As much as I want to make a witty comment, I just flip the blinker and smile.

  It took me half the morning to figure out how to make Hunter realize he was burned out. Even trickier is showing him without mentioning the words.

  Athletes are superstitious. They don’t shave if they’re winning. They don’t step on lines when they walk on the field. They wear the same, but washed (hopefully), undergarments if they had a great game in them. And they never speak aloud certain terms: no-hitter, perfect game, burnout, etcetera.

  So I had my work cut out for me to show and not tell.

  Even more so, I don’t know if Hunter even knows he’s burned out so if I did tell him, I’m assuming he’ll fight me on it.

  And fighting me is exactly what I don’t want.

  When I asked him to take a ride with me, I’d already made the promise to myself that no matter what he did or said to antagonize or irritate me, I was going to smile and let it go.

  We could get along outside of the bedroom.

  I was determined to prove that to myself on a personal level and to him on a professional one.

  That’s the only way I have any chance of convincing him I know what’s best for him and once he knows that, trusting me as an agent would fall into line.

  Heading east on Wheelock Street, I glance his way. “I never said how far the ride was going to be.”

  “Good thing it’s an off day or else I’d be missing my game,” he mutters, but there’s humor in his voice as the lights of the college come into view on our left and the arena is just coming into our sights on our right. It’s dark outside, but co-eds mingle on the sidewalk and common areas as the streetlights cast their glow around them.

  “When in Hanover, right?”

  “When in Hanover, what? Kidnap a hockey player and take them to . . . where in the hell are we exactly?” he asks.

  “Dartmouth. We’re at Dartmouth College to be exact.”

  I see the jolt of his body. “Okay.” He draws the word out as I pull into a packed parking lot and get lucky and find a space right off the bat. “I was never good at school, Kincade. You’re making me get all itchy just thinking about having to sit in a classroom.”

  “What? You hate having someone tell you what to do and how to do it? That’s a shocker.” I shift the gear into park. “Here, wear this.” I reach into the back seat and toss a baseball cap at him and wait for his response.

  “No way!” He shakes his head and throws the LA Kings hat off his lap like it’s a hot potato. “Are you crazy?” His laughter fills the cab and I pause and take it in. It’s not a sound I hear often from him. “I can’t wear that.”

  “Why not? You’d be supporting the NHL.” I pick it up and try to put it on his head.

  “No,” he cries and grabs my wrists as I struggle with him playfully. “I will not be a traitor. I will not.”

  “I’m going to take a picture and post it all over social media.”

  “Never,” he shouts as he begins tickling me to distract me from my efforts. I squeal as I fall awkwardly across the center console so that my chest is on top of his.

  Breaths panting and lips inches from each other in the small space, our eyes meet and hold as the protests die on our lips.

  “Dekker.” My name is a quiet assault to my ears even after all the shouting. In those two syllables, I hear so many things. Are they real or am I making them up?

  Kiss me.

  The thought is in my head as I struggle to slow my thoughts. As I fight the urge to lean in and taste him.

  But his lips are right there. His body is warm and inviting beneath my hands pressed to his chest. And the memory of just how good we can be together is front and center in my mind.

  His eyes flicker to my lips and then back to my eyes.

  A horn blares in the aisle behind us and we both jump back like two kids caught necking in the school lot.

  “Saved by the bell,” he murmurs into the silence of the cab as he turns the Kings hat over in his hand. I sit with my back against the door and watch his fingers play over the embroidery.

  “You ready?” I ask the question, but neither of us move as we sit in the silence.

  “Why are we here again?”

  “Here as in the car or here as in more of a philosophical way?” I dodge.

  “Dekker?” he growls, and I laugh.

  “Because sometimes a change of scenery is good for perspective.” The comment is innocent but the insinuation is there, and the way he looks over at me, blue eyes shielded in the shadows, says he caught it.

  “What exactly are we talking about here, Dekker?”

  Chills chase over my skin as we stare at each other. Nerves. They run rampant as I debate how honest to be with him.

  We’re talking about you needing to remember why you play the game.

  We’re talking about you needing a new agent who appreciates you.

  We’re talking about you and me deserving a second chance.

  But none of those reasons fall from my lips. Nope. Instead, I chicken out and give him the answer that will satisfy him. For now.

  “I need to watch a prospective client’s game. I thought you might want to watch him and provide some feedback.”

  He narrows his eyes and shakes his head. “What?” The word comes out in a disbelieving laugh.

  “Humor me,” I say and turn to look in the back seat. “I think I have a beanie. Would a beanie work?” I ask as I begin to rummage through the travel bag I have there.

  “Why do I need a hat?” he asks as I produce a nondescript black beanie.

  “Voila!” I hold it up. “You need a beanie because you’re not here to be Hunter Maddox, the hockey god. You’re here to be Hunter, an average guy with an even more average-sized dick who’s going to enjoy a game simply to enjoy a game.”

  He eyes me for the longest time and I wait for him to say something, for him to express the caution fleeting through his eyes, but he nods and slowly slides the beanie over his head. “But it’s more than average in size. This beanie-wearing guy might be average, but his dick definitely isn’t.”

