“Part of it’s the Cup, you know.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “That’s why Ian and the Jacks gave me such a huge contract,” he says, referring to the LumberJacks general manager. “It’s on my shoulders to deliver the Cup in return.”

  I laugh at the ludicrousness of that. “Any agent worth their salt wouldn’t agree to those terms.” I shake my head and place another mental tic next to why Sanderson is an asshole. Commission, first. Client’s well-being, second. “What happens if you don’t deliver?” I ask, and the only response I get is the twitch of that muscle in his jaw. Curiosity owns me, and while I understand that companies acquire benchmark players to build on, no one can guarantee a Stanley Cup.

  “It doesn’t have to be written in the contract to know what’s expected of me,” he says answering my unspoken question.

  “Winning is expected of every player.” I laugh, but it falls when I see the gravity in his expression. “That’s why you play the game, right? That’s why every player is out there on the ice. No one forms a team hoping they’ll be mediocre.”

  “The teams without the big purse strings do.”

  “You’re missing my point, Hunter.” I shake my head and lean back and stare at him. Now, he looks like the weight of the world is on his shoulders, and I wish I could take it all away. “Do you know how many exceptional players never won the Cup? I can list a ton of them.”

  “So can I, and my name would be one of them.”

  “Your career has been phenomenal. Even if you never win the Cup—”

  “Don’t bullshit me, Dekker. You can be the greatest there ever was, but if you don’t ever win, it doesn’t mean shit. The greats win the Cup. More than once. So that was our deal. He paid me a ridiculous amount of money, and expects me to build the team around me that will help win the Cup for the first time in franchise history.”

  “You’re staring down your first playoff berth. I’d say the team you built around you is working just fine.” But at what cost, I wonder. “What is there, fifteen games left in the season?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s a hell of a lot of pressure,” I murmur more to myself than to him.

  “You have no fucking idea.” He sighs. “And we’re almost there. We’re so close I can all but taste it . . . but, fuck if I know if we can do it.”

  “What do you mean?” I ask, reaching out and putting my hand on his to stop him from pulling away.

  “Never mind. It’s nothing.” His smile is tight as he downs the rest of the beer. “It’s late. We should get going. It’s a long drive back.”

  I sigh as he scoots his stool out and goes to close out his tab, because I feel like we were making genuine headway. The positive in this? My hunch was right. Hunter Maddox has reached his emotional limit, and he doesn’t know how to admit it to himself.

  Instead, he’s angry. He acts out. He burns the candle at both ends. For a man who prefers to fade into the background, he’s the face of a team who I think is going to take center stage in the coming weeks.

  How is he going to handle it? Because if his reaction to the pressure he’s under now is any indication, it’s not going to be good.

  Will helping him realize he’s burned out help the situation or hurt it?

  DEKKER

  “JUST SAY IT.”

  The fight he’s angling for, the one I can sense in his tone of voice and how he’s pulled into himself and thoughts since we parked, I don’t really have the energy to give.

  “Say what?” I ask as I glance over to Hunter as we walk through the parking lot toward the hotel entrance. It’s been a long drive, it’s late, and I’m beat.

  “Whatever the fuck it is that has been on your mind since we left the bar.”

  “Who said I had anything to say?”

  “You’ve always been shit at hiding your emotions. You think you’re so good at it—a hard-ass—but they’re on your sleeve when it comes to me.”

  “You’re such a liar.”

  “Huh. Then I guess the last time I saw you before, when you walked out of the hotel, I misread you and had you pegged all wrong.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Caution vibrates through me.

  “It means you walked out because you broke the rules.”

  My feet falter, and I have a hard time swallowing as his words hit my ears. “Broke what rules?” I feign ignorance.

  He takes a step closer to where I’ve stopped and stares at me. I’m glad for the cover of the night, but I don’t think it’s going to mask the sudden anxiety I have about where he’s going with this. “You tell me.”

