“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.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
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.
CHAPTER TWELVE
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.