I hate that the boyish smirk and arrogance in his eyes owns my every reaction—even after all this time.

  I hate that I know he’s right. If only he knew why . . . but he didn’t stop me from walking out three years ago, so he has no idea what it took to leave.

  “Are you saying we weren’t a mistake?” I ask through a laugh to try and find my footing.

  “’Till next time.” He releases my arm and runs his hand down the length of it.

  “There will be no next time.”

  “Yes, there will,” he says and begins to put skate guards over his blades.

  “No, Hunter, there won’t.” I straighten my spine. “Last night was completely unprofessional of me. It was—”

  “That’s never stopped you before,” he says, and I swear to God I see the moment it clicks, because his body falters in motion moments before his eyes flash up to meet mine. “And here I was thinking you’d come here to finish what we started last night. Have an early morning of brunch sex for old time’s sake before telling me what a mistake we were . . . but it’s unprofessional of you. Let me guess, you didn’t come here for that part of me . . . you only came for the other part of me. The part that would make us sleeping together unethical.”

  “You’re crazy,” I mutter and wave a hand at him as I backpedal.

  “It’d only be unprofessional if I happened to be the person you were here to recruit. It would only be immoral if you were sleeping with your client, because that would mean others might worry that you’re giving me preferential treatment . . .”

  “You need a new agent.” It’s the closest I’m going to get to telling him the truth in this environment.

  He throws his head back and laughs. “And why’s that? Why the concern all of a sudden?”

  “Because Sanderson isn’t doing you any favors.”

  “And how would you know what he is or isn’t doing for me? Unless of course you were asking around and trying to figure out how to woo me over to your side.”

  “I’m here to check up on my clients,” I say and glance over my shoulder as the trainer walks past with Katzen following closely behind, no doubt to work on that hamstring that’s been giving him trouble. “And you’re reaching.”

  “Am I?” Hunter asks as he walks up to me, our bodies back in the same position as last night in the elevator—almost touching.

  I nod, not trusting my own words and hating that he’s the only man who can make me tongue-tied. The one thing my dad always emphasized to us was time and place. Never make an offer, a proposition, an anything to a potential client if the timing is off or if the place has you at a disadvantage. I walked into the arena this morning thinking I’d have a chance to talk to Hunter alone, since everyone knows he prefers his mornings solitary and his practice hard.

  What I didn’t expect was to walk in on whatever was happening between him and Maysen, a beer bottle on the ice, or Hunter to have me on the ropes so to speak with his comments.

  Ones I have to figure out how to maneuver.

  “Yes,” I reiterate. “You’re reaching.”

  “So then why not give in to what we both want?”

  My mouth is as dry as his eyes are intense. “What’s that?” I barely get out.

  The groan he emits might as well be for both of us because it rumbles in the space between us. “Shall we finish what we started last night?”

  “I told you, we’re not sleeping together. Things have changed. I’ve changed from who I was three years ago.”

  “You may have changed but the chemistry is still the same. Time didn’t put a damper on the want.”

  “You’re being ridiculous.” I take a step back only to bump against the wall. Of course, it’s there, because why wouldn’t it be, right?

  “I am? Because I mean, if you’re not here to try and steal me from Sanderson, then there would be no reason for us not to walk down memory lane.”

  “You mean sleep down memory lane?” I ask.

  “There’s that smile.”

  Shit. Don’t do that, Hunter. Don’t be playful. Don’t be charming. Don’t be nice.

  “While this has been amusing—”

  “There’s that word again.”

  I sigh in exasperation. “I have work to get to.”

  I expect Hunter to stop me—he’s a man who typically gets what he wants after all—but he doesn’t, so I walk down the hall toward the visitor’s section in the bowels of the arena.

  “One thing, Dekk.”

  “Yeah?” I turn to face him. He’s standing in the opening, the rink at his back, his stick in one hand, and the smug expression on his face fitting perfectly. If I could take a picture, the image would be him to a tee.

  “Why’d you come this morning? If it wasn’t to steal me or fuck me . . . why waste the trip?”

  Shit.

  “I told you, I’m traveling with the team for the next stretch.”

  “That didn’t answer my question of why you came looking for me.”

  Bastard. He wants an answer? All right.

  I walk back toward him and stop as he strips his shirt over his head. Where there would normally be an undershirt and pads, there is nothing but skin. Defined, sculpted muscles beneath his olive-toned skin with a tattoo on one shoulder and a war story of scars on the rest.

  Scars I’ve traced with my fingers. Tattoos I’ve nipped with my teeth.

  When I drag my eyes away from the sight in front of me, I’m met with a raised eyebrow and that damn amusement again painting every single muscle of his face.

  Definitely a bastard toying with me.

  “I wanted to come here and thank you.”

  “We’ve talked all this time and those words haven’t graced your lips so I doubt that’s the reason.”

  “No. Maysen was here. I was thrown with the beer bottle,” I fumble.

  “Beer bottle is in the trash. Maysen is gone.” He puts one hand on his hip and raises his eyebrows. “What did you want to thank me for?”

  I clear my throat. “For reaffirming that Chad wasn’t right for me.”

