“Which sort is that?”

  “The kind who doesn’t like to get his hands dirty.” He holds my glare. “He may look the part, honey, but I don’t see a single ounce of fire in your eyes when you’re together. If you want to be friends, be friends, because he sure as hell is friends with a lot of people.”

  “My life. My business,” I say in warning, but hate the pang I feel knowing he thinks I’m settling. Companionship should be okay in any form . . . even if it’s a few nights out a month, some nice dinners, some mechanical-esque type sex. The kind of relationship—and I use that word very loosely—where commitment has never been discussed nor really wanted.

  “True. Your business. I’m sure Chad will understand. It’s not like he hasn’t done the same to you for his job before.” He grabs the handle to the door. “Like I said, you should have no problem making that flight tonight to catch the LumberJacks game.” He opens the conference room door and looks back over his shoulder. “Good luck.”

  HUNTER

  Dad: Sloppy play tonight. You’re not controlling the team like a captain should. Your shot percentage has taken a nosedive. Your assists went up but nowhere near what your brother’s were.

  DEKKER

  IT NEVER FAILS ME.

  The excitement of a game and the roar of the crowd never fails to boost my mood, clear my mind so I can think, and give me that rush of adrenaline to remind me why I love my job.

  The crowd bustles inside the sports bar, The Tank. Drinks flow freely while all the TVs are tuned to ESPN. The talking heads on SportsCenter are promising highlights of the game I just watched in person after the break.

  “Is it true the teams come hang out here after games?” a twenty-something asks as she sidles up beside me on the barstool. Her dress is Lycra and hugs every glorious curve of her body, no doubt in the attempt to catch the attention of one of the players.

  Someone will definitely bite, especially after the high of tonight’s win.

  “It’s rumored this is the bar the visiting teams frequent, yes,” I murmur and give her a smile, when I know damn well they’ll show. Callum already confirmed he’d meet me here. Where he goes, they all go.

  “Have you ever met them? I mean, I love hockey—like, love it—but the players are a whole other sort of obsession. And the Jacks have so many hot guys. I mean, what I’d give to . . .” Her words trail off as her desperation comes through. Every part of me wants to let her know they’ll use her for the night and never call despite the promise to. But one look at her again and I realize she already knows this and is okay with it.

  There’s no use being overprotective when she’s obviously walking in willingly.

  “They’re pretty cool guys. Fun to party with, not so much fun to date.”

  A raucous cheer goes up in the bar followed by a cold rush of air as the doors open. I don’t turn to look but between the rise in chatter and Lycra girl’s sudden fluffing of her hair, I know the New Jersey LumberJacks have arrived.

  I don’t turn to watch them give high fives to their overeager fans hoping for a few seconds with their heroes or the women hoping to get more than that with their short skirts and tight tops. They’ll make their way to the back corner where they can monitor those coming in and out of their space so if fans get a bit overeager, security can cut it off.

  The Tank is known for its dark beer, its unfettered access to the hockey players, and its carefree atmosphere.

  All those things good and bad, depending on the night.

  I keep my attention on SportsCenter and appreciate the quick service of another glass of wine.

  “Should I worry that you’re showing up in person?” a deep tenor says beside me as a hand grips my shoulder and squeezes.

  “Callum Withers.” My smile is genuine as I take in my client’s grin and the red mark marring his cheekbone from his fistfight in the game tonight. “Someone has to come and scold you for getting in schoolyard fights.”

  “Just part of the job, Mom.” His chuckle is infectious and at complete odds with the severity of his features—dark colors and sharp lines.

  “Is that so?”

  “Yep.” He holds a finger up to the bartender and doesn’t have to even say what he wants, his regular status here when they’re in town ensuring immediate service.

  “You enjoy all that time in the penalty box?”

  “Dickman’s a dick. It’s even in his name,” he says, referring to the member of the opposing team he traded punches with on the ice earlier. “He had it coming to him for blindsiding Hunter on that play. It was uncalled for and total bullshit slashing him like that.”

