Chapter 3
Shock reverberates through me. I can’t process what Aubrey is telling me.
“What?” I ask, needing for her to repeat these words to me.
“Hunter?” Livy asks, her eyes wide.
“Oh my God,” Collins whispers, shooting me a look.
Aubrey sits back down and reaches for her wine, taking a sip.
“Hunter was traded in the middle of the first period tonight,” Aubrey says, parking her wineglass on the coffee table. She shakes her head. “Can you even imagine how awful that would be? You’re pulled off the bench and told you’ve been traded?”
“What?” I gasp. “What do you mean?”
“This is the brutal side of the business,” Aubrey says. “As long as it’s within a trading period, you can be moved at any time.”
“But during a game?” I ask, appalled.
“That’s awful,” Livy says.
“It’s bad enough when it happens, but this is horrible,” Collins says.
“I had no idea that teams could do this,” I say, thinking of how upending this would be to Hunter.
“Can you imagine? You’re on the ice in a game, then all of a sudden you’re yanked off the bench and told to pack your stuff and get on a flight to another city,” Aubrey says. “Hunter basically had enough time to grab what was in his locker and throw it in a bag before heading out to the airport.”
“But what about all his stuff? And his place in Houston?” I ask.
“The Buffaloes will put him up at a hotel downtown as temporary housing,” Livy explains.
My stomach clenches for him. Questions fill my head. Did Hunter have an idea this was coming? I had been following his career from afar, and I know he’s had a rough season. From all appearances, one incredibly different than when he played for San Francisco and crashed into the glass in front of me. Somehow, in the trade, that hard-hitting, slapshot-shooting force has disappeared in Texas.
I’m a football girl, so I don’t know the intricacies of hockey, but in what I’ve seen and read online, his game has fallen apart. Hunter has had a lot of turnovers on the ice. Mistakes that led to goals. Shots that seemed to ring off the goalpost more than hitting the back of the net.
Worst of all, several games where he was a healthy scratch.
Hunter was traded because Houston gave up on him, I realize as I string the facts together.
Now he’s coming to the Buffaloes, where his brother is the captain. The beloved superstar, the face of the franchise.
Hunter not only has to fight to stay in the league here, to resurrect his game to what it was, but do it in the overwhelming shadow of Beckett, too.
I fumble through my purse and retrieve my phone. As I unlock it, I see the alerts on my home screen. Because Google knows the depths of my long-distance crush on Hunter thanks to my daily checks of his games, they have provided me with a bevy of articles about the trade, including one with video:
Houston’s Hunter Riley Traded Mid-Game!
“There’s video,” I say.
The girls gather around me, and I click play.
The Houston announcers explain what we are seeing.
“That’s the equipment manager, Dave O’Neil,” one of them says, as a man carrying a team bag and hockey sticks comes out of the dressing room.
I wince when I see Hunter next, walking behind him in street clothes and carrying a duffel bag over his shoulder. He’s dressed in a fitted gray suit, white dress shirt, and striped black silk tie.
“And there’s Hunter Riley in street clothes,” the other announcer adds. “They’re in the hallway outside the locker room. Obviously, he’s on his way to Miami to join his new team.”
Another clip follows of Hunter speaking to reporters in the parking garage of the arena, and my stomach aches when I see the shell-shocked look in his eyes.
“Hunter, did you know this was coming?” a reporter yells at him.
He stops and exhales, as if he’s gathering his thoughts before answering. He reaches up, rakes a hand through his hair and begins combing it with his fingers in what seems to be a self-soothing motion.
“I did know it was a strong possibility,” he says slowly, his hand continuing to rake through his curls. “I didn’t expect it to happen when I was playing a game, though.”
“How do you feel?” another reporter asks, thrusting a cell phone in his face to record his answer.
How does he feel? How do you think he feels? What an idiotic question to ask.
“I’m grateful for the time I’ve had in Houston,” Hunter says. “I have nothing but good things to say about the city, the fans, and the organization. I understand this is a business, and you can’t take this personally.”
“On-point answer,” Aubrey says with approval. “From a public relations standpoint, you couldn’t ask for more.”
Aubrey would know. She handles social media for athletes as her career.
Hunter takes a few more questions, then says he has to catch a flight. He steps into an elevator with the equipment manager, and the video ends as the doors close.
I feel sick for him. I know my world has turned upside down today, but I was in control of my situation. I elected to quit. I made the choice to come back to Chicago.
Hunter has no control over anything regarding his career except his play on the ice.
“Wow,” Collins says softly. “That is crazy.”
“It is,” Livy says.
“But interesting that you and Hunter both ended up back in Chicago on the exact same day,” Aubrey points out. “Fate, perhaps?”
“No. Weird coincidence, but not fate,” I insist.
Because why would fate put me and Hunter in the same town when we are both a mess professionally? Even if we were meant to meet and test the dating waters, this would be the worst possible time to do so. I need to clean up my own life first before diving into anything with a guy.
That’s the logical, intelligent thing to do.
After all, I only found living arrangements ten minutes ago.
On Collins’s couch.
I’m unemployed.
Directionless.
I’m so not in the right head space to date.
And I’m sure Hunter is not interested in dating while he’s trying to figure out his game and living out of a suitcase in a hotel, too.