  I laugh. “I should’ve known you’d say that.”

  He shrugs. “Average guys need all the love they can get.”

  “Let’s go, bigger-than-average Hunter,” I joke and open the door, needing the blast of the cold air to shock me to my senses from realizing that we’re actually getting along. And from thinking how much I want a second chance with him . . . despite how he hurt me the first time.

  But is it hurt when you both go into a situation with the same expectations and yours change? How is he to blame for that?

  Jesus, Dekk. Get over it. Get over him.

  But it’s been three years and obviously, I haven’t. What exactly does that mean?

  Our shoulders bump as we walk through the lot like other college co-eds on their way to one of the biggest games of their season against Dartmouth.

  “Wait.” Hunter tugs on my hands and stops me so I can look at him. “Why in the hell do you have a Kings hat in your car?”

  “I have clients on most teams.”

  “So, what? You dress the part at their games?”

  I shrug and offer a coy smile. “Sometimes.”

  “You’ve been on the road with us this whole stretch. I’ve yet to see you wear a LumberJacks hat.”

  “I’ll only wear one once they’ve won the cup.”

  “Ohhhhhhhh,” he says and then bursts out laughing. “Fucking brutal.”

  But his laughter as we head toward the arena is all I focus on.

  It’s all I hear.

  It’s all I want.

  DEKKER

  “YOU SURE YOU DON’T WANT one?” Hunter asks as he slides a pint of beer onto the table. The tavern is dim with Dartmouth paraphernalia lining its walls and teeming with college students excited after tonight’s win.

  We found a seat in the back corner where we can blend into its dark edges and hopefully have a drink incognito. I’m surprised we’ve skated by this far, pun intended, without anyone recognizing him.

  “You drink. I’m the designated driver tonight.” I take a sip of my Diet Coke and laugh.

  “What?” he asks

  “I’m just thinking of how confused that poor lady was until we convinced her you’re Hunter Maddox’s twin.”

  His smile is tinged with sadness and I hate that I put it there. Maybe I was too caught up in the moment during the game to see it then, but I definitely see it now. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—how is your brother?” I ask, feeling like a heel. There’s not much I know about Jonah Maddox other than Hunter thinks the world of his twin, and that he became a quadriplegic after a car accident in their teens.

  His brother is a topic Hunter rarely speaks about. In interviews and relaxed conversations, he keeps anything about Jonah close to his vest. I’d probably be the same if it was one of my sisters, let alone a twin.

  “He’s fine.” He takes a sip and looks around at the patrons having a good time. “You were quick on your feet with that lady, Kincade,” he says. “Thanks.”

  “You have to be in this job.”

  A cheer goes up in the bar as some of the Dartmouth hockey team walks in and Hunter’s face lights up at the sound of it. He watches the Dartmouth forward I was scouting walk in and shakes his head ever so subtly.

  “Give that kid a couple of years and he’ll be getting the same reception when he walks into The Tank after a game.”

  “You think?” I ask, even though I already know the answer—the kid’s that good. But more than anything, I’m happy Hunter’s engaging with me on this.

  “Yeah. The kid has it. Skill and that star quality that has you on the edge of your seat waiting to see what he’s going to wow you with next.”

  “Kind of like another forward I know,” I murmur with a lift of my brows. I catch the hitch in his movement as he brings the beer to his lips. But he lets the comment go. He doesn’t push or prod or live for the praise that many athletes I’ve repped need to continually boost their egos.

  Hunter’s different. He’d rather fade into the background than be the center of attention. I’ve always been curious why a man so brash in personality and bold in his play, hides from the limelight. As if he’s not worthy of such praise. Ridiculous.

  “Your dad doing good?” he asks. “Your sisters still a pain in your ass?”

  I nod, surprised he’s asking. Small talk was never our thing and this feels surprisingly normal, but maybe we’re stepping into new territory. “They’re always pains in my ass but isn’t that how it goes?” I laugh and think of Lennox and our conversation the other night about the man in front of me, and I have a sudden pang of homesickness. Sure, we fight and annoy each other, but there’s a comfort in knowing they’re there. In knowing we might tell each other we hate each other one moment, but the next, they’d have my back if I needed them to. “We’re all just super busy, always all over the place to tell you the truth.”

  He chuckles. “Is that your polite way of saying you guys still don’t get along?”

  I run my fingers up and down the condensation on my glass and let the water pool around the coaster. “It’s not that we don’t get along.” I sigh and try to put it into words so that someone on the outside of our family dynamic might get it. “I mean, we all care about each other but there’s a lot of resentment there. I—it wasn’t my choice to be the mom when my mom died. I was the oldest, so with my dad off all the time with clients, trying to provide for us . . . sure, we had a nanny, but the discipline and rules and shit fell on me for some reason.”

  “That had to have been hard losing her when you were young.”

  I avert my gaze from his and look at the bubbles moving up the side of my Diet Coke. What no one truly understood was that I was never allowed to grieve. To have her be there healthy one day and the next be gone when the aneurism hit without warning. I remember feeling so damn lost and alone. I had responsibilities and emotions way beyond most teenagers, but no one knew I cried myself to sleep every single night. No one saw me turn over the pillow because the case was soaked from the tears I shed.

