“Whatever,” I say with a roll of my eyes and a forced smile.
“I’ve got a phone call with Sanderson,” Hunter says and holds his phone up as if that’s his answer to why he keeps walking and doesn’t engage.
Or maybe to throw it in my face who his agent is.
“Who pissed in his Wheaties this morning?” Katz asks with an over-exaggerated flip of the bird to his teammate.
“No idea,” I murmur.
Me.
I did.
I’m the one who pissed him off and screwed this up.
“Well, shit,” Katz says, sliding into the seat in front of me. “If he’s not going to sit with a pretty lady, then I definitely will. I’m around way too many jockstraps these days and not enough G-strings.”
I throw my head back and laugh. “If you’re looking for G-strings, you’re sitting at the wrong damn table,” I say but then shift in my seat, considering the black lace one I put on this morning.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
DEKKER
THEY’RE BEING LITTLE BRATS, BUT their comments on the scouting memo give me a much-needed laugh.
And then I hit send, leaving the status for Hunter Maddox blank. Serves those nosy little punks right.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
DEKKER
I SIT IN THE PRESS booth in whatever damn city we’re in and answer my messages. One after another. Email and phone call after email and phone call.
But I work through them as the Jacks practice on the ice below and work on a new defensive play that just might work in the coming weeks.
It would be smarter to work in my hotel room, but I’m distracted. Not by work that desperately needs my attention but rather the man on the ice who has consumed my thoughts since he left the coffee shop the other day.
Who am I kidding? He’s consumed it much longer than that, but I’m not counting that part.
Maybe it’s because we’ve never had a chance to be alone since then, my texts have gone unanswered, and my phone calls sent to voicemail. I’ve even thought about sliding a note under his door, but just my luck, a teammate would find it and more shit would hit the fan.
We really need to talk about why I left, about why I’m here, and about what his perception of it is.
This could all be solved with decent communication—in fact, if it were one of my friends, that’s the first bit of advice I’d impart—but it’s not as easy as that.
The minute I tell him why I’m here—whatever’s happening or has happened between us can be no more. Then he becomes a client. Then I must put professionalism before him.
And the struggle between pleasing my father and owning what I want makes the path not so clear-cut.
“You sure are spending a lot of time with the team.”
I startle and look back to see Ian McAvoy standing with his arms crossed and shoulder leaned against the doorframe.
“The same can be said for yourself,” I reply with a smile, hoping he’ll smile at my joke. He doesn’t. “Most GMs aren’t fond of road trips.”
“And most GMs’ teams haven’t been pulled from the depths of the hockey dungeon to the top of the division within two years.”
“True.” I nod, shut my laptop, and lean back in my chair to wait for him to talk about whatever it is he wants to talk about. Ian isn’t one to hang and chat without having an objective in sight.
“Should I believe the rumors?” he asks.
“Depends which rumors they are.”
“Why you’re here.”
“I have clients on your team. We’re heading into unknown territory for some of them, and I want their heads in the right place come playoff time.”
“And what about those who aren’t your clients? Shouldn’t it be said I need them to be left alone so their heads are in the right place too?”
“Let’s not beat around the bush, Ian. If you’ve got something to say, then say it.” I rise from my seat, never wanting to be at a disadvantage. Him standing over me puts me at a disadvantage.
“What do you want with Maddox?”
I purse my lips and watch the team practicing. Hunter moves with ease, and then something is said among them so their laughter floats up to Ian and me.
“He’s not my client if that’s what you’re asking,” I finally say, wondering if Ian would be having this same conversation with me if I were a man.
“I’m well aware he’s not your client.” His shoes squeak on the concrete floor as he takes a few steps past me and braces his hands on the desk the next row up. “It just seems like you’ve taken a special interest in him.”
I draw in a deep breath and let the sigh of frustration be heard. “I have a vested interest in this team. Callum is coming off an injury, Stetson is trying hard to fight his way onto the roster, and Guzman is doing his thing. Like I told you when I cleared my being here beforehand, it was a good time to check on some clients. If something has changed, just come out and say it.”
“I’ve known your father a long time, Dekker,” Ian says, looking back at me over his shoulder from behind his glasses.
“So have I.” My response sounds like I’m trying to be funny, but I’m not. I already know where he’s going with this, and my guard is up.
“I’ve never seen him doing something like this.”
“Like what? Road trip with a team to check in on clients? Funny. He’s the one who insisted I come.”
“It’s different,” he says.
“How so?”
“You’re a woman. The team acts differently with women agents around. They—”
“With all due respect, Mr. McAvoy,” I say and step beside him as Hunter scores a goal and the rest of the team taps their sticks to the ice in response. “This is my job, not a bar where I come to hit on men. I’ve never been anything but professional. I don’t venture into the locker rooms to keep it that way, while male agents go in and out like a revolving door. Your implication is bullshit and unfounded,” I lie through my teeth.
“Don’t fuck with our season, Kincade. Maddox is a huge part of it.”
“He’s an old friend. I’m allowed to reach out and make sure he’s okay, considering it seems like he’s dealing with some shit. That’s just the person I am, so you can either appreciate the help in taming your out-of-control star, or you can tell his agent to do his job himself. While I may be able to heed your threats, they only succeed in pushing your star further away.”
“I need the Cup.”
“I have no doubt Maddox is going to lead this team and get it for you.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
HUNTER
I SIT ON A FROZEN metal bleacher in the freezing fucking cold and stare at the players.
My attention is rapt on the two kids on the ice. Two boys who are laughing as much as they’re practicing. Two boys who every now and again skate past each other and wrap an arm around the other’s neck in brotherly affection.
My decision to come here to try and remind myself how it used to feel rewarding.
You’re burned out.