But how would he know? Texts late at night telling me where to meet and when. Quick romps in hotel rooms when we happened to be in the same city at the same time. Zero promises given of anything more than the physical. How would anyone know when I played our whole sexcapade off as a casual thing I had no attachment to?
Even to Hunter, himself.
But I’m looking at my father, and he’s not backing down.
“This is a joke, right? You’re playing with me?” I ask in a half-laugh, half no-damn-way tone.
“I wish I were.” At least there’s contrition in his voice when he says it, and I wonder if in his father-sense he has an inkling that my casual dating of Hunter had grown into something more in my heart. “I know you two had a thing a way back and—”
“A thing?” I snort, realizing I’m reacting off my own emotion and not from something he knows. His lifted eyebrows say as much. “Yes. Sure. Something like that.”
“I saw you talking to him at the ESPY’s a few months back. I didn’t realize there was bad blood between you.”
Not bad blood.
More like unresolved feelings.
“This is just a bad idea all around.”
“Personally or professionally?” And it’s that tone—the one that says I need to suck it up, be tough, and professional—that’s a reprimand in itself, but I don’t respond. I’m busy wondering how I’m going to make a man, who despite aggravating me in all other ways, devastated me sensually and brought out an explosive sexuality I never really knew I had, come over to Kincade Sports Management. “Any way you look at it, Dekk, he’s one we have to have.”
“Why?” It’s one word but it’s loaded with so much tension.
“Because this is his year.”
“His year to what?” I snort. “Be an ass and ruin what he has going for him?”
“To win the Stanley Cup.”
“I disagree—”
“Hear me out,” he says with his hands up. He speaks quietly, and that tells me he’s put way more thought into this than I have. “Hunter’s been in the NHL for twelve years. Ten with various teams and then the LumberJacks came along and decided to build their hopes on him because he’s that freaking good.”
“They can build their hopes on whoever they want, but it doesn’t mean it’s going to happen.” I rise from my seat and pace the room as I think. “There’s that thing with the kid in the wheelchair the other day. The one he snubbed. There are rumors about fights in the locker room with teammates. That management isn’t happy. That—”
“So, you have been keeping tabs on him.”
My feet falter as I let his words settle in the room, because anyway I respond means I’m on the defensive when I shouldn’t be about a man I don’t care about.
“I keep tabs on a lot of athletes.”
“I see,” he says in that fatherly way that is part all-knowing, part maddening, and nothing I want to address. “The question is why is he acting out? Why has he had an excellent career with a pristine reputation for almost twelve years and then all of a sudden he doesn’t?”
“I’m not a psychologist, Dad.”
“No”—he leans forward in his seat—“but you know him better than anyone else in this office.”
Shit.
He’s right in every aspect, and yet I want to argue and reject his theory because I’ve moved on and don’t want to revisit a man who broke my heart.
“Make Lennox go after him,” I say, offering up my sister while at the same time hating that she might. “Give me a different athlete to bring over.” Panic flutters in my chest at the mere mention of Hunter and the vivid memories of him that might still fill my fantasy bank.
“Hunter and Lennox?” He chuckles. “The two of them together would be oil and water.”
“Well, so were we,” I throw back as I attempt to fathom why my dad would ever assume I’d be the right one to go after Hunter.
More like a match to gasoline.
But oh, that one time with oil was so damn fun.
“We can use your history with him to our advantage.”
“Using it to our advantage is one thing. What about what it means for me?” I ask, giving away what I was hiding—that he meant more to me than casual.
Snapshots of memories flicker through my mind like a tape reel. Volatile and deliciously addictive sex always highlighted—or rather lowlighted—by our inability to remain civil to one another. And despite that, I still fell for him. I still wanted to try to have something more with him.
He still let me walk away from him without a word.
“He’s who we need, kiddo,” my dad says, ripping me out of the documentary in my head. “Statistically speaking, he’s phenomenal. He’s angling to surpass records—goals, assists. He’s one of the fastest on the ice out there and his stick-handling skills are unrivaled.”
“You forgot that he’s an asshole.” I smile sarcastically.
“Aren’t we all in some way or another?” He raises his brows and returns the same smile. “Look, if he stays injury-free, he might just be one of the next greats. And having him as a client could be a huge draw for us.”
“Or he could implode and we could be stuck scrambling to salvage his career.”
“Then let’s swoop in and save him from doing that because, sure as hell, Sanderson isn’t.”
“It’s not that easy.”
“It is, Dekk. He’s coming up for a contract negotiation after this season that could net him a substantial pay increase. Pair that with his poor conduct and his closing in on some long-standing records, and we could help him get there. You could help him get there. I’ve watched him, admired him, for a lot of years, but lately, I can tell he’s struggling.”
“I am not a nursemaid, Dad.”
“Don’t I know it.” His chuckle fills the room. “I’m not asking you to be one. All I’m saying is visit him. Talk with him. Travel with the team during their next road stretch and see if you can figure it out. Sell him on the fact that you understand him when it seems Sanderson is just a stat chaser these days—picking up clients with the brightest stars, not necessarily the most talent. And you know what happens to bright stars.”
“They burn out.”
He nods, his eyes holding mine as they turn serious. “We can assert that he’ll receive more by going with us. Drop names, and give him examples of the contracts we’ve increased during negotiations.”
“And that’s why you think he’ll leave Sanderson?” I snort. “The only effect my appearance will have is him walking the other way.”
Or wanting to have sex. And that just can’t happen, not if we’re to have a professional relationship as my dad is sitting here telling me we need to have.
“You underestimate yourself, Dekker. You always have.”
Silence falls as our eyes hold. The hum of my sisters chatting in the main office filters through to us in muffles, but it’s him that holds me rapt.
“Dad? What’s going on? Is the business in trouble? Was everything okay at the doctor’s the other day? I mean . . . where is this all coming from?”