  “It was definitely dirty,” I say, glancing over his shoulder to where the rest of the team is, looking for the man in question.

  “Everything that asshole Dickman does is dirty.” He snorts and takes a sip of his beer. “So, tell me why you’re making house calls when we’re on a road trip. There has to be a reason.”

  Yeah. One I don’t want to acknowledge.

  HUNTER

  UNABASHED.

  Unyielding.

  Uninhibited.

  Those three words describe the woman sitting at the end of the bar to a goddamn T.

  I take in her black high heels, her pale pink sweater and black slacks, and the sweep of her pale hair sitting atop her head. She’s elegant but feisty, gorgeous but unassuming, composed but so damn infuriating . . . and nothing if not all-business.

  And not a single one of those things diminishes the firsthand knowledge I have of every inch of her body.

  Dekker Kincade.

  Jesus, even my balls draw up at the thought, sight, and memory of her.

  But I stop mid-sentence, mid-lift of my beer to my mouth, mid-everything when I catch sight of her sitting at the bar, talking to Callum. Sure, her back is to me, but I would know that curve of her shoulders in a heartbeat.

  “There a problem?” Frankie asks.

  I shake my head and turn back toward him, trying to remember what the hell I was saying but find myself at a loss.

  Damn Dekker.

  She always did have a way of owning my thoughts when I’m not a guy to be owned by much of anything other than hockey . . . and family.

  But my eyes slide back to where she’s sitting. I hate the way Callum’s hand rests on the back of her chair and how he throws his head back and gives that cheesedick laugh that’s too loud and not real.

  Yeah, he’s her client, but it’s not a hard jump to assume he’d fuck her if given the chance.

  Hell, every damn guy in this place would.

  I know. I’m one of the lucky bastards who have.

  Lucky? Is that the right word, because I’ve seen her for a whole five minutes and the shit that the sight of her has stirred up is insane.

  Over-the-top sex. Hours on end of never being able to get enough. An intensity as she stared at me from the hotel doorway and told me our . . . friends with benefits had run its course.

  I convinced myself it was because she had found someone new.

  I pretended I didn’t care.

  But fuck if seeing her sitting there right now doesn’t tell me otherwise. It’s been almost three years since . . . since the end of whatever we were, but seeing her now, I remember every sigh, every moan, every goddamn thing.

  And hell if I’d complain about getting lost in her again for a few hours.

  I try to focus on what Frankie is bullshitting about, but my mind and eyes keep going back to her. Back to what we left unfinished and to my sudden need to see her again, talk to her again . . . to see if she’s feeling that same damn attraction still.

  “Right?” Frankie asks, pulling my attention back to him. Fuck I’m being a prick to him.

  “Yes. Right. I—uh . . . I see someone I need to talk to.”

  Without waiting for a response, I make my way across the bar. It’s packed tonight with an abundance of puck bunnies wanting attention and lots of guys buying us drinks to celebrate the victory.

  It should be sad the visiting town is excited when we beat the hometown team, but our run has been insane lately, and fans always like bandwagons to jump on.

  “Hell of a game, Maddox,” is yelled to my right, and I lift my beer in acknowledgment but keep my course.

  “Withers.” Callum looks up when I call my teammate’s name and lifts his chin in greeting before continuing whatever it is he’s telling Dekker. “Maysen needs you,” I say when he finishes.

  “About?” He meets my eyes, but I don’t give Dekker a glance.

  “Hell, if I know, but he’s looking for you,” I lie.

  Impatiently, I wait a few seconds for him to wrap shit up with Dekker, all small talk, and then slide onto the barstool beside her after he vacates it.

  Lifting my finger to Donnie, the bartender, I motion for another beer and then tip the bottle toward Dekker’s glass to ask for a refill for her too.

  “You’re a long way from home it seems,” I murmur as her subtle perfume—summer and sunshine—fills my nose.

