Hell.

  “News flash. What happened three years ago is dead and over,” I say.

  “Yes, I forgot. No-nonsense Kincade can move on without ever looking back.”

  “God, Hunter. There are way more important things you need to be focusing on than me.”

  “Yeah,” he murmurs just loud enough for me to hear, “like that hot brunette over there.”

  That dig hurts.

  “Just like old times, huh?” I ask, staring at him until he slowly turns and faces me, that cocky smirk that usually makes my insides simmer, instead now irritating me.

  “Depends on what you mean by old times.” He reaches out to move a piece of hair off my shoulder, and I slap his hand away.

  “Hockey. Party. Repeat.”

  “You forgot the most important part.” He leans closer so I can smell the alcohol on his breath just above the scent of his cologne.

  “Meaning?”

  “Hockey. Party. Fucking. Repeat.”

  “Screw you, Hunter,” I say, refusing to show that those words and his cavalier attitude are hurtful.

  I toss some cash on the bar and head back to our table, needing space and distance from him and his destructive behavior. Why? Why does he keep coming to me when it clearly bothers him that I’m here? Why can’t he just go after his hot brunette on the other side of the bar and leave me the hell alone?

  More importantly, why do I keep engaging?

  I think the answer lies somewhere between the two of those answers.

  “You jealous?” he calls after me as I step past Finch and his wife on the way to the open seat on the couch. I turn to face him, confusion no doubt etched in every line of my face, as he stares at me above the rim of his glass, his eyes challenging me as much as his words do. “You’re the one who moves from man to man, night after night.”

  “Man to man? Really? It’s called entertaining clients, you ass.” I laugh at his ridiculousness and when I try to walk between him and the table in the way, I realize now that putting myself in this corner was a bad idea.

  “Sleeping with clients is part of the job now? No wonder Chaddy-boy was so pissed that you dropped him to come see me,” he says, reaching out to grab my arm.

  Finch and Callum both stand instantly with his name falling from their lips.

  But I’m faster, my hand stinging as it connects with his cheek.

  We glare at each other—his teammates and one of my clients—staring at us, gauging the situation and whatever it is that’s happening between us. Patrons on the outside of our seating area turn to watch too as the music picks up in pace.

  Hunter may have a ghost of a smile on his lips but there is a host of pain in the depths of his eyes, but I’m past wanting to listen to him now. A moment passes before I see him tuck it all away and that smile falls lopsided and his snark returns.

  “This is what this is all about, isn’t it? You. Me. Years ago. Relationships aren’t my thing, Dekker.”

  “No shit.” I pull my purse strap back up to my shoulder that fell off with the action.

  “Not between me and a woman. Not between me and an agent.” He chews his cheek momentarily. “Not with anyone.”

  “Good to know.” I angle my head, stare at him, and then go out on a limb with a hunch. “Why are you here? Hockey. Party. Fucking. Repeat? Is that why? I figured you’d be spending time with your family. But you’re out drinking and being an asshole.”

  Muscles tic in his face as he clenches his jaw.

  And there it is.

  A reaction that is as sincere as it is threatening.

  “Leave my family the fuck out of this,” he growls, his shoulders squaring, as he takes a step toward me. “Where do you get off—?”

  His teammates take a protective step forward, but I shake my head to tell them it’s fine. In fact, I turn toward them and say, “It’s late, and I have an early conference call. Thank you for inviting me. It was a great time”—I glance to Hunter—“until it wasn’t.”

  “Do you want me to take you back?” Callum asks, and I shake my head, not wanting to add fuel to Hunter’s accusation.

  “No, thank you. Enjoy the rest of your night. It’ll probably be your last one for a while with the next few games being tough ones . . . so enjoy it while you can.” When I go to leave, Hunter won’t move so I can walk out of the small space between the table and the couch.

  “Just admit it,” he says.

  “Admit what?” I ask.

  “Why you’re here.”

