There’s relief and an odd constricting of my chest. Almost as if I don’t know how to process my post-game cool down without the anger generated by them.
As if not having that negativity I’ve been a slave to for so very long feels like I’ve lost a part of me. As if it’s no longer worth comparing me to Jonah . . . leaving him to him and me to me. Untethered.
I sit on the bench with the guys moving around me and simply stare at my phone.
This has nothing to do with Jonah, Mad, and everything to do with you. This is you realizing you can love your brother but not be beholden to our parents over life’s fate.
Over fate’s blind arrow shot in the night to ruin one person’s life and change another’s.
“Dekker? Hi.” My ears perk up the minute Callum answers his phone, and fuck if I don’t check my texts again to see if I missed one from her.
Nothing.
Almost as if she said what she said to me—confessed two things that could change my life in numerous ways like me sending that text to my dad did—but I’m afraid to face it.
Let her represent me instead of Finn. He’s dogged and well-known, same as Dekker, and yet, I feel like she has more than just her bottom line in mind from how I’ve seen her manage Callum. I’ve seen her patience with him, Guzman, and Stetson, and I’ve talked to other players who she’s secured endorsement deals for. All professional, no bullshit, all results.
And when it comes to me. Maybe . . . maybe there’s even more than a bottom line and deals.
Maybe she could love me.
Fuck if that’s not a hard thing to think out loud. Fuck if that’s not the thought that has had me tied up in knots for days.
What am I going to do about it?
Live in the past . . . or realize I can’t change the past and can only move forward?
Shit.
She followed us around the damn place and now that we’re right in her backyard and our home turf, she couldn’t bother to show up? A damn subway ride away from Manhattan to Jersey, and she couldn’t make it?
If she wanted me that badly, wouldn’t she have shown up? Tried to win me over?
So, you tell me, Hunter, what am I supposed to do?
Dekker’s words replay in my mind. The confused desperation in her voice, the pleading in her eyes, the defeat in her posture . . . fuck. It killed me.
Why am I thinking about this now?
Why am I sitting in a locker room with my teammates and not celebrating being one game closer to clinching a playoff berth?
“Yes, it looks that way, doesn’t it?” Callum says as he walks past me, his finger pressed to one ear, his cell to the other. Because of her. “But don’t say the word. Don’t fucking jinx it.” His laughter rings out.
The playoffs.
She called him to talk about the playoffs.
Sanderson doesn’t call me to talk about my games.
Shit, he doesn’t call me unless it’s to make me get in line. Unless it’s negative and unsupportive, much like my old man’s.
Fucking hell.
I lean my head back on the locker behind me.
Deal with her after the playoffs.
Deal with my representation and all the shit in my head and my questions after the playoffs.
Accomplish the one thing you need to—that you promised Jonah—and then maybe you can carve out more of a life for yourself.
“Hey!” I pound my fist against the metal locker behind me and the sound echoes across the chatter in the locker room. All the guys turn toward me as I climb on top of the bench.
Their hoots and hollers fill the room and mask my own groan as my knee aches from bearing weight on it.
“Speech. Speech. Speech,” the guys begin chanting.
I motion with my hands to quiet down as I look at my teammates looking up at me. I looked at this team not very long ago and saw limitations and incompetence. Just like my dad sees in me. But when did I last congratulate them for a job well done? When did I last praise them for kicking ass? When did I last lead them off the ice like I do on the ice? The pressure to do right by them isn’t as great as my own drive to do this for Jonah, but it’s still there. In their smiles. In the excitement mixed with anticipation in their eyes.
“Way to kick ass and take names, guys. One more win and one more game down.” I let them cheer, some fists going in the air. “I just wanted to give a shout out to the defense tonight. Killer job, guys. To the fresh legs off the bench, we needed you more than you know. To the guys up top—shit, you made it easy to do our jobs tonight. In short, keep it up.”
“Great job, Cap,” Katzen yells out from the back of the room, and I nod in response, because this isn’t about me.
This is about them. It needs to be about them.
“One more thing,” I say and hold my finger up to quiet them down. “I know I’ve been shit to deal with, play with—unpredictable as fuck. I’m sorry for that, but I promise you, my head’s back in the game. My priorities are straight. And fuck if they’re not fixed on winning the Holy Grail.”
The small room explodes with noise and a palpable excitement as I climb down from the bench to finish getting my gear off.
“Glad to see you back, Cap,” Jünger says just above the fray, then pats me on the back as he walks past me.
And each one of my teammates follow his footsteps.
A punch to my shoulder. A push to my chest. A bump of fists.
Each one stops and tells me in their own way that they’re in it with me.
That they’re ready to win it all.
And fuck, so am I.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
HUNTER
16 years earlier
I JOLT WHEN TERRY STANDS at the front door of the house, her dark-blue fancy dress with sparkles and her hair up in some flashy way that makes her look as old as you should be to do the things she did to me earlier.
Swallowing over the sudden panic mixed with immediate lust that hits me, I walk toward the screen and thank God I took a shower and changed.
At least she’ll know I’m Hunter.
At least she won’t realize I tricked her earlier.
On my best day ever.
Terry. Losing my virginity. The euphoric bliss over it feeling so much better than jerking off. Soap and warm water have nothing on what a girl feels like.
On my worst day ever.
How I’ve been beating myself up the past few hours over it. I know Jonah’s going to find out what I did somehow—how I betrayed him—and shit’s going to hit the fan.
I already know my parents are going to rail. Jonah’s going to throw punches. I’m going to be dead. Absolutely fucking dead.
I’m guilty as hell. I feel like shit, but I also wonder why out of the two of us who are identical, why he’s the one who gets everything while I’m left to pick up the scraps?
“What are you doing here?” I ask as I lean my hip against the jamb and stare at her. “I thought you were with Jonah at the dance.”
She shrugs. “We were all supposed to go as a group. Gannon called though and said Jonah had to leave to do something. Pick someone up or something.” She looks over my shoulder. “He’s not here?”
“No one is,” I say, ignoring the pang of guilt over making him get our mom.
“I’m all dressed up and nowhere to go.” She smiles and fiddles with the hem of her skirt with one hand showing me more of her thigh.