Page 118 of Bleacher Report
Of course I have them memorized. But there’s more riding on this than just the interview. With everything between us shifting, I don’t want to push too hard and risk him shutting down—or worse, walking away. Yet, I also know that my opportunity to snag the syndication deal and make my dad proud, is hanging in the balance too.
He squeezes my hand gently. “Record it. I owe you one more. I want you to have this.”
Something in his voice makes me stop questioning. I pull out my phone, hit record, and follow him through the front doors.
Hunter leads me through a side door, down a narrow hallway that smells like wet gear and sports tape, and into the heart of the rink. He’s relaxed here. There’s a bounce in his step I haven’t seen since before his injury.
We make our way to the bleachers and sit on the cold aluminum bench overlooking the ice. The hum of the overhead lights fills the space, the rink eerily quiet without players slicing across it.
He leans back on the bench, elbows resting on the seat behind us, his eyes scanning the ice like he’s watching ghosts from the past.
“You’re smiling,” I say. “Take me through what you’re thinking.”
“This place is where it all really clicked for me. But it didn’t come easily. High school hockey was a different animal than what I had been used to playing,” he says. “Freshman year was the first time I was on the third line. Couldn’t land a hit to save my life. Coach joked that I skated like a baby deer on a trampoline.”
I smile behind the camera. “Hard to imagine. You're one of the most physical players in the league.”
“That’s what happens when you’re a big fish in a tiny pond, and then they drop you in the ocean with hungry piranhas all looking to catch the eye of scouts. That hadn’t been a factor in middle school. There were still kids playing just for the fun of it, but high school hockey isn’t for the faint of heart. I’ve seen more kids lose chiclets in one single game than I had in the years I’d played the sport up until then.”
I grin behind the camera. “Sounds brutal. But you clearly adapted.”
“Yeah, well, turns out growing six inches in one summer helps with that too.” He grins. “By sophomore year, I was big enough to make an impact.”
“Cheating,” I tease. “You basically leveled up overnight. Meanwhile, I spent all of high school trying to convince recruiters I wasn’t too short to return a serve.”
He chuckles, that familiar spark in his eyes. “You? Short? You serve with murder in your heart.”
I muffle back laughter thinking back on our earlier game and how much I love that he’s not the sore loser I called him back at Oakley’s that first time we met. A time that feels so far away, almost as if it didn’t happen.
“Did you used to dream about playing in the NHL here?”
He nods. “Every damn day. I’d sneak in during open skates and pretend I was scoring the game-winner in a playoff series. Right there—” He points toward the far side of the rink. “Bottom left corner. Coach used to stay late so I could practice that shot.”
Something swells in my chest. This isn’t just a location—it’s a living memory. And he’s letting me inside it.
“Is this where you fell in love with hockey?”
“This is where I fell in love with who I was when I played. Before the contracts. Before the agents. Before it all got complicated.”
“You didn’t get recruited out of high school,” I say, knowing his history.
“My mom was going through chemo then, and I didn’t want to go far. I had a couple of junior league scouts reach out, but I stayed close and went to college instead. It meant I could still get her to treatments. Cook dinner once in a while. Her best friend Bonnie was a big help too.”
My chest tightens.
“And you don’t regret it?”
“Not for a second.” His voice is steady. “We had a stacked team—I learned a lot in college. And eventually, Jersey picked me up.”
He stares back out onto the ice as a few high school players skate out for practice.
“So, no big drama? No rebellious phase? No high school scandal?”
“Oh, there was drama.” He smirks. “One time, I broke into the opposing team’s locker room before a game and replaced all their warm-up playlists with Celine Dion’s greatest hits.”
I choke on a laugh. “You didn’t.”
“They came out to ‘My Heart Will Go On.’ It backfired though because they were so fucking pissed that they whipped the ice with us.”
