The Hunter (Boston Belles 1)

He’d been acting strange lately—showing up late to our sessions, disappearing down the hall to take personal calls, losing focus. At some point, I’d brought in a piggy bank I found at the dollar store next to his office and told him he’d have to put a penny in it every time he disappeared or acted strange. It was a pleasant way to make him refocus. I had to admit—the piggy bank was filling up, fast.

Last time he’d picked it up to roll another penny in the slit, I could tell it was heavy. The penny dropped with a soft thud, hitting more coppered coins. The pig’s belly was full.

“You not do that ever again!” Junsu flashed his pointy teeth at me, shaking his fist.

He must’ve seen the horror on my face, because he relaxed immediately, squeezing my healthy shoulder. “Sorry. This just stress.”

“Anything I can do to help?” I eyed him.

Junsu kept his personal life under wraps. I knew he was happily married with three children, had moved here thirty years ago, and enjoyed doing tai chi in the park with his wife every weekend. He led a blissfully uneventful life, but I was beginning to suspect something had disrupted his status quo. Maybe someone was sick? Or one of his kids got into trouble?

But no. I knew they were all healthy and doing well. The only remotely notable crisis Junsu had ever had was a year ago, when he and his wife thought they couldn’t afford putting their oldest son, Kwan, through Columbia. He got accepted, but had zero scholarships. Finally, they’d managed to pull through and come up with the funds. I never asked how. It wasn’t my business.

“No.” He shook his head. “Let’s start the training.”

We fell into step, heading for the range, the silence between us buzzing like a fly in my ear.

“Lana’s going to be here in two weeks.” I began to chew the skin around my thumbnail. It was raw and pink and spoke the story of my anxiety these days.

The past few weeks had been brutal. Both Lana and I fought for the media’s affection, doing interviews and photoshoots and junkets. I was exhausted. I loathed being in front of the cameras. This side of the business wore me out.

I loved the sport, but hated the career.

Junsu hitched one shoulder up, hands clasped behind his back. His lack of response drove me up the wall.

I wet my lips. “Should I be worried?”

“Yes,” he said. “But so should she. You are both very good. One of you ought to be slightly better. We will find out who soon.”

I should’ve known better than to expect a full, glowing endorsement, wrapped in a reassuring bow that I was going to kick her ass when we met for the finals in Boston to determine which of us was heading to the Olympics. It wasn’t Junsu’s style. Still, his answer stung.

After our training session, I drove back to my apartment, knowing Knight and Luna, Hunter’s friends, were already there. The eagles have landed, Hunter had texted me earlier. I bailed out of work early just to catch them bumping talons on our stairway. Totes gross. x

They were staying tonight and tomorrow, and I was afraid they’d hate me, or worse, find me unremarkable and invisible, like the rest of the world. I was frightened that the bubble Hunter and I had wrapped ourselves in would burst in our faces once my roommate got the memo I was just the awkward, feisty girl who’d been assigned to babysit him but ended up crawling into his bed just like the others.

When the elevator to our private penthouse dinged open, my heart slammed so hard in my chest I was nauseous. Laughter and hollers rolled from the kitchen. My eyes immediately darted to Hunter and another guy our age. They were leaning against the counter, drinking root beer from fancy-looking bottles. The guy was tall—taller than Hunter—and boringly beautiful to a point of revulsion. Tucked under his massive arm was a tan girl with cornrows braided up into a ponytail. She looked like an Egyptian princess—wildly striking, with slanted, light eyes and pillowy lips. Her eyes ping-ponged back and forth between them, a slight, amused smile on her lips. Hunter wore a Brunello Cucinelli wool and cashmere suit, and Knight was in a white Palm Angels hoodie and Giuseppe Zanotti leather mid-top sneakers. They wore fifteen-thousand dollars between themselves.

Crazy rich playboys.

“So this girl, Alice, is bent over the billiard table, telling this asshole about her Christian summer camp adventures, and our boy Hunt is fucking her in front of an entire room.” Hunter’s friend, Knight, jerked his thumb toward him, cackling. “Now get this, Moonshine. All this time, Hunter is having, like, a legit, in-depth conversation with Vaughn about something—I don’t even remember what—without breaking pace or a sweat as he’s plunging into her. What was it you talked about?” Knight elbowed Hunter.