  “Lay off, man,” Finch says and tries to pull Hunter by the arm out of my way, but he shrugs off his teammate’s arm without a look his way.

  I shake my head subtly, the gravity in my voice matching the look in my eyes. “Honestly? I’m not sure why I’m here anymore.” More than a small part of me wishes I wasn’t. I’ve been his verbal punching bag one too many times since I came here, and I’m done.

  It’s one thing when it’s just the two of us, but now he’s doing it in front of his teammates and all that does is undermine my professionalism. If I stand by and take it, I look like I have no backbone, and they’d wonder how that would translate to me fighting in contract negotiations for them.

  On the other hand, when I do engage him and stand up for myself, it just devolves into an insult-fest that looks unprofessional and immature.

  I feel like I’m in a no-win situation, especially when I see he’s not going to change.

  Before I showed up here, I thought I could fix whatever was going on with him and win his trust in doing so, but now . . . now, I don’t think anything I do will help him.

  Is this where I call my dad and tell him to pick someone else for me to recruit? That I refuse to put up with Hunter and his constant picking of fights to prevent us from having any real conversation? Or do I stick it out to prove to my dad that I’m tough and can handle even the most difficult of clients? But this isn’t about my father’s lack of faith in me . . . because I know he believes in me. KSM needs a Hunter Maddox in its client list.

  I feel like I’m at a loss either way, but my dignity is stronger than my pride, and I’m done.

  I look at Hunter one last time, and his expression falls as I stare at him a second longer before skirting around him and walking out of the club.

  HUNTER

  “WHAT?” I SNAP AT THE guys when they stare at me after she walks out.

  “What the fuck, Cap?” Finch asks and the look on his face—disgust and disappointment from a man I’m supposed to lead—hits me harder than his words.

  I don’t wait for them to say anything more or rebuke me or what-the-fuck-ever it is they want to malign me with and head to the bar.

  It’s much easier to drink to cope than to stand here and replay everything that happened at my parents’ house—the things I know will never change—and the fight I got into at the first bar I stopped by on my way here.

  When will this pain and guilt and need to destroy everything go away?

  When will the things I do ever be good enough to outrun the clusterfuck of emotions that have been running rampant over the past few months?

  It’s simpler to down the first shot of gin. To focus on the burn instead of the argument I had with my mom and the disinterest and then criticism from my dad. From the words I wanted to shout at them—that I’m still alive and still their son, and isn’t that enough?

  But I know why they are how they are.

  I know why our lives have all changed.

  I know that I’m the one who set forward the events that caused all of this.

  The second shot I swallow in one gulp burns just as bright as the first.

  Thoughts of Dekker fill my head. I can’t get them out. Not her before. Especially not her now.

  Her presence is torture. It’s showing me something I thought I wanted. Something I forced myself to walk away from because I knew I didn’t deserve her.

  And just when everything is turning to shit, she’s back again. A sinner and a saint, and fuck if I know which one of those parts of her I’d love to drown in.

  You’re a piece of shit, Hunter.

  I think of the words I spewed at her.

  Grade-A piece of shit.

  Not like that’s anything you didn’t already know, but now you can’t deny it.

  The accusations I made just so she wouldn’t look too closely or see the truths about me.

  Hockey player. Royal fuck-up. Commitment-phobe. The reason Jonah’s dying.

  I scrub a hand through my hair and down the third shot in as many minutes, landing the glass back on the bar top with a slap for emphasis.

  Fucking Dekker.

  I shake my head but she’s still there, still owning my thoughts, still making me want her.

  But she’s here.

  And I think she’s recruiting someone.

  But who?

  Me? She’s ballsy enough to make that kind of move without a blink of an eye.

  Maybe the rumors are true that Sanderson is fucking people over. It’s not like he’s doing me any favors right now.

