But I do have to explain, I want to say. Callum is a client, and now that he thinks we’re together, my integrity and reputation are at stake.

  “I just . . . it’s not what he thinks it is,” I mumble, hating that Callum can’t even meet my eyes.

  “I wanted to make sure you got back okay,” Callum says to me, eyes lowered. “I tried your cell but didn’t hear anything.” He pauses and then turns his attention to Hunter. “And you, Maddox. You took off from the club without a word and were drunk as shit . . . Forget about it.” He looks from Hunter to me and then back. “You’re obviously okay. Both of you.”

  “Yep. Sure am,” Hunter says, that half-cocked smirk on his lips not doing me any favors to dispel the situation.

  “I’m just waiting for my room to be ready.”

  “In a robe,” Cal purses his lips and nods. “Got it.”

  “Cal, wait,” I say and step past Hunter. “I promise it’s not what it looks like.”

  “It’s your business, not mine.”

  “Perfect timing,” a voice says behind Callum, and we all startle at there being someone else in the hallway at this odd hour of the morning. There’s a rattle of dishes on a tray—glasses and silverware, before the room service person steps forward, pushing the tray in front of them. “Mr. Maddox?” he asks as he looks at the two men.

  “Yes. Thank you.” Hunter steps forward.

  “Some hot chocolate. Grilled cheeses. Some hot apple turnovers. And I think a few more goodies. It’s all on the house of course for the inconvenience we’ve caused you, Miss Kincade.”

  “Thank you.” I nod and give a tight smile, more than relieved to have an innocent bystander back up my story with Callum.

  “Maintenance just told me your room will be ready in five minutes. I was asked to escort you down there to make sure all your things are okay and to your liking.”

  “Oh.” I hold the top of the robe closed and wonder if this is a blessing or a curse.

  The blessing being that Hunter and I have never done that after part of sex before. It used to be sex, clean up, exchange a few words, maybe not . . . and then one of us would leave. Sure, we enjoyed each other, but there was nothing else between us.

  The curse being that we’ve never done the after part of sex before either.

  I glance back to the clothes on the floor and wonder how I retain my dignity while I scramble to pick them all up.

  Callum assesses the situation and nods. “It’s late,” he says before shuffling down the hall toward his room, a few rooms down.

  Hunter moves a hand to my lower back as the server moves the cart into the room. “Stay and eat?”

  I shake my head, suddenly in a state of limbo—embarrassed, worried, confused. “I’m fine. I’ve got to go to my room—he said so—and . . .”

  “Dekker.”

  “No, It’s late. I should go make sure my room and things are okay.”

  “I’ll walk you down there.”

  “No. I’ve got it.” I step away from him, suddenly uncomfortable in everything. Needing space to clear my head and the emotions I know are most likely one-sided. At the situation I’ve just put myself in.

  Shit.

  “Dekker?” he asks.

  “It’s fine.”

  “I’ll take her down,” Hunter reasserts.

  “No,” I say with more force than I should before turning to the hotel staffer. “Can you give me a minute? I’ll be right there.”

  The staffer nods and I shut the door to buy me a few minutes to gather my stuff.

  “Dekker?” Hunter says as I move around his room like a madwoman gathering my wet clothes and shoes.

  “It’s fine. We’re fine,” I mutter and smile.

  “So you’ve said.”

  “If Callum talks—”

  “Then what?” Hunter asks, his voice resonating around the room. “If he talks, then what’s the big deal? You’re a grown woman who can have sex with whomever she chooses. Why does it matter?”

  “Because it does.” I fight the sudden burning of tears and hate that they’re there. Because I don’t cry over men. I don’t cry over things that can never be. And I certainly refuse to cry over Hunter Maddox.

  “Gotcha.” He sighs as he moves with me through the room. “Ah, I forgot.” He tsks as I survey the room one last time. “This was a mistake, right? It shouldn’t have happened. It can’t happen again. Yadda, yadda, yadda.”

  I expect to meet his eyes and find amusement in them, but there’s nothing but a gravity that unnerves me. I can’t tell if he’s angry or confused, but it’s something I’ve never seen before, and that in and of itself has me needing to get some space from him to figure out why there’s an awkwardness here.

  “Hunter . . . I’m here for work and—”

  “I wasn’t aware you were on the clock at two in the morning.”

  “It’s not that. It’s just—”

  “Just like old times, huh? Great sex. Poor communication. It’s best you leave before the fighting starts.” He takes a step forward and presses a kiss to my forehead. “Good night, Dekker.”

  I stare at him as he opens the door. The second course of rejection from him tastes just as bitter as the first time. Maybe even worse.

  The hotel clerk in the hallway rocks on his heels as he senses the discomfort between Hunter and me. I give him a half-smile and then turn back to face Hunter. Our eyes hold unspoken words exchanging between us—I’m sorry. Why is it like this? Why can’t we figure out how to do this right?

  At least that’s what I think they say, because I second-guess every single one of them as I head to my hotel room.

  Maybe this was the best way to end tonight.

  Hockey.

  Callum knocking on the door. The room service man shortly after.

  Party.