  Our gazes hold in an awkward dance where it seems he doesn’t want to follow through with whatever accusation he’d planned. I don’t want to open Pandora’s box.

  I’m not sure what’s worse, him telling me he knew I had feelings for him or me realizing he knew and let me walk away without saying a word.

  I shake my head when I realize why he made the comment. Such a Hunter thing to do. Dodge. Deflect. Turn the topic around to the opposition by changing the subject so he doesn’t have to answer and be the one to open himself up. Classic fucking Maddox.

  I’m glad I didn’t say anything. I’m glad I didn’t give him the distraction he was angling for and answers he might not have realized.

  “Tell me something,” I ask, bracing my hands on my hips.

  “Nothing good ever came from a sentence starting like that.” He crosses his arms over his chest, already on the defensive.

  “You’re the one who came after me, so why can’t I ask you a question in turn?”

  His exasperated sigh fills the silence around us. “Look, it’s been a good night. We had fun. We didn’t kill each other, which is always a bonus when it comes to us, and while it’s a good thing, it’s also kind of unnerving because it’s us, right?” He chuckles but there’s an exhaustion to it. “Just let whatever it is go that you need to know and don’t ruin the night, okay?”

  “What do you do in the off season?” I ask.

  He laughs in protest. “I’m not doing this, Dekker. This isn’t the discussion we’re having.”

  “Just . . . humor me. Please. I . . . please.” I reach out to grab his arm to stop him when he begins to walk, but I see the minute his shoulders fall and know he’s going to give me an inch here. “It’s not a trick question. It’s just . . . what do you do in the off season?”

  “Practice. Work out. Practice some more.” His arms fall to his sides.

  “And in your downtime?”

  “Study hockey, film, opponents, weaknesses.” He says the words like I should know this—and I do—but I need him to hear it. I need him to listen to himself and realize his single-minded focus.

  “And what else do you do besides hockey?”

  “What is it I do?”

  “Yeah, besides twenty-four/seven hockey, what else do you enjoy doing?”

  The crooked grin that crawls over his lips and the way his eyes scrape down the V of my shirt and back up has me shaking my head.

  “We could go upstairs and I could show you exactly what I enjoy.”

  While my body reacts viscerally to his words, my head remembers his complete rejection from the other night.

  “I’m sure we could, but that’s not part of this conversation.” I shake my head. “Seriously. What do you do besides hockey and the one-night stands?”

  “Two-night stands.”

  “Funny. I’m serious.”

  He stares at me. “Plenty.”

  I bark out a laugh but the sound settles as he stares at me.

  “You asked me why I took you to the Dartmouth game tonight. You asked me to stop talking in circles . . . so I’ve stopped . . .” Every part of me prepares for the fallout from what I’m going to say. My shaky inhale reflects it. “You’re burned out, Hunter—fucking fried—and you need to recharge your engine somehow—”

  “No, I’m not.” He physically rejects the words as if taking two steps back from me is going to help do that.

  “It’s okay to say it. There’s no shame in it.”

  Another partial laugh. An opening of his mouth and then shutting it, but I see the sudden panic in his eyes. I hear it in the vibrato of his laugh.

  “This is the last thing I need right now. Do you know that? Do you get the shitstorm I’m about to walk into tomorrow?”

  “Tomorrow?”

  “Do you know—fuck,” he barks, his body tense, the can of worms I’ve opened expected but unknown. He walks a few feet away and laces his fingers on the back of his neck. “This is the last damn thing I need. Why couldn’t you leave well fucking enough alone, huh?”

  “Hunter. I’m sorry. I don’t know what you’re talking about, but I—”

  “You’re goddamn right you don’t,” he thunders as he glares at me, probably oblivious to the couple on the other side of the parking lot. But I care and hate to know what they’re thinking as they glance our way several times. “Do you know how stupid that sounds?”

  “How stupid what sounds?”

