His smile is slow and soft, much like his voice when he speaks. “It’s just time for you guys to step up. Nothing’s wrong,” he says, but I don’t believe it. “Make sure you go in with a game plan. Don’t underestimate Hunter. You need—”
“Trashing bars, fights with teammates, snubbing kids . . . can’t wait.” I sigh.
“And he’s been the NHL’s MVP two years running, so I think this year is his to win the Hart Memorial Trophy. You keep pointing out the bad, but none of it is affecting his success on the ice. Find out what has affected his behavior off the ice. That’s not like him, and you know that.”
He’s right. I do know that. I’ve never seen him ignore a fan before. Especially a kid. But I can’t get emotionally involved. Not again.
“Right now, you need to focus on getting your stuff packed and making travel arrangements,” he says as he pushes his chair away from the table.
“What?”
“You heard me. You’ll have plenty of time to think about how you’re going to approach him on your flight to Chicago tonight.”
“Tonight?” I say the word but it takes me a second to digest it.
“Yes, tonight.”
“You expect me to just pick up and go, like that?” I ask, like this is something new and I haven’t done it before in the past. But this is Hunter we’re talking about. This is my secret weakness and my silent heartbreak. “I have plans with Chad tonight. His work event is a very big deal. I can’t just—”
“Yes, you can. I’m sure he’ll understand.” His smile is tight and his expression is stern. “It’s not like he bends any of his business obligations for you.”
“And there’s the dig,” I mutter.
He stops in his tracks and turns to face me. “Not a dig, at all. He’s just a man who’ll never commit, and for the life of me I can’t figure out what you see in him. He’s successful and handsome if you go for that sort, which you usually don’t—”
“Which sort is that?”
“The kind who doesn’t like to get his hands dirty.” He holds my glare. “He may look the part, honey, but I don’t see a single ounce of fire in your eyes when you’re together. If you want to be friends, be friends, because he sure as hell is friends with a lot of people.”
“My life. My business,” I say in warning, but hate the pang I feel knowing he thinks I’m settling. Companionship should be okay in any form . . . even if it’s a few nights out a month, some nice dinners, some mechanical-esque type sex. The kind of relationship—and I use that word very loosely—where commitment has never been discussed nor really wanted.
“True. Your business. I’m sure Chad will understand. It’s not like he hasn’t done the same to you for his job before.” He grabs the handle to the door. “Like I said, you should have no problem making that flight tonight to catch the LumberJacks game.” He opens the conference room door and looks back over his shoulder. “Good luck.”
CHAPTER THREE
HUNTER
Dad: Sloppy play tonight. You’re not controlling the team like a captain should. Your shot percentage has taken a nosedive. Your assists went up but nowhere near what your brother’s were.
CHAPTER FOUR
DEKKER
IT NEVER FAILS ME.
The excitement of a game and the roar of the crowd never fails to boost my mood, clear my mind so I can think, and give me that rush of adrenaline to remind me why I love my job.
The crowd bustles inside the sports bar, The Tank. Drinks flow freely while all the TVs are tuned to ESPN. The talking heads on SportsCenter are promising highlights of the game I just watched in person after the break.
“Is it true the teams come hang out here after games?” a twenty-something asks as she sidles up beside me on the barstool. Her dress is Lycra and hugs every glorious curve of her body, no doubt in the attempt to catch the attention of one of the players.
Someone will definitely bite, especially after the high of tonight’s win.
“It’s rumored this is the bar the visiting teams frequent, yes,” I murmur and give her a smile, when I know damn well they’ll show. Callum already confirmed he’d meet me here. Where he goes, they all go.
“Have you ever met them? I mean, I love hockey—like, love it—but the players are a whole other sort of obsession. And the Jacks have so many hot guys. I mean, what I’d give to . . .” Her words trail off as her desperation comes through. Every part of me wants to let her know they’ll use her for the night and never call despite the promise to. But one look at her again and I realize she already knows this and is okay with it.
There’s no use being overprotective when she’s obviously walking in willingly.
“They’re pretty cool guys. Fun to party with, not so much fun to date.”
A raucous cheer goes up in the bar followed by a cold rush of air as the doors open. I don’t turn to look but between the rise in chatter and Lycra girl’s sudden fluffing of her hair, I know the New Jersey LumberJacks have arrived.
I don’t turn to watch them give high fives to their overeager fans hoping for a few seconds with their heroes or the women hoping to get more than that with their short skirts and tight tops. They’ll make their way to the back corner where they can monitor those coming in and out of their space so if fans get a bit overeager, security can cut it off.
The Tank is known for its dark beer, its unfettered access to the hockey players, and its carefree atmosphere.
All those things good and bad, depending on the night.
I keep my attention on SportsCenter and appreciate the quick service of another glass of wine.
“Should I worry that you’re showing up in person?” a deep tenor says beside me as a hand grips my shoulder and squeezes.
“Callum Withers.” My smile is genuine as I take in my client’s grin and the red mark marring his cheekbone from his fistfight in the game tonight. “Someone has to come and scold you for getting in schoolyard fights.”
“Just part of the job, Mom.” His chuckle is infectious and at complete odds with the severity of his features—dark colors and sharp lines.
“Is that so?”
“Yep.” He holds a finger up to the bartender and doesn’t have to even say what he wants, his regular status here when they’re in town ensuring immediate service.
“You enjoy all that time in the penalty box?”
“Dickman’s a dick. It’s even in his name,” he says, referring to the member of the opposing team he traded punches with on the ice earlier. “He had it coming to him for blindsiding Hunter on that play. It was uncalled for and total bullshit slashing him like that.”
“It was definitely dirty,” I say, glancing over his shoulder to where the rest of the team is, looking for the man in question.
“Everything that asshole Dickman does is dirty.” He snorts and takes a sip of his beer. “So, tell me why you’re making house calls when we’re on a road trip. There has to be a reason.”
Yeah. One I don’t want to acknowledge.