“I’ll finish it tomorrow. Don’t worry about it.”

  “Can’t. It’s part of Dad’s punishment for me. You know, picking up your shit while you’re busy being perfect.”

  He sighs. I know it’s not his fault. I know he’s stood up for me with Dad more times than he should have. I know he hates the difference in treatment between us just as much as I do.

  But it doesn’t change a fucking thing.

  He’s perfect, outstanding, everything my dad wanted in a son and hockey player.

  I’m mediocre, insignificant, the son my dad has never needed.

  The failure.

  “C’mon, Hunter. Don’t be a dick to me. Dad’s just being Dad. I’m sure if you turn it on after a few suicide sprints, he’ll be wowed by how fucking fast you are. He’ll think he’s taught you a lesson and then tell you to meet up with us.” He shushes people around him and their noise fades. It sounds like he walked into a different room. “Hunter?”

  “If only it were that easy.”

  Easy to what though? Live in your twin’s shadow? Never be enough? Love your brother like he’s a part of you while hating him from jealousy?

  “Look.” His voice lowers as someone yells, I need another brewski, in the background.

  “Nah. I’m out. Get Mom. Don’t get Mom. She called you to get her, so figure it the fuck out on your own.” I end the call and toss my phone on the ground, then squeeze my eyes shut to push the tears back down.

  Jonah doesn’t fucking care.

  No one does.

  And when I go to pick up the hammer to finish punishment number one, I catch movement out of the corner of my eye.

  I look over to where Terry Fischer plays with the ties of the bottom of what could be called a T-shirt if it had more fabric to it as she walks toward me. Her shorts are short, her legs are sinfully long, and her sandals high. When she rocks back on her heels as she licks her lips and bats her eyelashes, every damn ounce of blood in my body heads south and my mouth goes dry.

  “Hey. I thought you were going out to Rick’s house for some beers before we meet up for pictures and then head to the dance.”

  I stare at her—I mean how can I not—eyes blinking and lips parting, before I realize she thinks I’m Jonah.

  There’s a split second where I hesitate and she continues—her hips swaying, her fingers accidentally twisting her shirt tighter over her boobs—and I keep thinking about my brother.

  How much he thinks he loves her.

  How he’s already lost his virginity to her. (Hasn’t everyone at Hillman High?)

  How he has fucking everything without trying, while I have to work so damn hard at everything . . . but for what?

  “Jonah,” she croons as she stops within a foot of me, laces her fingers with mine, and swings our arms. “What’s wrong?” Pouty lips. Cleavage right there. Perfume. “Your daddy make you finish this since I distracted you the other day from finishing?”

  Her giggle fills the air and her tits jiggle when she does. I’m mesmerized.

  “Yeah.” I smile and emit a nervous laugh. No wonder Jonah keeps volunteering to come over here and work on Watson’s property.

  “You gonna answer that phone?” she asks. I didn’t even hear my cell ringing again.

  “It’s probably Hunter.” I roll my eyes. “You know how he is.”

  She laughs again and twirls a lock of hair on the finger of her free hand. “So . . . you’re not out with the guys?”

  “I had to finish this. I’m meeting up with them in a bit.” I wrack my brain to remember what was supposed to happen this afternoon. “I—uh—thought you were getting your hair or nails or whatever done,” I fumble.

  “Why?” She leans up against me. “You don’t think I’m pretty just like this?”

  Jesus. Hell. Fuck. Nerves vibrate through me just as fast as the adrenaline does, and I swear I can smell it coming from my pores.

  I’ve dated girls. Lots of them. I’ve been to second base a few times, while the guys think I’ve all but slid home.

  But this is Terry Fischer, innocent sweetheart to parents and blowjob queen to the boys of Hillman and the almost-men at the local junior college.

  “Pretty?” I lick my lips, my mouth dry as cotton, my dick harder than it’s ever been before and my balls ache. “You’re so much more than pretty.”

  “Jonah,” she says in a singsong voice as her lips meet mine. The hammer drops to the ground with a thud right beside the cellphone that starts to ring again as her fingers slide around my neck and thread through my hair.

