Page 55 of Bleacher Report
Hunter’s entire face softens, and he crouches down so he’s eye-level with Jesse without hesitation. “You must be Jesse. I’ve heard a lot about you.”
Jesse beams, immediately launching into a ramble about his favorite players and how he’s working on his wrist shot. Before I know it, Hunter’s asking about Jesse’s wheelchair modifications and if he’s ever tried adaptive sled hockey. He doesn’t even blink at the chair, like it’s just another part of Jesse’s gear.
By the time we make it to the living room, Jesse’s already out of the chair, sitting cross-legged on the floor while Hunter shows him how to properly hold a hockey stick using the old ones my mom keeps tucked in the hall closet from past Christmases.
It hits me then, like a sucker punch to the chest—how easy he makes this look. How quickly he slipped into my family like he’s always belonged here.
My mom stands beside me, her hands on her hips as she watches them. “He’s good with Jesse,” she says softly.
“Yeah,” I agree, folding my arms tight across my chest. “He really is.”
Too good.
Which is dangerous.
Because I know exactly how temporary this is.
After a bathroom break, I step back into the kitchen, and the sound of laughter hits me.
I pause in the doorway, taking in the scene.
Hunter’s at the counter with Jesse propped beside him in his chair, both of them peeling potatoes under my mom’s supervision. Mom’s laughing so hard she’s wiping tears from her eyes, and Jesse’s grin is huge, like he’s never heard anything funnier in his life.
“I swear to God, Shari,” Hunter is saying, “if I had a dollar for every time Aleksi Mäkelin’s skincare routine has held up team meetings, I wouldn’t need my player salary.”
“That man doesnotuse night cream,” my mom giggles.
“He travels with an entire toiletry bag dedicated to moisturizers,” Hunter replies with a straight face. “And another one for serums. It’s a problem.”
Jesse snorts, nearly dropping a slippery peeled potato.
I lean against the doorframe, watching this ridiculously domestic scene unfold. Hunter’s sleeves are rolled up, there’s a streak of potato peel on his wrist, the ink of his tattoos just barely visible, and he looks so damn at home that it’s almost disorienting.
Mom catches sight of me hovering in the doorway. “Hey! You and Abby can set the table. I’ve got these two wrapped around my finger already.”
Abby breezes past me, nudging my shoulder as she passes. “Come on, lovebird. Let’s go.”
I roll my eyes but follow her anyway, casting one last glance back at the kitchen.
Hunter says something I can’t hear, but whatever it is makes Jesse laugh so hard he nearly tips backward in his chair.
That sound is the best thing I’ve heard in a long, long time.
Abby tosses a stack of napkins onto the dining table as I follow behind her, grabbing plates from the cabinet. The laughter still drifts from the kitchen, Hunter’s voice blending in like he’s been part of this family for years instead of hours.
Abby sets a fork down and glances at me. “So…how’s it going?”
I raise an eyebrow. “You’re going to have to be more specific.”
She shrugs, arranging silverware like she’s not prying. “You know. Living with a hot hockey player. Sharing a bed. Fake dating him in front of the entire city.”
I blow out a breath, setting plates around the table. “It’s fine.”
“Fine?” She snorts. “That man is currently peeling potatoes in Mom’s kitchen and making Jesse laugh so hard he’s about to fall out of his chair, and you’re telling me it’sfine?”
I glance back toward the kitchen, where the three of them are still talking, the rhythm easy and natural. Too natural.
Abby bumps her shoulder into mine, dropping her voice. “I’m just saying…if you don’t want him, I think Mom might finally be ready for a boyfriend.”