  “Just doing my job.” Her voice, Christ, it’s soft with a hint of a rasp and feels like fingernails faintly scraping over my skin.

  “What? No, go to hell? No, drop dead, Maddox? No, what hotel room can we find so we can use every surface?” I turn to look at her now. Those dark brown eyes a little too big for her face but in all the right ways. Her soft lips and straight nose with a row of freckles dotting across the top of it. But I know better than to be fooled by those freckles. I know Dekker Kincade is a straight-up sex goddess that may have on occasion made me want to beg for more. I’m not ashamed to admit it. “You feeling all right?”

  “Funny,” she says with a roll of her eyes.

  “I try.” I hit the side of her knee with mine. “You’re here for work and not pleasure, then?”

  She lifts a lone eyebrow and a ghost of a smile paints those lips of hers. “It’s always about work.”

  “Not when it came to us, it wasn’t.”

  “There was no us,” Dekker asserts, and I snort in response.

  My chuckle is low and knowing and the way she adjusts her shoulders tells me she knows what a lie that is. “You’re right. There was no incredible sex. No nail marks down my back. No bite marks on my collarbone.” I shrug. “I don’t know about you, Dekk, but I think we did pretty good in the pleasure department.”

  “Too bad we couldn’t seem to master the playing nice part when it came to everything else.”

  “Maybe volatility is our thing,” I say, the adjective the only way to describe us in the bedroom. Volatile in desire. Volatile in need. Volatile in temper. “Remember that rooftop bar in Los Angeles?” I ask, knowing she does. “It was a hot summer night. You were in that little sundress and we stowed away to the corner of the patio. I had to put my hand over your mouth to muffle your moans so we didn’t get caught.” I hum in appreciation of the memory. “God, that was hot.”

  She averts her eyes and shakes her head ever so slightly, but she doesn’t refute me. She remembers how incredible that night was—the sex on the rooftop, the thrill of not getting caught, the sex at the hotel that followed. It was the only time we had met someplace other than a hotel room, and it left me wondering why we didn’t do it more often.

  She ended things the next time we met up.

  “You played well tonight.”

  Her voice draws me back to the present. I smirk at her attempt to change the topic and lean down so my lips are near her ear. “You can sit here looking all prim and proper and professional, but I know your panties are getting wet and the ache is burning a little brighter, because you remember just how damn good it was and how damn good we were.”

  She clears her throat and shifts in her chair to unsuccessfully gain some distance from me and turns to look at me without an ounce of fluster in her expression.

  “You played well tonight,” she repeats.

  My grin widens. That’s how she wants to play this? She wants to act like seeing each other doesn’t cause old embers to spark? She wants to act like a tiny part of her doesn’t want to revisit that? Then again, she’s the one who walked out and ended things, not me. And yet . . . the fact that she’s acting like there was nothing between us bugs the shit out of me. I’ve never forgotten her.

  Has she forgotten me?

  I lean back and cross my arms over my chest and take my time responding as I struggle with the need for her to remember. “How I played? That’s subjective.”

  “Subjective?” She laughs and the sound slices through the sexual tension that’s as automatic now as it used to be when we shared the same space. “Two goals. Three assists, and you had one hell of a block to help Katzen when he was recovering from his first block. But you know, it’s subjective.” She rolls her eyes and pulls a laugh from me as my eyes roam down the sweater and its V-neck that shows nothing but hints at everything.

  Damn.

  “But I missed more than I made,” I say and realize we’re actually being civil to each other when normally we’re at odds.

  The crowd cheers as a highlight of one of my goals is shown on the closing credits of SportsCenter. I glance around at the crowd, at my teammates who are milling about, and try to figure out why she’s here.

  Because I know it’s not for me.

  “So you’re here, why?” I ask. “You miss me that much?”

  A shadow glances through her eyes and as quickly as it’s there, it disappears. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

  “Oh, it’s official business then.” Our eyes hold for a beat. “I can help you mix pleasure with that business.”