  No one knew how desperately lonely I was.

  “It was devastating.” I scrunch my nose to abate the tears and then push away the sadness as I’ve learned to do. “For all of us.”

  When he meets my eyes, there’s a compassion I’ve never seen before from him and as welcome as it is, I’m glad when he breaks the moment by speaking. “Why haven’t your sisters realized you were just stepping up?” he asks. “They’re old enough to know better.”

  “I’m sure they do . . . and we’re all working on healing from the trauma of it all, but we’re so damn different. It’s like each one of us are different directions on a compass that will never see eye to eye except in those rare moments. For us though, it worked. I mean, our individualism was good because it gave our dad something to have with each of us . . . but it also caused a competitive dynamic that was toxic in a sense.”

  “Something will happen that will make you all realize none of the differences mean shit. You’ll realize the fights are love disguised. The competition is fate’s way of making you want more. The laughter is something you’ll hold on to in your darkest moments. And eventually, you’ll reach a point where you appreciate each other and the rest will be white noise.”

  I stare at him, his poignant words so unexpected, and wonder where this wisdom comes from. There are so many things I want to say to him, least of all how beautiful his comment is . . . but I know that’s not something he’d readily accept. “Maybe we should already realize that after losing our mom. Then again, maybe we’re just a houseful of stubborn women who’ll figure it out someday.”

  “Hey man,” a waiter says as he slides a fresh beer across the table before patting Hunter on the shoulder. “It’s on the house. Your secret’s safe with me. Enjoy your beer in peace.”

  Hunter laughs and shakes his head. “Thanks, man. Appreciate it.” They shake hands and then the waiter moves to another table.

  But when I look back to Hunter, he’s leaning back in his seat, more relaxed than I’ve seen him this whole road trip, and a soft smile is on his face as he studies me.

  “What made you think to bring me with you tonight?” he asks after a beat.

  “Just a hunch.”

  “A hunch?”

  “Yeah. Like I said earlier, sometimes it’s good to get a different perspective on things.”

  “You’re talking in circles, Dekk. You tend to do that when you don’t want to answer something.”

  “Tell me,” I say. “From the last few hours, what’s the first thing that comes to your mind?”

  “Besides the fear you were kidnapping me?”

  “Besides that,” I say with a nod.

  “Tennis balls,” he says through a laugh.

  The same laugh I’ve heard all night. While he pointed things out to me about the game. Insights I might never have caught as I wouldn’t have known. When he took the tennis balls the people sitting next to us offered and tossed them on the ice as is the school tradition upon the team’s first goal against their rival Princeton.

  He was booing and laughing and pointing at the torrent of balls bounding around the ice. It was the most carefree I’ve heard him, and another clue that I might just be right about him being burned out.

  “It’s the craziest thing I’ve ever seen, and that’s coming from a man who’s had the damn octopus flung within feet of him during a game against the Red Wings.”

  “I’ve been to the Dartmouth-Princeton game a few times. Sometimes for fun, others for recruiting purposes. It’s the best when those tennis balls get tossed. Chaos and comradery. There’s nothing like a rivalry, like playing a sport simply because you love it, like being a part of something so steeped in tradition.”

  “Ah,” he says and tips his glass up, but his eyes don’t leave mine. “Is this where we return to talking in circles?” His tone is playful but his eyes warn me to tread lightly.

  I could have figured as much.

  “No circles. I just thought after the last game, you needed a night away from the guys.”

  “So you took me to more hockey.” There’s amusement in his voice.

  “I did.” I shrug unapologetically. “It was an off night before the team moves on to Boston, I had to check out that kid, and so I thought . . . why not bring one of the best along.”

  “The best? You keep complimenting me, Kincade, I’m going to start thinking you actually mean it.”

  “Maybe I do.” Our eyes meet, hold; there’s a silence between us that stretches with equal parts comfort and flirting.

  “That’s why you kidnapped me?” He reaches out and tucks a piece of hair behind my ear. “And here I thought it was for you to use me for your own devious pleasures.”

  “Devious pleasure?” I laugh, but hell if that slow, sweet ache doesn’t come to life at the apex of my thighs thinking about Hunter and pleasure.

  “So good it’s dangerous.”

  “Jesus!” I laugh. “Yes, that’s it. I kidnapped you and then twisted your arm so I could take full advantage of you.”

  “Tasered me too.”

  “Was it that bad? Is going with me so brutal that tasering is the only option?”

  He leans forward and puts his elbows on the table, and for a moment I think he’s going to kiss me. I freeze and then feel ridiculous when he does nothing more than murmur, his voice a low rumble. “You want to know the best part of the game?”

  “Hmm?” I’m surprised by his sudden change of topic but entranced not only by his voice, but by how content he seems.

  “Everything I do, everywhere I go, someone wants something from me. Time, talent, notoriety, you name it. Do you know how nice it was to go to a game and just enjoy it? To be amazed by talent and laugh at tennis balls and to sit in the stands where no one knew who I was or demanded something of me?”

  “I can’t imagine,” I murmur and feel like a traitorous asshole, because I want something from him.