  Terry Fischer is kissing me.

  Our tongues touch, and she moans loudly as she presses her body against mine.

  My thoughts are frantic. What am I supposed to do now? I’m going to hell.

  Oh my God, this feels so fucking good.

  She thinks I’m Jonah.

  Oh shit.

  Oh shit.

  The kiss grows greedy, if that’s even a thing. Like I can’t get enough of it or her, and it’s easier to get lost in her kiss than to acknowledge the tinge of guilt over how I’m kissing my brother’s girlfriend.

  “Is old man Watson still not home?” she asks as she looks around the empty backyard before pulling my hand up and pressing it against her breast.

  “No.” I gulp. I try not to move, because if my jeans rub too hard or she grinds again against me, I swear to God, I’m going to come in my pants.

  Gretzky. Crosby. Lemieux. Roy. Howe. Orr.

  I try to recite the hockey greats. Anything to get my focus off what her nipple feels like beneath the thin fabric. Hard and soft and her breast the perfect weight as if I know what that is.

  “He—he’s still out of town.”

  “Should we do this now? Like you and me? So my hair doesn’t get messed up later and my parents don’t wonder?”

  Jesus.

  I’m not Jonah.

  Oh my God, he’s going to kill me.

  She runs a hand over the outside of my pants and my eyes all but roll back in my head. If a cool breeze on any other day is enough to make me stand at attention, her hand is doing so much more than that.

  “I—sure—I—”

  “I mean, we can do what we did before—with me sucking you and you licking me . . . but, I brought a condom.” She holds a foil packet up and my eyes bug out of my head, causing her to giggle as my breath all but stops.

  “Yes. Please. Um—”

  “You’re acting funny,” she says as she pushes me toward the patio furniture and grabs my shirt, pulling me toward her to meet my tongue again.

  My pulse pounds in my ears. My breathing is shallow as I try to process what’s happening. As I realize the next closest house is half a mile away and Terry Fischer is here and wants to do it with me.

  I guess the rumors were right.

  I guess Jonah wasn’t lying.

  Don’t think about Jonah. Don’t think about—

  “C’mon, J. Feel my panties. Feel what you do to me.”

  She guides my hand between the flimsy cotton shorts to where it’s warm and moist and—

  Gretzky. Crosby. Lemieux. Roy. Howe. Orr.

  “Ohhhh.” My own moan is all I can hear as her hands slide inside my jeans and circle around me.

  Gretzky. Crosby. Lemieux. Roy. Howe. Orr.

  DEKKER

  THE SAXOPHONE FLOATS THROUGH THE air above the steady drone of chatter. Sculler’s Jazz Club is crowded for a Thursday night and by the looks of my company—Finch and his wife, Maysen, and Callum—the few drinks have settled and the exhaustion from the game tonight is setting in.

  Finch with his uniquely good looks—longer hair with almost clear blue eyes—has his arm hooked around his wife’s shoulder. For the life of me, I can’t remember her name and am too embarrassed to ask, so I’ve spent the better part of the conversation making sure to avoid saying anything where I need to use it.

  For a businesswoman who prides herself on remembering names, I just don’t have it in me tonight.

  Regardless, Callum was right. This place that the guys usually meet up at after wherever their adventures take them in the city, is just what I needed. Relaxed and sufficiently off the beaten track that it offers privacy away from fans. The guys can enjoy a drink or two without interruptions for autographs or fear that pictures will be posted online of them when they’ve had a little too much.

  The lounge is dim, and the furniture is dark, save for the stage across from us with its red velvet backdrop and lights angled at the lone man sitting there playing the sax. His tune is melodic and seductive and begs you to relax . . . or make love. I’m angling for the former. We’re in the top of the three tiers of seats, and the bar is behind us with its clinks and clanks of glass as it buzzes with business.

