DEKKER

 

I STARE AT HUNTER. AT his shirt plastered with sweat and how it clings to his body, despite the chill of the ice his skates are standing on. He has his warm-up pants on and is without a helmet, his hair curling at the ends from the sweat.

And all I see in his eyes is anger I didn’t put there. Or maybe I did. Rejection can do that to a man . . . but there’s something more here. Something I walked in on that doesn’t make sense.

“Don’t give me that look, Kincade,” Hunter mutters as he skates over to the penalty box where his electrolyte drink sits.

“What look?” I ask.

He half laughs, half snorts and meets my gaze across the distance. “Disappointment. Disproval. Disdain. I’m the king of all of them, so save your breath—or in this case—your glare, because it’s not going to work with me.”

“Are we working on emotions that start with the letter D today?” I ask. A hint of my embarrassment and anger over how I acted last night creeps into my voice, but I mask it with sarcasm. “If that’s the case, I’m more than impressed with your answers thus far.”

He clenches his jaw in response and then skates back over to line up more pucks so he can shoot them. And he does, one after another, each shot taken with laser precision and a healthy dose of fury behind it.

He goes through the first ten lined up and then stops to catch his breath.

His talent and skill are undeniable, but so is the beer bottle in my hand.

“Just because you’re the captain and star of this team, doesn’t mean management won’t frown upon this,” I say, unable to let this go.

“Fuck the management.”

His comment surprises me. Always a team player and public mouthpiece for the team, I’ve never heard him talk like this.

“Those are some strong words,” I say.

“The iron fist they seem to hold me with is even stronger.”

“Iron fist?” Where is this coming from? “I believe they pay you a healthy sum to put their jersey on every night and play a sport that you love, so unless they’re handcuffing you to a locker afterward and forcing you to not eat or drink for days, I think you’re being ridiculous.”

“Handcuffs, huh?” His eyebrow quirks up, and his constant need to distract from the gist of our conversation tells me I’m hitting too close to home.

“What’s going on?” I ask again.

“We’ll just say we’re not seeing eye to eye at the moment,” he mutters and then slaps a shot off and hisses when he misses.

“No one likes a player who’s hard to handle and honestly, Hunter, you’re becoming hard to handle.”

“No one likes unsolicited advice from someone who has no bearing on his career, either,” he counters, the rebuke stinging but deserved.

The problem is, I do care about him. Doesn’t he get that’s where my hostility stems from?

And only a crazy person would say that, Dekker.

I put my hands up in surrender to both him and my own thoughts. “You know I only want the best for you.” I take a few steps in his direction in the first row of the stands. I’m close enough to catch the hitch of his movement and to see uncertainty flicker in his eyes. It’s almost as if he needs to talk but doesn’t see me as someone he can trust. I hate that. “What is it, Hunter?”

“Nothing. It’s . . . never mind.”

But I see it, and he knows I see it. The question is what do I see, though?

“Twelve years in the league. You’re thirty-two, in the top twenty of all-time best scorers and you still have years left to play. Made it there faster than anybody else.”

“You make a habit of studying people’s stats who aren’t your clients?” he asks.

“It’s my job to know who the best of the best is.” I only speak the truth but hate that it probably comes off like I’m kissing his ass.

“What’s your point, then?” he asks, but his tone is different, quieter, more reserved.

“No point. I just know you’ve been running full steam since you entered this league. Straight off NCAA championships, where you still hold some records, right into the NHL.”

“Every kid’s dream, right? So many would kill to be in my shoes. Save it. I’ve heard it all. I’ve thought it all, and I leave everything out on the ice every damn time I play.”

I nod slowly, letting him know I hear him, but I don’t buy what he’s saying. I’m missing something. “But you’re angry.”

“And your point?” he snaps.

“It’s affecting your game. Your life.”

“You don’t know the half of it,” he mutters as he skates past me.

“I know a change of scenery is sometimes needed. I know that stars can sometimes burn out. From what I’ve seen—”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says, his skates cutting into the ice as he stops right in front of me, the plexiglass the only thing separating us.

“I make a living knowing what I’m doing. Just like you do.” I shrug, trying to act as unaffected as possible by his nearness. Trying to pretend my pulse isn’t racing as my body remembers his kiss last night. Trying to hide the flush on my cheeks over how I overstepped.

“I’m sorry about last night,” I say quietly. “I overstepped. I . . . your point was made. Again. I apologize.”

Our eyes hold, question, dismiss, and right when I think the conversation is over, his lips turn up in the slightest of smirks. “Same hotel as the team?”

The mental whiplash lasts only seconds as I refuse to give him the satisfaction of knowing he threw me. “Why am I staying in the same hotel?”

“Yeah.”

“Convenience.”

That cocky grin spreads wider as he just shakes his head ever so slightly and takes a step closer so his skates hit the barrier between us.

“What?” I ask, relieved by the sudden levity. This verbal sparring is exhausting.

“Just trying to figure you out.”

“Didn’t you know? I’m an open book,” I tease.