  Maybe a quick exit where neither of us had to talk about what’s next, and how we move on from here is for the best.

  Fucking.

  Because I just screwed up by sleeping with Hunter.

  No repeat.

  And the worst part? I know that I did, but I wish I was still in the hotel room with Hunter right now.

  HUNTER

  THE CURL OF STEAM COMES off my coffee as I sit slumped in the chair where I moved it in front of the windows of my hotel room.

  The city of Boston waits to wake up as I replay the last twenty-four hours in my mind and anticipate the sun to light up the sky.

  Sleep was hopeless.

  It is most nights as of late.

  I’ve watched film of last night’s game twice. My notes are taken. My critiques of my performance ten times worse than my father’s. Maybe next game I can prove him differently.

  Who can sleep when the world is burning down around them? When my brother’s dying, my parents live in an alternate reality, and I’m constantly fucking up one thing after another.

  When I simply don’t want to care anymore.

  It’s the white noise I’ve grown used to living with. The constant. The things I’ll never be able to change but will always try to.

  “Christ,” I mutter and roll my shoulders, my body exhausted but my mind going a million miles an hour.

  The lone difference tonight in my thoughts is Dekker. For the first time in as long as I can remember, the shit in my head is quieter. Or maybe not quieter, but not as choking. The anger, the guilt, the unease . . . they took a backseat for a snowball fight, her hand holding mine in the rideshare, and then the incredible sex soon after.

  Or maybe it’s the relief in finally admitting to someone an ounce of my truth.

  Either way it—us together—was like old times and yet so very different.

  Is that what’s bugging me? The difference between us this time?

  I already knew having sex wasn’t going to sate the hunger I had for her. I already knew one taste of her, one thrust into her pussy, and I’d only want more.

  That’s how it has always been with her. That’s how it always will be.

  What I didn’t expect was for the same damn heartache I had when we broke things off last time to return with a goddamn vengeance. The heartache I didn’t have to admit to last time because she walked out before I could.

  But there was something different than that tonight. Something new.

  I let the coffee scald my tongue when I drink it. I let it hurt and burn, as I force myself to acknowledge the one thing I pretend I don’t notice. Experience daily.

  I have women at my fingertips, fans are everywhere I go, and I have teammates around me almost every waking minute of each day, but fuck if Dekker walking out of here tonight without a glance back didn’t make me realize how fucking lonely I am.

  How alone I feel.

  Daily.

  “You’re crazy. Fucking crazy, Mad,” I say to the empty room as I acknowledge that tonight was most men’s dream. Hell, it used to be mine too.

  Great sex with a gorgeous woman who walks away after it’s over and doesn’t ask for anything more—not even a kiss goodnight.

  Sex without strings.

  But fuck if I don’t feel invisible strings tying me up in the biggest fucking knot I’ve ever seen or felt before.

  One that has her at the goddamn center of it.

  Get over it, Maddox. Get the fuck over it.

  I don’t get attached.

  I don’t get the privilege to have feelings for someone.

  I don’t ever allow myself to want more.

  But hell if what she did for me tonight—made me laugh, made me feel carefree, and then fucking owned every urge and need and want and inch of my body—doesn’t make me wonder what it would be like to have that on the ready. If it’s something I could get used to.

  Drawing in a deep breath, I swear this room still smells like her—her shampoo, our sex—and that makes it hard to stop thinking about her. To stop wishing she were still here. To stop replaying her bullshit ghosting act and the way it felt watching her walk away.

  “Let it go,” I murmur and lean my head against the back of my chair, willing sleep in any form to come.

  I close my eyes and try to quiet everything. All thoughts. All hopes. All dreams.

  And in that limbo state between being awake and falling asleep, I have a moment of clarity I’m sure I won’t remember once I wake in the morning.

  She slept with me tonight and bailed.

  Why?

  To get back at me like I did her that first night in the elevator? To show why I should have chased after her three years ago? That’s not like her, though.

  Then what could it be?

  Because Callum saw us? Because what had just happened between us was more than obvious?

  Why the fuck does that matter?

  He’s her client, I’m not.

  There’s no line of professionalism that was crossed when it shouldn’t be. There were no favors promised. Just pure, insanely incredible sex.

  So why . . .

  Shit.

  Because Dekker Kincade is here to recruit me.

  That has to be the only logical answer.

  And I say logical, because I can’t swallow that she bailed because she’s embarrassed for people to know we were together. For Callum to know we had slept together.

  The question is: is that why she slept with me? To maybe slide into my life between some bouts of good sex, some pillow talk . . . where she convinces me to leave Sanderson and change to KSM?

  That would mean she just slept with a potential client. That would explain why she bailed right after.

  I reject the notion but hate the thought that lingers. The one that screams all I am is a client to her.

  A number she wants to nail to her wall, a fat commission check she’ll win over to her side and then forget to pay attention to. First the Dartmouth game and then tonight.

  It’s the easiest thing to believe.

  So much easier than believing maybe I deserve her. So much easier than believing she cares for me.

  Because the last time she blew me off like this was after a bout of sex, when she got dressed and walked away, visibly upset without divulging why.