  “That I no longer love hockey.”

  His words stagger me. Burning out because of the relentless nature of the sport and trying to be your best versus hating that sport are two completely different things. But standing here, seeing him struggle, I know he can’t see the difference or separate himself from it . . . and it breaks my heart. There are tears in his eyes weighted with a mixture of shame and confusion and anger. It’s almost as if uttering those words—that he’s lost his love of hockey—is an admission that his identity has been stolen, and he’s not sure how to navigate his way back to it.

  I struggle between offering him tough love or sympathy and know that it seems that neither is going to cut it. Taking a step toward him, I try to reason with hm.

  I no longer love hockey.

  “You don’t mean that—”

  “You’re goddamn right I do,” he shouts, arms out to his sides. “But it’s so much more than that. So much more than I could ever explain.”

  It’s that little break in his voice on the last word—and the defeat that eats up his posture—that nearly undoes me and makes me want to wrap my arms around him to take away the hurt that owns his eyes.

  “Try me.” I take a step closer. “I’m here. I’m—”

  “You’re what? You’re going to waltz in here with your positive attitude and magic wand and put everything back to fucking perfect again? No offense, Dekk, but it’s the last thing I want or need from you. The shit that’s broken can’t be fixed. The damage done can’t be reversed. All I can do is ride the fucking wave and make the best of it.”

  “At least let me be there for you.” His laugh is hollow and raw and eats away at me. I get he’s a man not used to talking about feelings, but he needs to know. “Just know it’s a normal thing that most professional athletes experience at one time or another during their career. I mean, how can you not burn out? How can you play day after day and—”

  “That’s enough!” His voice thunders through the parking lot. His words suggest he’s not listening, but the expression on his face—fear and uncertainty—shows me that he hears me. He knows I’m right. He’s just too proud and stubborn and masculine, too scared to admit defeat. Like many, he sees it as a sign of weakness.

  As a sign of failure.

  But failure of what is the question?

  “Who do you think you are, playing shrink with me?”

  “I’m the furthest thing from a shrink.” I take a step toward him. “We need to help you remember why you loved the game in the first place.”

  “Who’s this we, crap?”

  “You. I mean you. I just thought I could help—”

  “So that’s what tonight was about, right? It wasn’t about just letting me go watch a game. It wasn’t about letting me get away from the guys for a bit and be me, and not just a captain. It was to show and make me see that I can love the game in a different way.” The protest dies on my tongue when I see the tears of frustration glistening in Hunter’s eyes. “Like I said, there are always strings attached. Always an ulterior motive. Always something someone wants from me and this time, no fucking surprise, it’s you—”

  “Will you listen to yourself?” I shout.

  “What? The alternative is listening to you?” His voice beats mine out.

  “I don’t want to fight. All I want to do is help you however I can. Saying you’re burned out isn’t an admission of—”

  “Isn’t an admission of what? You don’t think I know millions would kill to be in my shoes? You don’t think I know how fucking crazy it sounds for me to complain about living the dream? Who the hell needs a break from the game or thing they love? Who the hell says fuck you to the thing that has defined and saved them?” He walks a few feet the other way and the low, guttural chastisement he emits is heartbreaking. “I’m thirty-two years old and every goddamn day is a grind. Every day is me chasing a ghost I’ll never surpass in certain eyes. Each day is me faking it for the fans that I’m the person they think I am. Christ. How many days will it be until they see I’m a fraud? Until they realize I’m smoke and mirrors and only trying to live up to the expectations others have of me?”

  He’s saying things I don’t understand now, but I don’t interrupt. I close my mouth and let him rant on things I can only partially comprehend but emotionally can fathom.

  He’s like a little boy. One who hears the truth but rejects it on principle.