  Taking a sip of my martini, I close my eyes, and lean my head back to listen and unwind, but as per usual, my head never quiets. Everything I need to do sifts through my mind. Contracts and negotiations and endorsement deals. I understand my father’s reasoning in sending me here to recruit Hunter, but in the meantime, I feel like I’m neglecting my other clients who need my attention.

  Sure, I can work most crises remotely, but not being in my office makes it difficult. Living in a hotel room that changes every other night makes it even harder.

  I tune into the conversation in front of me. Comments about the game tonight, including a few snide remarks about one of my clients on the opposing team, make me smile.

  “It’s true, isn’t it, Dekker? The fucker must eat lemons the way he’s so damn sour,” Finch says.

  I belt out a laugh. “Client info is confidential, but uh, he’s got some killer lemon trees at his house,” I say with a wink.

  He throws his head back and laughs while Maysen stands suddenly, the expression on his face causing us all to turn and see what has his attention.

  Hunter stumbles near the entrance of the other side of the club. His shoulder falls into a guy and much like Maysen, we can see the fight coming a mile away.

  Unlike Maysen, though, I overheard the conversation tonight between the LumberJacks GM and Sanderson.

  The last thing Hunter needs to be doing is getting into a fight.

  But before I can react, Maysen leaps over the back of the couch on legs that don’t look like he just played sixty minutes of high-intensity and brutally physical hockey, and jogs over to his teammate.

  Between the distance and the music, I can’t hear what’s being said, but body language—Maysen’s hands are up and his smile is broad as he talks to the guy Hunter is staring down. A few tense seconds unfold where I’m sure Maysen offers to buy a round of drinks or something to that effect, before he wraps his arm around Hunter’s waist, and starts veering him our way. Situation handled.

  Thank God.

  But what the actual fuck?

  What the hell is Hunter thinking?

  Disgusted with his immaturity, I turn back to the company in front of me, down the rest of my delicious and much-needed martini, and choose to ignore whatever the hell is going on with him, because I’m off the clock.

  At least that’s what I tell myself.

  I should be prepared for Hunter’s flop on the seat beside me a few seconds later, but I still emit a startled yelp when he does.

  “It’s Dekker the pecker wrecker,” he says with a huge grin that would be charming if he weren’t drunk or his words weren’t shitty. His cheek is red where a punch was landed in the game tonight, and his hair is falling in his face. I can’t deny that small tug that hits me at the sight of him.

  And I hate everything about that admission.

  I have just enough of a buzz going that I’m primed to pick a fight with him. Despite his behavior, how he’s shutting me out, the way he’s turned me on, the fact that I haven’t told him why I’m here, and the career he’s trying to throw away with his bullshit antics.

  Reason would tell me I shouldn’t engage. The last drink I had encourages me that I should.

  “Oh, look. It’s out-of-control Hunter who’s going to get his ass kicked off his team if he keeps his bullshit up,” I add with an equally charming smile as I meet his eyes.

  “Bullshit?” he scoffs. “Nah, it’s just me getting warmed up.”

  “I’m sure your teammates are thrilled to hear that.”

  I don’t back down from his glare, so the silence settles between us as we stare at each other.

  “Where’ve you been, man?” Callum asks, trying to ease the tension, as he leans back in his chair.

  “Just taking care of some business,” Hunter says and dismisses him.

  “Old friends?” Finch asks.

  “Something like that.” He stands abruptly. “Can’t an asshole get a drink in this place?”

  I push myself up. “I’ll get it,” I say, knowing if I get it for him, I can ask the bartender to make it light. Hunter’s so drunk he probably won’t notice. “What’ll you have?” I ask when I already know the answer.

  “Good. I’ll have a Bombay and tonic. And uh, glad to know you know how to do your job properly,” Hunter says, and I see Finch’s wife wince at the comment.

  “At least someone does,” I say, and he grabs my arm as I start to walk past him.

  “Hey,” Finch says and stands to reinforce his warning. He glares at his teammate.

  “It’s fine,” I say and shrug out of Hunter’s reach before anything can escalate. Getting in a fight with a random person is one thing, but fighting his own teammate is even worse.

