Page 117 of Bleacher Report
“We won’t see you all day?” Hunter asks.
“I’ll be home after the cookie exchange, unless Bonnie decides she wants to go caroling with the rest of our choir group,” she says, loading a cookie tin.
“Ma, it’s Christmas Eve…”
“Yeah, I know…but you’re aware that I've packed my schedule to help others during the holidays ever since you left for college. And you only gave me a few weeks' notice that you were coming for Christmas. I already committed. And this family follows through on its commitments. I’ve already taught you that.”
“I think it’s great,” I pitch in.
Carly turns around from the counter and gives me a smile. “See, a girl with a good head on her shoulders.” She sets the tin in a huge box that’s filled to the brim. “Now, be a good son and take this box out to my car for me. It’s heavy. You two have fun today, and I’m sure I’ll see you later tonight.”
He takes the box, and I watch her follow him out to the car. He sets the box in the trunk of her minivan and then kisses the top of her head before opening her driver's side door, shutting it once she's inside.
My heart swells at how sweet he is with his mother.
After breakfast, Hunter leans close. “Get dressed into something comfortable. I have a surprise.”
A short drive later, we pull up in front of a massive tennis and sports complex. It’s the kind of place with tall glass windows, indoor courts, and a sleek sign that says “The Net Spot.”
“This place is huge,” I say as we walk in.
“Figured we could play a round. Or ten,” he says.
We change and hit the court. From the other side of the net, Hunter does some over-the-top stretches—groin lunges, arm flaps, even a twirl.
“Hope my thighs in these shorts don’t distract you,” he calls. “I know what you want, dirty girl, but I’m more than just a pretty face.”
I snort. “Pretty? Bold claim from someone about to get destroyed.”
“Confidence is key, baby.”
To his credit, Hunter’s actually good. His footwork is solid, his serves are wicked. But I’ve been playing since I was four, and by the third round, he’s sweating, swearing, and glaring at me in mock betrayal.
“You hustled me,” he gasps, winded.
“I told you I had Wimbledon in my sights before my injury.”
“Yeah, but you didn’t say you were the devil in a ponytail.”
We grab lunch at the on-site café, sitting at a small table tucked in the corner. Hunter orders a spinach fruit smoothie, a burger with extra bacon, and a large order of crinkle fries. I grin at the contrast.
“Balance,” he says, mouth full. “Athlete logic.”
After lunch, he drives us to an indoor hockey rink.
“Where are we?” I ask as he pulls into a parking spot.
“This is where my high school hockey team used to play.” A familiar sparkle lighting up his eyes.
The second we get out and meet up behind the car, he reaches for my hand.
It should feel foreign. But somehow, it feels like I’ve been holding it forever.
“Get out your phone,” he says as we walk toward the entrance.
I blink. “What?”
He shoots me a crooked smile. “Can you walk and talk? I’d bet good money you’ve already memorized the questions you want to ask me for our third interview.”