  Would I move over to KSM? Would I let Dekker represent me? Her track record’s phenomenal . . . so why is it people are jumping ship to Sanderson? What exactly is he promising these new clients that us old ones aren’t seeing?

  The question is, if she represents me, how is it going to work when I sleep with her? Because I am going to sleep with her again.

  That was a forgone conclusion the minute I saw her standing in Tank’s last week.

  And with her by-the-book attitude, I’m going to enjoy every damn minute of bending her to my will.

  I chuckle to myself and look around, catching the eye of a blonde at the end of the bar. Tall, nice rack, good smile, come fuck me eyes.

  She’d do for the night.

  But Dekker would be so much better. We may be oil and water, but between the sheets, hell, we’re a goddamn masterpiece.

  I rest my hips against the bar and watch the sax player do his thing—fingers pressing on keys, sunglasses shading his eyes, body moving to the rhythm he’s creating—and let myself fall under the haze of the shot I’ve just downed.

  I’m still watching him while the blonde studies me, and all I can think about is a different woman: Dekker Kincade.

  The fourth shot is much smoother, simply because I no longer taste it. I’m distracted though. Preoccupied.

  You better stop thinking about her, Maddox.

  The question is, do I really want to?

  Maybe she’s the distraction I need right now.

  Perhaps she’s the something I can get lost in—the chase and the challenge and then the reward—that will get me out of my own head.

  But I know more than most, a little bit of Dekker was never enough. Nights of wanting and needing and pretending, are my proof of that.

  But why would she want you after the bullshit you put her through tonight? The crappy comments and accusations?

  Surprise, surprise. You fucked up again, Maddox.

  I pull bills out of my wallet and set them under an empty shot glass. Time to go. To stop thinking. To sleep this off even though my thoughts have already sobered me enough.

  Shit. What a waste of good alcohol.

  “Hey there.” The smooth voice belongs to the blonde from the corner of the bar and as much as I need to get lost in something for a while, she’s not her.

  “Have a good night.” I take a step away but her hands grab one of mine and pull it toward her as she tries to lace her fingers with mine.

  Interest doesn’t even flutter to life.

  “Don’t be a party pooper.” She pouts and then paints a siren’s smile on those glossed lips of hers. “I saw you looking. I know you’re interested.”

  Doesn’t she know that subtlety goes a hell of a long way?

  I laugh a few notes. “I’m interested in a lot of things. Going to my hotel right now is one of them.” I pull my hand from her grasp. Her fury can be heard in the stomp of her foot.

  “I could give you a lift.”

  “I’m more than capable of getting there. Thanks though.” I give her a smile and take a step back.

  “You’re the first guy to say no, you know.”

  I turn back to look at her. “That line in itself is the reason I’m walking away.”

  She mutters something I can’t hear and don’t fucking care because the sudden movement tells me I’m still buzzed enough. I laugh as I push the door open and breathe in the frigid air.

  That’s a slap to sobriety right there.

  It’s when I step a few more feet under the covered entrance that I see Dekker near the carpark. She’s standing with her arms crossed over her midsection, shivering from the cold, as she looks from her phone to the car that’s pulling up and back again in what I can only assume is checking the Uber drivers.

  The shit feeling I had inside about what I said returns at the sight of her.

  But so does my resolve to want to lose myself to her—in her. Please don’t say no to me.

  DEKKER

  “DEKKER.”

  His voice is the last thing I want to hear right now. I’m tired, have had enough alcohol, and more than enough of his bullshit, so I pretend I don’t hear him. Besides, I’ve already decided I’m done with this. Done with him. Turning my back to the entrance of the bar, I check the ETA of my rideshare again.

  It’s almost one o’clock in the morning. How in the hell is the only driver checking in to pick me up over five minutes away?