  The bar is crowded and it takes a few minutes before I can belly up to it. “Another?” the bartender asks.

  “No. A gin and tonic. Bombay. And a lot more tonic than gin,” I say with a wink.

  He nods, understanding what I’m saying. “Got it.”

  Right when I go to turn around and check on Hunter, he slides into the spot beside me and leans his elbows on the bar top. Our eyes meet and the million questions I want to ask him surface and die right along with my want to tell him about the conversation I overheard tonight.

  “Let me guess, you’re watering down my drink,” he says, his lips beside my ear.

  “Should I worry about what kind of trouble you got in tonight before finding yourself here?”

  Something flashes through the blue of his eyes, but it’s gone before I can decipher it. “I’m not your problem to worry about. Just looking after some fans. Surely you know what that is.” He looks at me with such an unexpected bitterness as if to test me. “How much do you want to bet I could walk away from this place tonight with five different phone numbers?”

  “If your goal is to be a phone book, then by all means.” I roll my shoulders and refuse to give him what he wants. Another fight.

  “What is it with you, Kincade?” he murmurs just above the music. “All of a sudden you’re here, there . . . fucking everywhere. In my face.”

  “Not what I’m here for. But I’m sure any of those numbers you collect would be willing to be whatever you need for the night.” The bartender slides the drink in front of me, and I thank him as I push it toward Hunter.

  “You’re right. They would.” He turns around so he’s still beside me, but so his back is against the bar. He makes a show of giving a hum of appreciation when he spots a woman who catches his eye.

  I can’t figure out if he’s being serious or just trying to get a reaction out of me.

  “Have at them, Hunter.” I choke over my own words. “You sure seem like you’re at peak performance tonight.”

  “What?”

  “Nothing.” My buzz is gone, and there’s no point saying another word.

  His chuckle is a low rumble that I can feel more than hear as he turns to face me, but I keep looking straight ahead at the mirrored wall behind the bar. “Why are you here, Dekker?”

  “Same reason you are. To have a drink. To unwind after a long day. To have a little downtime.”

  “To get laid.”

  “Yep, that’s me.” I shake my head in frustration. “My every waking goal is how I’m going to end up on my back with my legs spread.”

  “It used to be.”

  A million things run through my mind—fuck you, being the one that rings the loudest and only with you running a close second—but I know Hunter Maddox. He wants to stay angry.

  But his words still sting. They still ignite my temper. They still hurt, when I shouldn’t care.

  Hunter seems determined to ruin or sabotage every part of his life. Why bother being his agent? Then I’ll be the one being warned by McAvoy. And why do I want that? Surely my dad doesn’t want that.

  “That’s a class-act thing to say, Hunter. Be a dick to me.” I don’t deserve that from him, and I hate that his drunkenness has disconnected his filter and allows him to be so scathing.

  “Not being a dick, just trying to figure out why the hell you’re following the team around like a puppy dog waiting to get a scrap of bone.”

  I take a sip of my drink, let the alcohol swish around on my tongue before I swallow it, and turn to face him. He remains looking ahead, his profile strong with pride and marred with a disdain I can’t figure out. “Let’s get one thing straight, Maddox. I chase after no one. I’m a damn good agent who’s simply doing my job. If I choose to go out for a drink with one of my clients after a game, that’s my own business, not yours.”

  “Is that what this is, Dekk?” The muscle in his jaw feathers as the melody being played changes.

  “What?”

  “We fizzled out so I moved on, and now you’re back to exact revenge?” For fuck’s sake.

  We never fizzled out.

  The thought screams to a halt in the front of my mind and sits there in blinking neon lights.

  We never fizzled out because if we had, those feelings I had wouldn’t have sparked to life the minute I saw him. They would have had me sneering and disgusted. But then I hear the other part about him moving on. I had tried to avoid looking up pictures of Hunter after I left him. To see how quickly and how easily I’d been replaced. How he’d moved on. I’m not naïve enough to think that I walked away and he’s pined after me all these years.

  So yeah, I’m sure he moved on. But I’ve never wanted that reminder.