  “How’d I do that?” he asks.

  And what I meant as a completely innocent comment on the fly—one I somehow didn’t get out correctly, now just screwed me. How do I answer this? How do I tell him that I felt more alive in the few moments his lips met mine than I did the whole damn time Chad and I dated? Dated? Maybe more like were companions.

  Because now I’m stuck staring at his blue eyes that are questioning me and I can’t really give him an answer without showing my cards. Professionally and personally.

  “Because . . . I . . . uh missed his call last night when we were in the elevator,” I lie. And internally roll my eyes. I missed a call? Pfft.

  “I’m not following you.” His smile widens.

  Shit.

  “Um, a man who wanted to fight for me would have called back. He would have—”

  “Kissed you like I kissed you? Is that what you were going for?”

  “No. Absolutely not.” Yes. That’s exactly why.

  “You keep thinking that,” he says and then holds his hand up to someone over my shoulder. “Hold up. I need you to look at something.” He takes a few steps so that he’s shoulder to shoulder with me. “It was definitely the kiss.”

  “Hunter—”

  “You’re welcome.”

  Without another word, his skates clomp down the carpeted hallway toward the visiting team’s quarters, while I watch after him wondering how in the hell he just got the upper hand in this conversation when I’m the one holding all the cards in a game he doesn’t even know we’re playing.

  But isn’t that us?

  Well, him and me.

  There is no us.

  There won’t be an us.

  There can’t be an us. Not even a one-night-stand us.

  Hell, Hunter maneuvered me right where he wanted me to be—me answering his questions while I forget to get answers to mine.

  Something is going on with him.

  The agent in me wants to figure it out so I can manipulate it to my advantage—take care of the problem, negotiate the issue away, and show him just how good I am at my job.

  The woman in me worries about him, because you can only push so hard, so long, without burning out.

  DEKKER

  I GLANCE AT THE FIRST page of the weekly status sheet in my inbox and twist my lips. What do I type? What answer do I give? Haven’t approached him? He doesn’t know? I kissed him?

  I want to kiss him again?

  Shit.

  Instead of typing anything, I close the email and don’t respond. It’s too soon for me to type anything.

  HUNTER

  “HEY MOM. JUST CALLING TO see how Jonah’s doing.” I lean back against the pillows propped against the headboard behind me. Different day. Different hotel. Same life.

  Her nervous chuckle unnerves me. “He’s fine. Just has a cold. Probably from all the germs. I went to the store to buy things to prepare us to come and see your game. I probably got the germs there and somehow brought them home to him.”

  Christ, it’s always my fault he’s sick, one way or another.

  “There are germs everywhere. You can’t really avoid them.”

  “When it comes to Jonah though. He’s fragile and—”

  “Can I talk to him? Can you put his headset on him?”

  “You know sometimes that thing doesn’t work.”

  “Then can you put the phone up to his ear?” I ask, running a hand through my hair as I stare out the window.

  “Your father asked if you’ve been getting his texts. He says you’re not responding.”

  Another no when it comes to Jonah. I shouldn’t be surprised, but I am. Thanks, Mom.

  And my father’s texts? I don’t think I’ve responded in ten years, and yet he keeps sending them as if he doesn’t notice otherwise.

  Then again, it’s not like they notice me much at all.

  “How should I respond to his texts?” I ask. “Thanks for the negativity? The criticism? How exactly should I respond?” I chuckle, the toxicity I endure to talk to my brother is ridiculous.

  “He means well. He’s the reason you’re there, you know.”

  “Jonah, Mom? Can I talk to him?” Exasperation hits an all-time high.

  “Yes. Sure. I can’t remember the last time you called for him.”

  Two days ago.

  Two fucking days ago. And two days before that.

  There’s shuffling on the other end of the line as she goes through the process of connecting his headset to the phone line so he can hear me.

  “Okay, it’s connected,” she says, her voice distant.

  “Hey J.” I suddenly feel calm and pause after my greeting because in my head, I can hear him talking back, I can feel my twin responding. God, I miss him. “Just wanted to call and check in. I’m sure Mom is driving you crazy with her fussing and repeating the same thing over and over. I get it. I totally do.” I close my eyes and listen to the ventilator for a beat. “We’re playing Rampage tonight. Those guys are fucking assholes but yeah, I’ll keep my stick up like you taught me. It’s going to be a tough one. Ferguson knows how to play me. It’s like he knows which line I’m going to take before I even know myself. And their double team defense is strong. We’ve been working on a way to overcome it. It’s like a play you would have made up. Perfect in every way for them and harder than fuck to defend against for me.”

  So I talk to my brother for the better part of an hour like I always do, caught in that indecision that I’m being an ass for talking to him about things he’d kill to be doing and treating him like he’s gone completely.

  The worst part about it is that I call him because I want to, because he’s the only person that quiets the anger. But as I hang up, I wonder if my calls only feed his.

  DEKKER

  SOMETHING’S OFF.

  I can’t put my finger on it but watching Hunter play, the difference is noticeable from the last game to this one.