  She tips her glass toward me. “Thanks for the drink, but—”

  “Keep your money.” I push the cash she’s sliding across the bar top back toward her. “And your attitude.”

  “That was a new record. Us being civil.” Her smile in response is all snark. “It was good seeing you.”

  I grab her wrist to prevent her from walking away. “Back to that again?”

  “Back to what?” She pulls her arm back but remains where she is.

  “You walking away without an explanation.”

  Her glare is enough to tell me she gets the dig. That she remembers just as clearly as I do that last time we were together. “I wasn’t aware my presence here in Chicago meant I owed you an explanation.”

  She’s sexy when she’s stubborn. She always has been. Maybe I forgot just how much . . . or maybe the years have added to her confidence and her confidence merely adds to everything about her.

  “So let’s see,” I say, completely ignoring her comment and loving that it’s pushing her buttons. “You’re working, but you weren’t in the clubhouse before or after the game like I’ve seen you do in the past.” I lean back in my stool and study her. “You have clients on the team, but you’re not partying with the team.” I chuckle. “You’re flying under the radar. That means you’re here trying to steal someone.”

  “Who died and made you the Jacks’ official detective?”

  “Private Dick reporting for duty.” I give a mock salute and earn a glare from her. “And, babe,” I say, strictly because I know it pisses her off, “you forget that I know you.”

  “I’m not your babe, you don’t really know me”—I lift a brow at that but she just continues—“and I prefer the word recruit.”

  “Recruit. Got it. Isn’t that kind of like using the word borrow instead of steal?”

  “More like asshole instead of prick,” she says, but I don’t buy the innocent flutter of her lashes for one second.

  “I always did like that mouth of yours,” I murmur as I tip my bottle of beer, but keep my eyes on hers.

  “Are we done here?” she asks but makes no attempt to move, which answers my question. She is here for a player.

  “So, you’re not after Callum, since he’s already your client.” I stand up and crane my neck. “Maybe it’s Heffner.” I tip my beer to the other side of the bar where our burly defenseman is chatting it up with a few ladies. “Nah. He’s not easily swayed and has a perfectly solid and long-term contract. Finch, then?” I ask. “He doesn’t seem too happy with his agent, so I’m pretty sure if that’s why you’re here, the struggle to get him over to your side wouldn’t be too tough.”

  “Thanks for the intel. I’ll file it away in my need-to-know, but uh, who says I’m here scouting anyone?”

  “You’re here to get laid then?” I flash a grin and hold my arms out to my sides. “If that’s the case, here I am.”

  “Don’t flatter yourself.” She takes her time uncrossing and then recrossing her legs, and I take in every long inch of them as she does.

  “You’re just here for the night then? Flew in from New York to catch a game, then sit at a bar and talk to the guys afterward, but you’re—uh—not recruiting?”

  There’s the slightest hitch in her movement and it’s her tell. She’s definitely here to steal a client.

  “Just came here to enjoy the atmosphere of a winning team, a player who’s on top of his game”—she lifts her chin to me—“and get a break from the monotony of things for a bit.”

  “How’s what’s-his-name?” I ask, thinking of the guy I saw her with the last time I was in New York. Or was it at the ESPYs? Regardless, he was too slick, too pretty, and nothing like who she needs.

  She was on his arm but her eyes were firmly on me.

  Definitely not a match made in paradise, and I’m a dick for being happy about it.

  “Well, considering I was supposed to be at his work event with him tonight.” She shrugs with a lift of her eyebrows . . . but there’s something more there she’s hiding.

  “So what? He can’t adjust to his girlfriend’s successful career because it reminds him he has a little dick?” The words come from nowhere, and I’m surprised by the pang of jealousy that hits me over the thought of them together.

  She opens her mouth to defend him but her hesitation speaks volumes. “When my dad ordered me here, Chad decided—”

  “Chad?” What kind of name is Chad?

  “Yes. Chad,” she says with a resolute nod. “He said he was sick of me putting work before him—”