I can’t figure out if he’s being serious or just trying to get a reaction out of me.
“Have at them, Hunter.” I choke over my own words. “You sure seem like you’re at peak performance tonight.”
“What?”
“Nothing.” My buzz is gone, and there’s no point saying another word.
His chuckle is a low rumble that I can feel more than hear as he turns to face me, but I keep looking straight ahead at the mirrored wall behind the bar. “Why are you here, Dekker?”
“Same reason you are. To have a drink. To unwind after a long day. To have a little downtime.”
“To get laid.”
“Yep, that’s me.” I shake my head in frustration. “My every waking goal is how I’m going to end up on my back with my legs spread.”
“It used to be.”
A million things run through my mind—fuck you, being the one that rings the loudest and only with you running a close second—but I know Hunter Maddox. He wants to stay angry.
But his words still sting. They still ignite my temper. They still hurt, when I shouldn’t care.
Hunter seems determined to ruin or sabotage every part of his life. Why bother being his agent? Then I’ll be the one being warned by McAvoy. And why do I want that? Surely my dad doesn’t want that.
“That’s a class-act thing to say, Hunter. Be a dick to me.” I don’t deserve that from him, and I hate that his drunkenness has disconnected his filter and allows him to be so scathing.
“Not being a dick, just trying to figure out why the hell you’re following the team around like a puppy dog waiting to get a scrap of bone.”
I take a sip of my drink, let the alcohol swish around on my tongue before I swallow it, and turn to face him. He remains looking ahead, his profile strong with pride and marred with a disdain I can’t figure out. “Let’s get one thing straight, Maddox. I chase after no one. I’m a damn good agent who’s simply doing my job. If I choose to go out for a drink with one of my clients after a game, that’s my own business, not yours.”
“Is that what this is, Dekk?” The muscle in his jaw feathers as the melody being played changes.
“What?”
“We fizzled out so I moved on, and now you’re back to exact revenge?” For fuck’s sake.
We never fizzled out.
The thought screams to a halt in the front of my mind and sits there in blinking neon lights.
We never fizzled out because if we had, those feelings I had wouldn’t have sparked to life the minute I saw him. They would have had me sneering and disgusted. But then I hear the other part about him moving on. I had tried to avoid looking up pictures of Hunter after I left him. To see how quickly and how easily I’d been replaced. How he’d moved on. I’m not naïve enough to think that I walked away and he’s pined after me all these years.
So yeah, I’m sure he moved on. But I’ve never wanted that reminder.
Hell.
“News flash. What happened three years ago is dead and over,” I say.
“Yes, I forgot. No-nonsense Kincade can move on without ever looking back.”
“God, Hunter. There are way more important things you need to be focusing on than me.”
“Yeah,” he murmurs just loud enough for me to hear, “like that hot brunette over there.”
That dig hurts.
“Just like old times, huh?” I ask, staring at him until he slowly turns and faces me, that cocky smirk that usually makes my insides simmer, instead now irritating me.
“Depends on what you mean by old times.” He reaches out to move a piece of hair off my shoulder, and I slap his hand away.
“Hockey. Party. Repeat.”
“You forgot the most important part.” He leans closer so I can smell the alcohol on his breath just above the scent of his cologne.
“Meaning?”
“Hockey. Party. Fucking. Repeat.”
“Screw you, Hunter,” I say, refusing to show that those words and his cavalier attitude are hurtful.
I toss some cash on the bar and head back to our table, needing space and distance from him and his destructive behavior. Why? Why does he keep coming to me when it clearly bothers him that I’m here? Why can’t he just go after his hot brunette on the other side of the bar and leave me the hell alone?
More importantly, why do I keep engaging?
I think the answer lies somewhere between the two of those answers.
“You jealous?” he calls after me as I step past Finch and his wife on the way to the open seat on the couch. I turn to face him, confusion no doubt etched in every line of my face, as he stares at me above the rim of his glass, his eyes challenging me as much as his words do. “You’re the one who moves from man to man, night after night.”
“Man to man? Really? It’s called entertaining clients, you ass.” I laugh at his ridiculousness and when I try to walk between him and the table in the way, I realize now that putting myself in this corner was a bad idea.
“Sleeping with clients is part of the job now? No wonder Chaddy-boy was so pissed that you dropped him to come see me,” he says, reaching out to grab my arm.
Finch and Callum both stand instantly with his name falling from their lips.
But I’m faster, my hand stinging as it connects with his cheek.
We glare at each other—his teammates and one of my clients—staring at us, gauging the situation and whatever it is that’s happening between us. Patrons on the outside of our seating area turn to watch too as the music picks up in pace.
Hunter may have a ghost of a smile on his lips but there is a host of pain in the depths of his eyes, but I’m past wanting to listen to him now. A moment passes before I see him tuck it all away and that smile falls lopsided and his snark returns.
“This is what this is all about, isn’t it? You. Me. Years ago. Relationships aren’t my thing, Dekker.”
“No shit.” I pull my purse strap back up to my shoulder that fell off with the action.
“Not between me and a woman. Not between me and an agent.” He chews his cheek momentarily. “Not with anyone.”
“Good to know.” I angle my head, stare at him, and then go out on a limb with a hunch. “Why are you here? Hockey. Party. Fucking. Repeat? Is that why? I figured you’d be spending time with your family. But you’re out drinking and being an asshole.”
Muscles tic in his face as he clenches his jaw.
And there it is.
A reaction that is as sincere as it is threatening.
“Leave my family the fuck out of this,” he growls, his shoulders squaring, as he takes a step toward me. “Where do you get off—?”
His teammates take a protective step forward, but I shake my head to tell them it’s fine. In fact, I turn toward them and say, “It’s late, and I have an early conference call. Thank you for inviting me. It was a great time”—I glance to Hunter—“until it wasn’t.”
“Do you want me to take you back?” Callum asks, and I shake my head, not wanting to add fuel to Hunter’s accusation.
“No, thank you. Enjoy the rest of your night. It’ll probably be your last one for a while with the next few games being tough ones . . . so enjoy it while you can.” When I go to leave, Hunter won’t move so I can walk out of the small space between the table and the couch.