I have my reasons. But he’s never cared to ask what they are.
As if on cue, my phone alerts a text, and I don’t even bother to look. I don’t acknowledge its buzz. I already know the gist of what it’s going to say and fuck, the last thing I need right now is to see how I’ve disappointed one more person.
“If you don’t like the threats, then how about Hunter fucking Maddox shows back up, huh? He’s been missing for the past three or four months and this angry, spiteful asshole in front of me is someone I can’t quite figure out.”
“Can’t figure out or don’t care to so long as I’m bringing in the cash? There are guys out there doing far worse with a lot less threats and consequences.”
“But you’re Hunter Maddox. You’re the guy the National Hockey League hung its hat on to bring it back from the strike and subsequent lockout.”
“They sure as fuck did,” I counter, “so how about you remember that and start giving me the benefit of the doubt.”
“When you start jeopardizing my other clients with your acts of stupidity like a roid-raged asshole, I have no choice but to put them first.”
My hands clench and the unrelenting anger and hurt and confusion that’s toyed with my mind over the past few months, hell, the past season, fights just beneath the surface.
Obligations.
Guilt.
Responsibilities.
“Good to know where you stand. Is this conversation over? Is the let’s tell Hunter he’s an asshole lecture complete?” I ask, not giving a shit if it is or isn’t.
“Sure. It’s done. Let’s not make it a let’s tell Hunter if he pulls more shit like this again, I can’t be his agent lecture.”
His words hit my ears, their gravity, their everything. “You threatening me, Finn?”
He holds his hands up. “Just telling it like it is.”
It’s my turn to laugh. The sound is riddled with disbelief and a healthy dose of fuck you. “I’m one of the first clients you ever signed—one who took a chance on you when you were wet behind the ears and no one else would—and you threaten to drop me after all these years, just like that?”
“Something has to snap you out of this funk.” His eyes are clear, his voice serious, but he has no clue this funk feels like it’s permanent.
“Threats don’t do it for me.”
“Everyone has a line they have to draw in the sand, and one more stunt is mine.”
“Good to know.” I stare at my agent, the person I thought was my friend, and wonder when the fuck he became a greedy asshole who was only out for himself.
Then I wonder if I even care, because it’s hard to find any emotion these days other than anger.
And without another word, I leave.
CHAPTER ONE
DEKKER
MELODRAMA AT ITS FINEST.
It’s the only thought that runs through my mind when I take a seat at the conference table in the back office of Kincade Sports Management.
Brexton sits with her arms crossed over her chest, and her resting bitch face in full effect. Her foot bounces where it’s crossed over her knee, and she scrolls through her phone with complete disinterest.
Chase sits ramrod straight, her business suit crisp and pressed and everything else about her perfectly styled to match. Christ, even the leather cover of her notepad matches. Perfection in a sickening fashion.
Lennox inspects her fingernails. They’re too long and too red, but I’m sure she has her reasons for looking like she wants to claw someone’s eyes out with them.
Let’s hope this time, it’s not mine.
I sit back and wait and watch and wonder.
Aren’t we all the perfect picture of disdain? I’d rather be anywhere—anywhere, like even shopping—than sitting right here with them right now. I’m more than sure they feel the same way.
Thrilled was the last thing we all probably felt when we got the call to be here.
My competitors.
My rivals.
“Ladies.” Kenyon Kincade’s voice rumbles when he walks into the room. Our heads turn and only two of us nod in response, but all of us watch him.
The same paranoia that has me questioning why he’d invite the chaos by inviting us all in here at the same time, has me eyeing his movements closely. Is he moving slower? Is there something wrong with his health?
Fear tickles its way up my spine in a way I’ve never known before.
“Thank you for coming.” He clears his throat and takes his time taking a sip of his coffee, hissing when it scalds his tongue. “I know it’s a rarity for you to all be in the office together, but humor this old man in wanting his four daughters in one place, at the same time.”
Brex bites her tongue while waiting for him to get to the point. Patience has never been her strong suit, and he takes note of it with a nod of his own.
“Why did you ask us to all be here, Dad?” Taking the lead as per usual, I ask the question we’re all wondering.
“I’ve made a lot of mistakes over the course of my life. Even more so when your mother died, when I was left alone at thirty-something to raise four girls without much experience. I did the best I could, but by the way you guys prefer not to be in the same place together at times, it feels like my best wasn’t good enough.”
“That’s not true.”
“Then what is it, Lennox?” He calls her out. “Why can’t the four of you get along?”
I think of the years of competition for his attention. A single dad with clients we felt were more important than we were at times. Not by any fault of his own, but more because of his caring nature. We wanted his attention. We lived for it.
And the bittersweet taste of being the oldest still stings. Stepping in to be a mom at fifteen when you’re not the mom, fosters a lot of resentment. Telling your siblings what needs to be done inside a house ruled by estrogen doesn’t exactly make for long-term peace.
Lennox flips a lock of hair over her shoulder and meets his eyes for the first time. The only man who can tame her constant snark and fiery temper. “We can get along just fine.” There’s a muffled snort somewhere, and I fight not to look up and glare down whoever it is . . . because I’m not the mom, and I never wanted to be.
“You fight like cats and dogs,” he says.
“And we love like lions,” she says and we all snicker. “We’re just very different people.”
His laugh is boisterous and takes us all by surprise. “Maybe it’s because you are all so much alike.”
When each of us physically bristle at the thought of actually being like the other, he holds his hands up to stop us. “Sanderson is killing us.”
The name of our rival agency.
“As in Finn Sanderson?” Brex asks. “What do you mean?”
He purses his lips and takes his time meeting each of our eyes before he speaks. “Twelve clients over the past year. That’s what he’s taken from us. I’m not sure if he’s undercutting our commission or if he’s stroking more than just their egos, but it’s not acceptable to me.”
And my father’s tone says it all—he’s worried.
Shit.
“Are we in trouble?” Brexton asks, concern weighing down her voice as she sits forward in her seat. “Is something wrong?”