“An open book inside a block of ice.”

“Amusing,” I mutter, unnerved by his intense scrutiny and hurt by his dig, even though it’s more accurate than not. Those eyes of his hard to look away from.

“I’d say it’s amusing too, but I’m the one who’s always on the other end of whatever game you’re playing.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” I shift on my feet. This is the last place I need to address why I’m here in Chicago. The mood has changed, the moment lost to speak to him. “You know what? I’m not going to be your verbal punching bag. By the way Maysen stalked out of here, you’re pissed at him. Fine. Be pissed at him, but not me. I know that look in your eyes, and I’m not going to be the one you toy with so you feel like a man in control again.”

I stalk toward the players’ opening, the click of my heels only rivaled by the slice of his skates on the ice. And just as I reach the entrance to the tunnel, Hunter is there, his hand on my bicep pulling me back toward him.

“A man in control again?” he asks, his fingers adjusting his grip as his chest brushes over mine. “I’m always in control.”

“That one seemed to touch a nerve, did it?”

“Maybe you should ask yourself how in control you are, huh?” His eyes flit down to my lips and back up to mine, the warmth of his breath hitting my lips. I can all but taste his kiss again but know that mistake will not be repeated.

No way.

No how.

Not after last night.

“Let’s move on to adjectives that start with I. Irritable, much?”

His chuckle is that low rumble that tells me he’s ready to play. That’s the last thing I want right now. “Irritable? How about indecisive?”

“Who, you?”

“No, you,” he sneers and takes a step closer.

“Not in the least.”

“No?” His eyes flicker from my eyes to my lips again. “This was a huge mistake,” he says, pretending to sound like me last night before clearing his throat. “Right back to that phrase, huh?”

“What do you mean?” I tug on my arm to no avail.

“I mean, it’s amazing how convenient it is for you to fall back on that line. You said it the last time I saw you and you said it last night.”

I did? I try to relive the moments, knowing I said it in the elevator but not remembering the time before. All I remember is trying to keep my emotions under check so Hunter Maddox had no clue I’d failed at the casual dating—er, sex situation—we’d found ourselves in. Sure, we fell into bed that first time, then verbally fought our way out of it, only to fall back into it more often than not over the course of six months.

But we weren’t dating.

You could have asked either of us and we would have confirmed that. We were benefits buddies. The call we’d make when we were in the same city, at the same time—hell, even when we weren’t we’d arrange to be. That’s how great our sexual chemistry was.

The problem? Even though we couldn’t be in the same room longer than thirty minutes without fighting—unless we were having sex—I became addicted to him. His gruff way, his cutting sense of humor, and his . . . well, his cock and fingers and oh-so-gloriously skilled tongue. But I can’t see that in him now.

“Cat got your tongue, Dekker?” he asks, and leans in so I panic he’s going to kiss me. Panic I’m here in the arena with the team nearby and Hunter is body to body with me. But I don’t move. I don’t back down. I refuse to let him feel like he has the upper hand again like last night. “Because the way I see it, this is your MO. We’d have incredible sex, you’d get up and say, ‘Shit, that was a mistake,’ and then collect your clothes or kick me out of wherever with a lame excuse about how you had somewhere to be until we’d see each other again. We were always a mistake. Every time. Until the next time that is.”

I hate that the boyish smirk and arrogance in his eyes owns my every reaction—even after all this time.

I hate that I know he’s right. If only he knew why . . . but he didn’t stop me from walking out three years ago, so he has no idea what it took to leave.

“Are you saying we weren’t a mistake?” I ask through a laugh to try and find my footing.

“’Till next time.” He releases my arm and runs his hand down the length of it.

“There will be no next time.”

“Yes, there will,” he says and begins to put skate guards over his blades.

“No, Hunter, there won’t.” I straighten my spine. “Last night was completely unprofessional of me. It was—”

“That’s never stopped you before,” he says, and I swear to God I see the moment it clicks, because his body falters in motion moments before his eyes flash up to meet mine. “And here I was thinking you’d come here to finish what we started last night. Have an early morning of brunch sex for old time’s sake before telling me what a mistake we were . . . but it’s unprofessional of you. Let me guess, you didn’t come here for that part of me . . . you only came for the other part of me. The part that would make us sleeping together unethical.”

“You’re crazy,” I mutter and wave a hand at him as I backpedal.

“It’d only be unprofessional if I happened to be the person you were here to recruit. It would only be immoral if you were sleeping with your client, because that would mean others might worry that you’re giving me preferential treatment . . .”

“You need a new agent.” It’s the closest I’m going to get to telling him the truth in this environment.

He throws his head back and laughs. “And why’s that? Why the concern all of a sudden?”

“Because Sanderson isn’t doing you any favors.”

“And how would you know what he is or isn’t doing for me? Unless of course you were asking around and trying to figure out how to woo me over to your side.”

“I’m here to check up on my clients,” I say and glance over my shoulder as the trainer walks past with Katzen following closely behind, no doubt to work on that hamstring that’s been giving him trouble. “And you’re reaching.”