  “Dekk!” Snow crunches beneath his boots at my back and my hands fist in response. “Look. I’m sorry.” His words slur and I hate the sound of it. Hate that in the fifteen minutes max that I left him at the bar, he’s drunk more to shut out whatever the hell is going on with him. And even worse, I hate that I care. “You know how I get. You know—”

  “No,” I shout as I whirl to face him. “I don’t know how you get and I don’t care how you get. Even if I did, that doesn’t give you the right to—”

  “Come on,” he says and tries to put his hands on both of my arms.

  I shrug out of his grasp and step back. “Let’s get one thing straight. You are not allowed to talk to me like that. Ever. It’s bullshit and demeaning and nowhere near close to the man I used to lov—know.”

  His head startles as my words hit him. “Maybe you didn’t know me at all, then.”

  There is no thought to my next action other than anger and hurt and frustration. The three mingle and meld in the second I reach back into the planter filled with snow at our side, scoop up the biggest heap of snow I can find, and throw it at him.

  He mutters a curse as the handful hits him squarely in the face. It falls like powder to his chest and pieces stick to his eyelashes as he blinks it away—but there’s no expression on his face, no rebuke on his lips, just eyes staring at me with an intensity that makes me question what his reaction will be.

  “Mature, Kincade,” he finally says as a car pulls into the drive at his back.

  “That’s my car.”

  “You’re not going anywhere until we get a few things straight,” he says with a stream of white from the cold highlighting his breath.

  “Like you have any right to tell me what to do.”

  He grabs my arm as I walk past him and I get lucky, because when I swipe the planter again, I come up with another handful of snow. We stand there with his hand on my arm and my other arm cocked back, ready to fire.

  “You wouldn’t dare,” he taunts, his smile finally returning, even if it’s just a trace of one.

  “You don’t know me very well, then,” I say, seconds before I launch the snow at him.

  When it’s midair, he lunges for me, but I don’t see how much hits him because I’m off running down the sidewalk like a ten-year-old kid without a care about slipping on black ice or wet clothes or waking anybody up.

  “Paybacks are a bitch, Kincade.” He laughs as his footsteps thump behind me.

  “You’ve got to catch me first.” My screech fills the air as I jump over the small hedge that borders what looks like a park area under the blanket of snow. It’s desolate at this time of night—morning—whatever it is—and I’m just grateful that Hunter is drunk. Otherwise, he could have easily caught me by now.

  “It’s an all-out war,” he shouts as the first ball of snow hits my shoulder. Another yelp escapes as I swoop down to make a snowball of my own while trying to hide behind a piece of the play equipment.

  “I’ll win.” I peek my head up and duck just in time to avoid being hit by a massive snowball. It lands with a thud behind me and pieces of it hit against the leg of my pants.

  “Like hell you will.”

  I toss two in a row to where he’s hiding behind a bench and shout in excitement when one lands on his back.

  “Son of a bitch!” He laughs as I prepare more ammo. “That one’s going to cost you,” he says as he runs in my direction.

  “No,” I shriek as I run to the opposite side of my hiding place that now is his and throw two more blindly at him.

  “Missed me. Missed me!”

  Now you have to kiss me.

  The childhood taunt repeats on my mind as I run to where I think he is . . . only to find him gone.

  “Hunter,” I call in a singsong voice as I look behind a shrub where I swear he is. Crap. “Hunter?” I follow footprints in the snow but am not sure if they’re mine or his. “Come out, come out wherever you are.”

  I turn around when I hear a sound to be met with a snowball in the middle of the chest. “Argh!” I laugh as I brush it off my jacket only to look up and see him walking toward me, grin lighting up his face, and another monster-sized snowball between his hands where he’s toying with it. “Do you really want to throw that?”

  He nods and takes a step closer. “Do you surrender?”

  “Never.”

  He takes a bite of the snowball in his hand and there’s something about him right now—the soft yellow of the park’s lights overhead, the boyish grin on his lips, and the careless snowball fight—that momentarily lessens the insult and injury of the crap he said earlier and reminds me why I find him so damn irresistible. “I’m still furious at you.”