  There is none of his intuitive anticipation of where his opponents are going to play several passes before it happens. There’s no showmanship as he dodges defenders left and right while keeping the puck in action. There’s a loss of the ferocious determination to get the puck in the back of the net.

  Normally I can’t take my eyes off him because his ease of play enthralls me. Tonight, I’m all but cringing every time he gets the puck. It’s almost as if he’s the star kid on the first-place hockey team that’s creaming the last-place team so the coach has told him to hold back and pass twelve times before he attempts a shot.

  But he’s not shooting.

  No, instead he’s passing it off and then falling back when normally he’s the heart of the offense.

  If the Jacks were in their own arena, the crowd would be booing him after every pass. This crowd here senses something is off and has been cheering each and every one, because it’s to their advantage.

  Someone has knocked the king off his reign-of-terror throne and it’s not pretty.

  I welcome the distraction from the scoreboard when my phone buzzes at my hip.

  Lennox.

  It’s sad that I’m immediately on the defensive before I even answer the phone.

  “Hey, Len,” I say, walking toward the back of the press box and pushing a finger to my other ear. “What’s up?”

  “Just checking in.”

  “For?”

  “No reason,” she says, but a lifetime of living with her tells me she’s fishing for information.

  “So you just called to say hi?” I can’t remember the last time one of my sisters did that.

  “Yes . . . and, never mind.”

  And here we go.

  “What is it?” I honestly don’t have the bandwidth to deal with her today.

  The crowd goes wild as the opposition scores, and I crane my neck from where I stand huddled in the back to watch the replay on the Jumbotron overhead. Lucky shot.

  “Who scored?” she asks.

  “The Patriots.”

  “Boo,” she says, and I smile but then remember she’s playing coy.

  “What is it you needed, Len?”

  “I just wanted to see how it was going with Maddox.”

  “I’ve talked to him but haven’t talked to him yet about us.”

  “Us?”

  “KSM,” I explain in annoyed exasperation.

  “Yes. Sure,” she says but doesn’t sound anything like she does. “It was pretty shitty of Dad to make Maddox your recruit.”

  I open my mouth and close it, wanting to say so much—agree, commiserate, talk about what it felt like to see him for the first time—but don’t. “It’s business. I can handle it.”

  “Keep that in mind.”

  And now my back is up.

  “Excuse me?” I snort.

  “You two were more than sex.”

  “Thanks for the analysis, but you’re wrong. That’s all we were.” Were my feelings for him really that transparent?

  “That came out wrong. What I mean was I know he hurt you.”

  “I’ve been hurt a lot. It’s not a big deal.”

  “Easy to say, hard to do,” she murmurs.

  “Your point?” I ask, ready for the conversation to be over.

  “If you sleep with him, this whole thing is over.” I should be stunned by her direct nature, but I’m not. Subtlety is not Lennox’s strong suit. Silence is my response. “Not to be the party pooper . . . or should I say pretty kitty pooper, but if you sleep with him—”

  “No worries there.”

  “—then our other clients will think he’s getting preferential treatment—”

  “Are you actually lecturing me?” I ask through a laugh. “After you slept with Hardy and that entire debacle? Seriously?”

  “It’s not the same. This time it matters.”

  She pauses as the arena plays a song that the crowd chants along to and I welcome the distraction.

  “And who exactly are you busy trying to woo over to Kincade?”

  Her pause has me leaning over as if I can hear the words she’s not saying . . . and I wait.

  “I don’t exactly know yet.”

  “What do you mean you don’t know yet?”

  “I mean, Dad said we need to recruit one at a time so it looks more subtle than a hostile takeover, or some weird father analogy like that.”

  I stare at the game unfolding before me—at the loss the Jacks are being handed, no thanks to Hunter. “So I’m the only one who’s—”

  “Teacher’s pet always gets to have fun first,” she says in a singsong voice. She called to gloat . . . or to make sure I’m not fucking up things for her because let’s be honest, when’s the last time she thought about anyone or anything but herself?

  If KSM were to fail as a business, how would my sister survive without all the fancy social functions that go hand in hand with being a sports agent? God forbid, it would thrust her out of the limelight she thrives on.

  I’m far from naïve and know her concern is genuine but skewed for selfish reasons.

  But what the hell is my dad pulling here? While he has some logic to avoid an all-out war with Sanderson, why was it so pertinent that I pick up my life on the fly and do this?

  “I’ve got to go,” I murmur.

  “No. Wait!”

  “What?” I snap. “What more can you possibly have to say that’s not duplicitous in its meaning?”

  “Look, all of that came out wrong. All of it.”

  “I don’t care anymore, Len. I’ve got a game to watch and a client to schmooze.”

  “Hear me out.” It’s the tone in her voice and the fact that I’ve been like their mom that prevents me from hanging up.

  “You’ve got two minutes.”

  “I know you like him, Dekk. And I know how you get when someone gets too close to you,” she says. I’m still not following her. “Because of Mom, because of the hurt we experienced, it’s easier to push someone away when you love them than to see where it leads.”

  “There is no talk of love here.” I snort at her ludicrousness.