“Am I?” Hunter asks as he walks up to me, our bodies back in the same position as last night in the elevator—almost touching.

I nod, not trusting my own words and hating that he’s the only man who can make me tongue-tied. The one thing my dad always emphasized to us was time and place. Never make an offer, a proposition, an anything to a potential client if the timing is off or if the place has you at a disadvantage. I walked into the arena this morning thinking I’d have a chance to talk to Hunter alone, since everyone knows he prefers his mornings solitary and his practice hard.

What I didn’t expect was to walk in on whatever was happening between him and Maysen, a beer bottle on the ice, or Hunter to have me on the ropes so to speak with his comments.

Ones I have to figure out how to maneuver.

“Yes,” I reiterate. “You’re reaching.”

“So then why not give in to what we both want?”

My mouth is as dry as his eyes are intense. “What’s that?” I barely get out.

The groan he emits might as well be for both of us because it rumbles in the space between us. “Shall we finish what we started last night?”

“I told you, we’re not sleeping together. Things have changed. I’ve changed from who I was three years ago.”

“You may have changed but the chemistry is still the same. Time didn’t put a damper on the want.”

“You’re being ridiculous.” I take a step back only to bump against the wall. Of course, it’s there, because why wouldn’t it be, right?

“I am? Because I mean, if you’re not here to try and steal me from Sanderson, then there would be no reason for us not to walk down memory lane.”

“You mean sleep down memory lane?” I ask.

“There’s that smile.”

Shit. Don’t do that, Hunter. Don’t be playful. Don’t be charming. Don’t be nice.

“While this has been amusing—”

“There’s that word again.”

I sigh in exasperation. “I have work to get to.”

I expect Hunter to stop me—he’s a man who typically gets what he wants after all—but he doesn’t, so I walk down the hall toward the visitor’s section in the bowels of the arena.

“One thing, Dekk.”

“Yeah?” I turn to face him. He’s standing in the opening, the rink at his back, his stick in one hand, and the smug expression on his face fitting perfectly. If I could take a picture, the image would be him to a tee.

“Why’d you come this morning? If it wasn’t to steal me or fuck me . . . why waste the trip?”

Shit.

“I told you, I’m traveling with the team for the next stretch.”

“That didn’t answer my question of why you came looking for me.”

Bastard. He wants an answer? All right.

I walk back toward him and stop as he strips his shirt over his head. Where there would normally be an undershirt and pads, there is nothing but skin. Defined, sculpted muscles beneath his olive-toned skin with a tattoo on one shoulder and a war story of scars on the rest.

Scars I’ve traced with my fingers. Tattoos I’ve nipped with my teeth.

When I drag my eyes away from the sight in front of me, I’m met with a raised eyebrow and that damn amusement again painting every single muscle of his face.

Definitely a bastard toying with me.

“I wanted to come here and thank you.”

“We’ve talked all this time and those words haven’t graced your lips so I doubt that’s the reason.”

“No. Maysen was here. I was thrown with the beer bottle,” I fumble.

“Beer bottle is in the trash. Maysen is gone.” He puts one hand on his hip and raises his eyebrows. “What did you want to thank me for?”

I clear my throat. “For reaffirming that Chad wasn’t right for me.”

“How’d I do that?” he asks.

And what I meant as a completely innocent comment on the fly—one I somehow didn’t get out correctly, now just screwed me. How do I answer this? How do I tell him that I felt more alive in the few moments his lips met mine than I did the whole damn time Chad and I dated? Dated? Maybe more like were companions.

Because now I’m stuck staring at his blue eyes that are questioning me and I can’t really give him an answer without showing my cards. Professionally and personally.

“Because . . . I . . . uh missed his call last night when we were in the elevator,” I lie. And internally roll my eyes. I missed a call? Pfft.

“I’m not following you.” His smile widens.

Shit.

“Um, a man who wanted to fight for me would have called back. He would have—”

“Kissed you like I kissed you? Is that what you were going for?”

“No. Absolutely not.” Yes. That’s exactly why.

“You keep thinking that,” he says and then holds his hand up to someone over my shoulder. “Hold up. I need you to look at something.” He takes a few steps so that he’s shoulder to shoulder with me. “It was definitely the kiss.”

“Hunter—”

“You’re welcome.”

Without another word, his skates clomp down the carpeted hallway toward the visiting team’s quarters, while I watch after him wondering how in the hell he just got the upper hand in this conversation when I’m the one holding all the cards in a game he doesn’t even know we’re playing.

But isn’t that us?

Well, him and me.

There is no us.

There won’t be an us.

There can’t be an us. Not even a one-night-stand us.

Hell, Hunter maneuvered me right where he wanted me to be—me answering his questions while I forget to get answers to mine.

Something is going on with him.

The agent in me wants to figure it out so I can manipulate it to my advantage—take care of the problem, negotiate the issue away, and show him just how good I am at my job.

The woman in me worries about him, because you can only push so hard, so long, without burning out.