Page 61 of Bleacher Report
The second guy’s already unlocking the truck.
“He bought me a bed?” I whisper to myself.
No.
He bought us a bed.
I blink again, scanning the absurd number. Who spends that much on a mattress?
“Uh, yeah—come in,” I say quickly, stepping back. “Let me strip the bedding first.”
The guy nods and heads to help unload while I half-jog back to the bedroom, still reeling.
I pull the comforter off in a daze.
He bought me—no, us—a bigger bed.
And not just any bed. A ridiculous, luxury, custom, king-size bed.
Hunter freaking Reed.
What am I supposed to do with that?
Chapter Thirteen
Hunter
The third-period clock ticks under a minute. The crowd is on their feet, roaring like the game’s already won, but we’re not there yet. Not until that horn sounds.
Slade snags the puck behind our net and launches it toward Aleksi, who flies up center ice like a man on fire. I push off hard, legs burning as I keep pace, scanning the ice as we transition.
Aleksi dodges a defenseman and slips the puck to Trey, just as a guy from the other team barrels toward him. “Heads!” I shout, but it’s too late.
The hit comes hard—shoulder to chest. Aleksi goes down, skates first, sliding out of frame.
I cut hard to the left, eyeing the bastard who leveled him. Before he can peel off, I angle myself just right and slam intohim from the side. Not enough to draw a penalty, but enough to make him think twice. His balance wobbles, and he goes down—ice scraping up beneath him as he skids into the boards.
The ref doesn’t whistle. It’s been the theme of the night.
Good. I like games like these.
Trey still has the puck. He winds up, shifts, fires.
Their goalie reads him perfectly—glove snapping the shot out of the air like it’s nothing.
Damn it.
But we’re still in the lead. As long as we defend, this game is in the bag, but with time on the clock, nothing's a sure thing.
Before the puck even drops from his glove, their left wing is already moving. I spin on my heels, sprinting backwards as they haul ass up the ice. They’re as hungry for this win as we are.
Olsen’s ready in the net, crouched low.
Their right wing takes the shot, but Olsen blocks it, only the puck gets pushed out to their center who scrambles to make another shot. He does, but it’s not good enough. Olsen pounces on the puck, covering it with his entire body.
Wolf and I are in the thick of it, ramming our way through the opposing team to keep them off our goalie.
Slade gets the puck and starts hauling ass the other direction, a one-second delay before anyone realizes he’s got it. But before he gets a chance to take the shot, the final horn blows—and the relief is immediate.
