Page 87 of Coach's Temptation

“So… you ready for Boston?” he asks quietly, his voice laced with that familiar intensity.

“I think we are.” I exhale, glancing toward the staircase again. “But first… I’m gonna show Natalie around a little. Take her by the rink, show her where it all started.”

Dad’s expression softens with pride and nostalgia. “Good call, son.”

He’s quiet for a moment, but I sense something lingering in the silence. When I look up, he’s studying me carefully, concern shadowing his wrinkled gaze.

“You know I couldn’t be happier for you, son,” he begins gently. “But you’ve worked damn hard to get back here. After everything you went through with your injury, rebuilding your life, your career... your mental health, too. Now you’re closer than ever to the Cup, son. Are you sure about this timing?”

I exhale sharply, the memories of all those painful years resurfacing.

Those endless nights when sleep wouldn't come. The walls of my bedroom closing in, hockey posters mocking me from every angle. The constant, gnawing certainty that I was nothing—absolutely nothing—without the game.

I touch my knee unconsciously, phantom pain shooting through the old injury. "I remember you bringing soup up. Every night. Even when I wouldn't open the door."

Dad's eyes go soft around the edges. "Your mother made it. I just delivered."

The memory of my darkest moment surfaces. The night I'd hobbled around on my shattered knee and smashed every trophy, ripped down every poster, destroyed every reminder of the future I'd lost.

Dad had finally broken down the door, found me curled up in the corner, sobbing like a child.

“Dad, Natalie isn’t a distraction. She’s as focused on this team’s success as I am. Maybe more.”

I don't say as much, but even before we got in the Uber before coming here she was with the team. Checking injuries, nursing Blake's shoulder so he's a chance to start.

She's playing her part. No doubt about it.

Dad squeezes my shoulder, the way he always has when he’s trying to balance caution with support. “I know. But I watchedhow losing hockey broke you once before, Hunter. I just don’t want to see anything get in your way now. You deserve this.”

My jaw tightens slightly as his words sink in. He means well. Hell, he always does. But the subtle seeds of doubt are hard to ignore.

“This is different, Dad.” I look him straight in the eyes, willing him to see it. “Natalie makes me better. She pushes me, supports me, keeps me focused. If anything, she’s exactly what I need right now.”

Dad studies me for another beat, then slowly nods, seemingly reassured. “I trust your judgment, Hunt. Just promise me you’ll keep your eyes on the prize.”

I clap him on the back, forcing confidence back into my voice.

“Always have, Dad. I’m not letting it slip away this time.”

A burst of laughter drifts down from upstairs, and Natalie's voice soon fills the house with warmth. Dad’s gaze flicks upward, lips curling into an approving smile.

"She fits in well," he says, softening the tension lingering between us.

I smile and listen to Natalie laugh again. Something about hearing her in my childhood home stirs up feelings I hadn't expected.

"Yeah, she does."

I admit it quietly, but the reality hits me full-force.

Natalie isn't just part of my world anymore—she's becoming the center of it.

Dad claps my shoulder lightly, his smile returning to easygoing and relaxed. "Well, we'd better rescue her from your mom. Judy probably has the baby albums out already."

"Shit," I mutter, grimacing. "You're right."

We step into the kitchen, instantly welcomed by the familiar sight of my mom pulling dishes from the oven. It smellsincredible, with delicious roast chicken, steaming bowls of vegetables, fresh rolls still warm from the oven.

Mom’s practically vibrating with excitement, chatting away to Natalie, who’s perched comfortably on a kitchen stool, sipping sweet tea from my mother's favorite china cups.

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