  I didn’t chase her. I never asked what the hell happened but just figured our time was up. It was probably a good thing because the minute I feel things, I bail too. And I was starting to feel things.

  But now I’m remembering the shitstorm it made me feel and hating it.

  And that’s a sign that I need to back the fuck away and head whatever shit I’m feeling off at the pass.

  My life is hockey. It’s about being the best. It’s about outrunning ghosts that will forever be a part of me.

  Her job is profiting off athletes like me. It’s about getting the biggest roster. It’s about acquiring them like tokens and cashing them in when all is said and done.

  She’s using me, and that gives me a justified reason to be pissed and push her away when I’d fucking kill to have her sitting beside me right now, quiet and comfortable waiting for the sunrise.

  But I can’t let that happen.

  I don’t deserve her.

  I don’t deserve anything.

  She used you, Mad. She just showed her cards. She’s in this for her. She can ply you with comments about how she wants to be your friend and be there for you if you need to talk, but the endgame is you being her client.

  Another person to use me.

  Another person to see me as a commodity.

  Maybe if I keep telling myself that, I’ll stop wanting her as badly as I do right now.

  Maybe I’ll find some other way to not be lonely.

  Is this all there is?

  DEKKER

  THE SUBTLE SORENESS BETWEEN MY thighs is the first thing I notice when I snuggle deeper beneath the covers to hide from the sun streaming through the window.

  Last night is more than a distant memory. It’s more like an in-the-face reminder of a pickle I need to figure my way out of.

  I slept with a potential client. A current client all but caught me in the act. And then I had a moment of panic.

  A huge moment of panic that only took some tossing and turning in bed when I couldn’t fall asleep to figure out.

  What I felt for Hunter—the reasons I pushed him away the last time we were together—came back clearly last night.

  And I wasn’t sure how I felt about that. How can I purport to be this strong, independent female who puts up with no one’s shit, and after I spend one night with a man, I still have those same feelings? How can I be proud of myself when he was an ass to me at the club and I turned around and did what we did? How can I do any of this when I haven’t been up front with him about why I’m here?

  I’m a chicken.

  Isn’t that what this comes down to? I’m an overthinking, nervous-nelly chicken who doesn’t have the guts to admit that I not only screwed up by sleeping with him for professional reasons, but also because I know I’m not gutsy enough to tell Hunter being fuck buddies isn’t good enough for me anymore.

  I’m not the same person.

  Three years does a lot to mature a person and after Chad, maybe I want something more.

  Maybe, my dad was right—not that I’ll ever tell him.

  Hunter Maddox. Complicated and multi-layered, incredibly gifted, a god in the sack, yet troubled by something significant.

  I’d ask myself what I want from him but I already know. Just sex won’t be enough. Just being a client might never work.

  Oh what a tangled web I’ve woven.

  But at least I’m sexually satisfied for what feels like the first time in forever. There’s always that very shallow tidbit to fall back on as the sky falls and more clients leave KSM, because one of their lead agents sleeps with clients and presumably gives them better treatment than all her other clients.

  Even worse, they’ll start thinking that sleeping with my clients is part of the KSM package.

  Shit. The more I think the worse this gets.

  I groan and flop onto my back, trapping myself in the comforter when I do.

  “Woman up, Kincade,” I mutter. Tell him the truth. Explain why this can’t happen again. March up to him and say, yes, he’s the player I’m here to recruit. And yes, we slept together. Christ, Dekker, he already knows that part. But maybe tell him it happened once, I own it, but I can’t let it happen again because I want to win his trust as a client. And once he’s a client I can’t cross that line.

  I take a deep breath and fight the urge to slide back into sleep like only a person whose body feels satisfied knows, when it hits me.

  Oh shit. Oh shit. Oh shit.

  I fling the covers off me and scramble to grab my laptop like a madwoman. I’m logged in within seconds, the connection accepting about the same time I’m patting down my hair and pretending I don’t look like I just woke up.

  “So glad you could join us,” my father says through the connection as it goes from pixelated to clear where I can see him and my three sisters sitting at the conference table at the offices.

  “Sorry. Late night.”

  Brexton’s chuckle fills the room. “I hope he was worth it,” she teases and has no idea how true that statement is.

  “Funny,” I feign. “I went with a few of the Jacks to a jazz club and then came back here to find a pipe had burst in the hallway. Late night,” I overexplain when I need to just stop.

  “Ha. Dare we ask whose pipe burst, exactly?” Lennox asks, staring at me through the screen.

  There’s absolute silence and then my sisters and I break out into laughter.

  “Ladies,” my dad says as he tries not to chuckle. “That’s enough. We’ve already run through the status of all of our clients . . . your tardiness allowed you to miss that part, so you’re up, kid. That status report remains blank so I’m beginning to get worried here.”

  “I’ll update, but did we talk about what clients they’re going after yet? Because I’m still miffed at my urgency and not theirs to pick up and leave.”

  “Considering Maddox is the one tearing up the charts and making scenes, I agree with Dad that it was important for you to be there now. Get him on the upswing so you can show him why you’ll prevent him from falling,” Chase says in her clipped, professional tone as if she has no stake in any of this.