CHAPTER THIRTEEN
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.
“But there was when you walked away from him last time.” Her voice softens and she speaks before I can interrupt her. “You can interrupt me all you want, you can tell me you didn’t have feelings for him, but I was staying at your place that night when you came home. I know that look you had, and I know you were hurting and maybe, just maybe, it’s because you were too chicken to tell him how you felt. You were too scared that if he said he had feelings for you too you’d have to face your fears. That you’d have to let someone in.”
I forgot about that. That she was there at my place when I got home. The twenty questions she peppered me with asking what was wrong. The twenty shrugs I gave, telling her I was perfectly fine. The scrutiny of her stare and how irritated I got when her voice turned compassionate, because it only made the tears I was fighting burn brighter.