“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.
“Part of it’s the Cup, you know.”
“What do you mean?”
“That’s why Ian and the Jacks gave me such a huge contract,” he says, referring to the LumberJacks general manager. “It’s on my shoulders to deliver the Cup in return.”
I laugh at the ludicrousness of that. “Any agent worth their salt wouldn’t agree to those terms.” I shake my head and place another mental tic next to why Sanderson is an asshole. Commission, first. Client’s well-being, second. “What happens if you don’t deliver?” I ask, and the only response I get is the twitch of that muscle in his jaw. Curiosity owns me, and while I understand that companies acquire benchmark players to build on, no one can guarantee a Stanley Cup.