We’re social media friends.
Who now live in the same city.
“If you don’t believe in fate, you need to start,” Collins says, interrupting my thoughts. “Because this is a big, screaming, blinking neon motel vacancy sign kind of fate.”
I snort. “Yes. It’s written in the stars. I should start looking at wedding venues tomorrow.”
“Okay, so maybe you aren’t written in the stars for a romance now, but I think dinner is in the future for all of us,” Livy says, standing up. “I hope you all don’t mind, but I got herb-roasted rotisserie chicken, salad, and potatoes from that bistro down the street. All I need to do is re-heat everything.”
“We can handle that,” Aubrey says, rising from her chair. “You sit and rest.”
Livy rolls her eyes. “You sound like Landon. I’m capable of putting stuff in the microwave!”
“Nope, we’re on it,” Collins says.
Gigi, Landon and Livy’s Siamese cat, strolls into the room and yowls loudly.
“Okay, sweet girl, it’s time to feed you, too,” Livy says affectionately.
“I’ll feed her,” I volunteer.
“Oh my gosh, you guys get today to do everything for me and then you will stop until I’m nine months,” Livy says, laughing.
“We’ll see about that,” Aubrey says, heading into the kitchen and opening the refrigerator.
I follow Aubrey into the open kitchen, which is sleek and modern. “Where’s Gigi’s food?”
“She needs a can opened up,” Livy explains. “It’s in the walk-in pantry.”
“Got it.” I open the door to the pantry, which is bigger than my bedroom closet back in Minneapolis, and locate the canned cat food on a shelf. Gigi follows, circling around me and rubbing against my legs as I study my choices. Dang. Landon spares no expense for Gigi; her choices are organic, grain-free, and have coconut oil for her skin and coat.
I repress a laugh. Gigi the cat has a more expensive food budget than I do at the moment, as I know this can of cat food is way more than the tuna I buy for my salads during the week.
I select a salmon entrée and locate her bowl in the kitchen. I feed her while Aubrey pops the chicken into the microwave and Collins puts the salad ingredients together.
Soon, we are sitting down to eat, and I can’t believe how peaceful I feel. I knew I was miserable in Minnesota, but the comfort I get from being with my friends, knowing I’ll be able to see them now on a regular basis, re-affirms I made the right decision. As snap as it was, as unprepared as I am to be unemployed, my gut knows this is right. Being here. In Chicago. With my friends. While my career plans need an overhaul, I know with the support of these women, my friends both old and new, I have a support system in place to help me navigate the uncertain road ahead.
After dinner, we have some more wine—well, at least Collins, Aubrey, and I do—and the exhaustion of the day hits me.
“I’m so tired,” I admit, yawning.
“It was an emotionally draining day for you,” Aubrey says, and the look in her hazel eyes tells me she understands this fully.
“Why don’t you crash in our guest bedroom?” Livy asks. “Landon won’t be back for two days, and he won’t care if you stay.”
“Only for two nights,” I say firmly. “Besides, I have to go back to Minnesota and get my things. Drive my car back. Break my lease and pay them out of my savings, which will do nothing but dwindle from this point forward. Oh, God, ugh, please remind me I did the right thing?” I blurt out. The financial reality of my situation breaks through the surface and tips my emotions into fear.
“You did,” Aubrey says. “I promise you did.”
“Go to bed; you’ll feel better in the morning,” Livy says. “There are towels in the linen closet across from the room.”
I nod and retrieve my suitcase. I say goodnight to everyone and head down the hall. Gigi follows me, as if she knows I need someone to cuddle with right now.
She watches me as I unload my suitcase and follows me to the restroom as I wash my face and brush my teeth and slip into my flannel pajamas. She is the first one on the guest bed, waiting for me to join her, and meows impatiently as I grab my phone and climb into bed.
“Come here, kitty,” I say softly.
Gigi circles around, finally settling next to my side as I lay on my back.
She purrs as I stroke her fur. Then I glance at my phone, going back to the stories about Hunter. I can’t help it. We’re both in such precarious places right now, and outside of Aubrey, I feel as if Hunter is the one who can truly understand what I’m feeling.
I bite my lip.
Should I message him?
Usually, we comment on each other’s posts. But what happened to him today was traumatic. Hell, what I went through today was traumatic.
Before I snap back to being rational and lose my nerve, I decide to direct message him on Instagram:
I saw you were traded during the game. I’m so sorry, that had to be hard.
I hit send.
Then I cringe. Did I just slide into his DMs?
I decide to send another one to clarify:
I’m going through a career change myself. I quit Melon and George this morning and am moving back to home, sweet home: Chicago. I swear I’m never leaving again. So, we’ll both be in Chicago. Except you have gainful employment. #Hunterforthewin
I hit send.
Crap. I just told him we’ll be in the same city and I don’t have a job? What am I doing? Will he think I’m implying we should date? Because that’s not what I’m implying.
Am I?
I’m about to throw the phone on the other side of the room so I can’t make any more of an ass of myself than I already have when I get a message back from Hunter:
Then the nachos will be on me when I land.
I freeze. What?
I bolt upright. Another message comes in from Hunter:
I haven’t forgotten the nachos.
Or you.