  “Hey.” My voice is calm and soothing as I step beside him. My hands itch to pull him into a hug, to touch him somehow, to calm him. “I know you don’t want to hear this, but I really need you to. I understand everything that you’ve said. The why. The how is it possible. The what an ass I would be to feel this way. And all of that’s valid to someone on the outside . . . but you’re on the inside looking out, Hunter, and what you feel is valid too. I mean, isn’t that why you’re struggling? The how can you complain or be sick of it when it’s most people’s dream job . . . but it’s just that, a job. You can be the best in the world at something, be on top of your game, and still burn out. It’s human. It’s—”

  “And I’m sure you have the cure for it, right?” Gone is the emotion etched in the lines of his face. His mask has been put back on, feelings under lock and key. The anger replaced by sarcasm. The confusion traded for denial.

  It takes everything I have not to grab his shoulders and shake him to make him listen to me. I’m frustrated and hurt that he’s shut down.

  “I don’t have any answers. All I can say is that you need more balance. You need to be Hunter Maddox, the guy who likes to watch movies or cook or I don’t know what it is you might like to do, but you can have an identity that’s outside of hockey while still being Hunter Maddox the hockey star to everyone else.”

  “Oh, don’t look now, but here comes Detailed Dekker and her perfect answers for everything to the rescue. Well, news flash, I don’t need to be saved. I don’t need them or their pressure. I don’t need fucking anyone, and I sure as hell don’t need you.”

  His words hit me one after another. Most making sense, some not, and I concentrate on who he means by them, but refrain from asking.

  His shoulders heave with anger as our eyes hold. The white smoke from his breath disappears.

  When I speak, my voice is the antithesis of his. It’s calm, even, unemotional. “That’s not what I was trying to do. All I was—”

  “Save it, Kincade. Fucking save it.” He waves a hand at me and shakes his head. “I’ve had enough of this shit. Thanks for ruining tonight when I told you to let it go.”

  Without another word, he turns on his heel and heads to the entrance of the hotel.

  That whole conversation was a disaster. Total and utter disaster.

  And I’m not a single step closer to figuring out what it is that weighs so heavily on his shoulders.

  HUNTER

  “WE DIDN’T GET A CHANCE to speak to you after the other night’s game, any comment on the marked difference in your performance or were you just having an off night?”

  The game feels like light years ago already. What was it? Only three days? Four? Fuck if I can remember.

  Through the blinding lights I can just make out my agent, Finn Sanderson, at the back of the press briefing room. His arms are crossed over his chest, his back is against the wall, and it seems like his eyes never leave me.

  Management called in the big guns to control me. Jünger must be worried I’ll let him down and not heed his threats.

  Hell, maybe they were smart considering we’re in my hometown and avoidance is at its finest.

  “Everybody has an off night. Apparently that game was mine,” I say, giving the company line Sanderson drilled in my head right after his numerous threats about how if I keep my shit up, I’m going to be benched or suspended and lose him as an agent. While I’m pretty sure his warnings about losing endorsement deals are a load of crap said to instill fear in me, the benching me part might be true enough. “Let’s hope I can shake off the bad juju and get back into the groove tonight.”

  “Are you worried how that loss is going to matter to the Jacks in the standings?”

  I move the microphone back and try to find who asked the question but have a hard time seeing through the lights.

  “Every game matters. Every win, every loss. I’ve been playing in this league long enough to know a one-goal loss in the first week of the season can be the determining factor to how your season ends when you never realized it. Lucky for us, the Nomads lost too so we had an even night on paper.”

  You’re burned out, Hunter—fucking fried.

  Dekker’s words replay in my head for the millionth time since they passed her lips, and I try to shake them off. I know it’s true. Obviously, she knows it’s true.

  But goddamn it, the reason why is something I can’t fix.

  I’ve tried.

  Jesus, have I tried.

  “Mr. Maddox, over here.” The female reporter’s voice rings out and knocks Dekker’s voice from my head. I blink a few times into the light and then hold my hand over my eyes so I can look in her direction. “Hello. Hi.”