I watch them and Finn watches me.
“Should I be worried you’re here to steal my clients, Dekker?” he finally asks.
He’s pushing buttons.
I snort in response and check a text that came across my phone to play him a bit.
“Is that a yes?” he pushes.
I turn to face him for the first time. I take in his perfectly styled hair and dark gray eyes and all I can think is how he’s too perfect, too polished.
I bristle over how much I despise him but the smile on my face shows nothing but indifference.
“It’s a nothing. It’s a maybe you should be a better agent and then you wouldn’t have to worry if your client might jump ship, because you already know they’re satisfied.”
“Like yours are?”
“I’ll let you stand here and be a petty, insecure agent while I go stand over there in shoes I’m more than comfortable in and with a conscience that lets me fall asleep perfectly fine at night.” I start to move to the opposite end of the box.
“Tucking your tail between your legs already, Kincade? I thought you’d fight harder than that to keep your clients.”
“Prick,” I mutter under my breath and welcome the ringing of his cellphone to interrupt this less-than-stimulating conversation.
There is a commotion at my back, and I turn toward the entrance to see a high-tech-looking wheelchair being moved into the suite. I smile at the person who’s strapped into the chair out of kindness, but I’m unaware if he sees me or not. Fearing I’m staring, I offer a similar greeting to the woman pushing it. She’s older in age, her hair stuck to her cheek and frustration lining her face.
“Do you need any help?” I offer and move toward them, noting the awkwardness of the chair since its occupant is lying back.
“No. I’ve got it. Thanks,” she says with a slight grunt as she moves him to the end of the aisle where the chair can fit with an unobstructed view of the arena.
And it hits me.
That’s Jonah. It’s Hunter’s brother.
I digest the information, trying not to look their way so I can make the connection completely.
Then I debate walking over and introducing myself to them, but figure I should let her get them situated first so my presence doesn’t make him feel like I’m there to ogle or so I’m not in the way.
And the whole time I stand there waiting for them to get settled, eyes watching the Jacks warm-up and their actions in my periphery, she murmurs words to who I assume is Jonah as if she’s making sure everything is okay.
“Here we are. You comfortable?” She adjusts his arms. “How exciting. Aren’t you excited to be here, Jonah? I know you’ve been waiting forever for this.” She flips a switch on the chair and it sits up some. “The Jacks are going to win tonight. I mean, you’re here. You’re their good luck charm.”
She talks to him in a soft, singsongy voice, each sentence of hers competing with the gentle hum of his ventilated breaths, as she fiddles with things on the chair.
“Carla. So great to see you,” Finn says before stepping around me.
I turn to watch Carla’s face light up as she moves toward him and embraces him in a quick hug. “Mr. Sanderson. I didn’t know you’d be here tonight. So good to see you.”
Finn moves toward the man in the wheelchair. “Good to see you, Jonah. You excited to watch the game tonight? Your brother has been slaying it. I bet he’s going to play like a madman tonight knowing you’re here.”
Carla reaches her hand out and pats Finn’s arm, her eyes and the slight shake of her head saying something I don’t understand.
Feeling like I’m eavesdropping but forced to due to proximity, I turn my attention back to the ice, my moment to introduce myself lost.
“Are you taking care of my boy?” she asks.
“You know he doesn’t need taking care of.” Finn laughs. “I’m sure you saw that for yourself.”
“We haven’t seen him yet. He said you had him scheduled all day. Maybe after the game tonight.” There’s sadness in her voice that replaced the excitement from moments earlier.
“Maybe.”
Hunter looks up my way again and raises a hand in greeting.
“Hi, honey,” Carla says loudly as if Hunter can hear her. “Jonah, Hunter says hi.”
“Dekker? Have you met Carla and Jonah Maddox yet?”
I take a few steps to where they’re set up. “No, I haven’t. I’ve heard so much about you though,” I say with a smile and extend my hand, hoping Sanderson just caught the implication that I’m close with Hunter. “Such a pleasure to meet you.”
“Aren’t you a pretty little thing,” Carla says in the warm and most non-condescending way as she shakes my hand.
“Thank you.” I turn to Jonah and suck in a breath. And it’s not because of his pale complexion or the trach tube or anything to do with his disability, but rather the fact that he’s identical to Hunter. Like exact. The hair, the eyes, the nose . . . it’s simply stunning. I force myself not to stare at him for that reason alone and offer a smile. “Nice to meet you, Jonah.”
He doesn’t respond verbally but his eyes meet mine, and I nod in greeting.
“Carla, this is Dekker Kincade. She’s the agent trying to steal your son away from me.”
Carla barks out a laugh while I try to figure Finn’s angle with the comment. “Well, she already has one up on you,” Carla says. “She’s a hell of a lot prettier.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
HUNTER
HE SHOULD BE THE ONE out here.
The thought is on replay in my head with each pass.
Each shove of the opposition.
Every whack of the puck toward the goal.
He should be the one out here.
The anger in my blood hums with a potency stronger than any drug I’ve ever been given. It surges and pushes me to take risks I don’t even register and beats the shit out of me when whatever I try to do on the ice fails.
He’s not doing well, Hunter. Another chest infection. Another blood infection. He’s not able to speak anymore. Dr. Masterson says it’s only a matter of time, really.
My mom’s comment from months ago echoes in my head and causes the split-second fumble of my thoughts and the puck is stripped away from me. Shit.
My head.
It’s way too fucking busy to be on the ice. Way too much shit going on.
How can I be down here doing this when he’s up there like that?
When he damn well knows what ice feels like beneath his skates? When the roar of the crowd was more his drug than it was ever mine? When life ended that night for him and finally began for me?
He should be the one out here.
The thought is the cadence of the fists I throw at Brighton for no reason at all—other than he plays like Jonah used to and it pains me to defend against him and remember—and then later at Vladkin for pushing me from behind like so many others have in my years playing this game.
But tonight is different.
Tonight, I can’t deny the pain that burns within. I’m the reason he’s not in my skates right now.
The reason hockey feels more like a prison than a job. A game.