of him.
So yes, it’s a daunting life. It’s long stints away from your loved ones. It’s sex on a platter. But I have faith in Hunter. And although he’s finally starting to have faith in himself, he still needs one last push.
I pull up Brenna’s number and gaze out the window as I wait for her to answer. The bus is about ten minutes from the station in Hastings.
“Hey,” Brenna greets me. “Are we still good for tonight?”
“Of course. I’m going to take an Uber to campus and stop off at home first to shower and change, though. But I just had a quick question for you.”
“What’s up?”
“Do you have any way of contacting Garrett Graham?”
A beat. “Um. Yeah, I should be able to do that. Why?”
“I’m planning a surprise thing for Hunter,” I answer vaguely. “I could use Garrett’s help.”
“Sure. I don’t know if I have his cell saved in my phone, but Fitzy would definitely have it, or Summer’s brother. I’ll ask them.”
“Thanks, chica. I’ll see you in a bit.”
The moment I get home, I strip off my clothes and take a hot shower, hoping to inject some warmth back into my bones. We’ve reached that hideous part of the winter where you can never, ever feel warm. February in New England is a glacial hellscape, the time of year when my mother and I are in whole-hearted agreement. She hates the winter from start to finish, I hate it in February. It’s like a Venn diagram and we’re finally in the same circle, clinging to each other for body heat.
I bundle up in my terrycloth robe and approach my closet, debating what to wear. I’d like to look cute for Hunter if we’re hanging out afterward, but the arena is so damn cold. Sure, there are heaters and enough bodies in the place to generate some heat, but it doesn’t completely eliminate the chill.
I finally settle on thick leggings, thick socks, and a thick red sweater. Key word: thick. I look like a marshmallow, but oh well. Warmth trumps cuteness.
I’m about to start doing my makeup when my phone lights up. I hope it’s not Hunter calling to ask how it went in Boston. He needs to focus on the game tonight, and hearing that my father and I aren’t speaking right now probably won’t pump him up for the playoffs. I’ll tell him later.
But it’s not Hunter; it’s TJ. “Hey,” I greet him. “Are you coming to the game? You never gave me an answer.”
“No. I’m not.”
“Ah. Okay. That sucks.” I open my makeup case. “It would have been nice to see you.”
“Really? Would it have?” His mocking voice ripples into my ear.
I furrow my brow. “Are you all right? You sound a bit drunk.”
He just laughs.
My frown deepens. “Okay, then. Well. I’m getting ready right now, so tell me what’s up, otherwise I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“Mmm-hmmm.” He’s still laughing, but it’s tinged with hysteria.
“TJ.” A queasy feeling tickles my stomach. “What the hell is going on?”
Silence. It lasts about three seconds, and just when I’m about to check if the call dropped, TJ starts babbling. He talks so fast I can barely keep up, and my constant interruptions—“wait, what?” “What are you saying?” “What does that mean?”—only agitate him further. By the time he winds down, I’m on the verge of throwing up.
I draw in a fearful breath. “Stay where you are. I’m on my way.”
38
Hunter
Excitement sizzles in the air as my teammates and I gear up. Whoever wins tonight will progress to the conference finals, so we’re all feeling the pressure. Last season we made it to those finals, and I suffered a broken wrist thanks to a scorned boyfriend. This season my wrist is perfectly fine and my dick hasn’t gotten me into an iota of trouble.
Beside me, Bucky is shoving his pants up to his hips, while babbling to Matt and Alec about some new radical therapies being used on athletes these days.
“Swear to God, this chamber looks like something they’d torture James Bond with. They blast you with liquid nitrogen to like minus-a-hundred-and-fifty degrees.”
“And then what?” Alec sounds fascinated.
“Well, in theory it stimulates healing. In reality I think it just gives you frostbite?”
I glance over in amusement. “What’s this you’re talking about?”
“Cryotherapy,” Bucky replies.
“Sounds intense,” remarks Conor, who’s sitting on the bench beside me. He lifts a hand and tucks his blond hair behind his ears.
“Dude,” I tell him. “Not sure if anyone’s told you this, but…you’re treading pretty damn close to mullet territory.”