“Dramatics get you nowhere.” I chuckle to play off his moniker, but hate that it irks me.
Katz sets his empty glass down and looks from me to Hunter and then back. “You know? You guys make a cute couple. You should really do something about that. The two of you together. You and your captaining,” he says, pushing on Hunter’s shoulder then turning toward me, “and you and your bossiness.” His laugh is obnoxious and over the top. “Like sleep together or make a porn or something hot like that . . . but then again, coupling isn’t really Hunter’s strong suit . . . but it could be mine.”
In the morning he’ll feel like an ass for hitting on me. I know this, he’ll know this, but the tightening of Hunter’s fists tell me his temper is flaring regardless. His forgiveness isn’t as readily available as mine. And I’m not sure if I should be flattered or pissed at his overprotectiveness when he has zero claim on me.
“Hey Katz,” I say and rise from my seat, going for shock value to deescalate the tension. “I’d say Hunter is the type to be more into fucking than coupling . . . and uh, how do you know we haven’t already? Those memories of us together. On the kitchen counter. In the nightclub at Mandalay Bay. In the press box before a game.” I groan overdramatically. “Those are what keep me satisfied on those cold, lonely nights.”
“What?” Katz screeches, body jolting, as I put an arm around his shoulder.
“Get real,” I say and push him away playfully, refusing to meet Hunter’s eyes, knowing one glance and Katz will know the truth. “I’d never sleep with a hockey player. They’re all stick and no finesse. A discerning woman likes slow. She likes skill. She likes to know that once the goal is scored he still has more in the tank.”
“Stick. Skill. Finesse,” Katz murmurs.
“Damn straight. Stick. Skill. Finesse.” I stand on my tiptoes and press a kiss to his cheek, my voice lowering as I say, “I’ve yet to find a hockey player who can deliver that.”
“Maybe you’ve dated the wrong hockey players, then,” Katz replies.
“Maybe I should be worried that you’re more concerned with Hunter’s between-the-sheets tendencies instead of his on-the-ice skills.”
“Fuck off,” he says with a wave of his hand but with a grin a mile wide. “I like you, you know that?” He nudges Hunter and shakes his head. “She gives as good as she gets.”
Hunter bristles at the double entendre that Katz probably has no clue he managed.
“That’s no way to talk to a lady, Katz. Remember what I said. Finesse.” I look around the bar and then back to the two men—one drunk and careless, the other tense and on edge. “It was a pleasure, gentleman, but I must be heading out. I expect to see that finesse on the ice next game.”
“And you’re here why?” Hunter asks with just the hint of a smile curling his lips. One that screams arrogance and sexiness and makes me wonder if he’s trying to figure a way to get me back in his bed tonight.
No way.
No how.
This will be a strictly professional trip.
“I’m traveling with the team for the next however long. Call it customer maintenance.” I shrug coyly. “That’s why.”
And without another word, I walk out of the bar with my head held high while holding on to tonight’s small win.
Hunter Maddox came to me.
That’s a start.
CHAPTER SEVEN
DEKKER
I FEEL SO ALIVE AS I walk the streets of Chicago. I stay among the crowds, milling around on my way back to the hotel.
My cheeks are cold but the chill isn’t enough of a sting to ease the hurt from Chad’s rant, which I really haven’t had much time to process. I’ve been in go-mode since I left the office, what feels like days—not just hours—ago.
But his words linger. “For what it’s worth, you’re cold-hearted, Dekker. Lack the sort of passion I want in a woman.” They hurt more than I’d like to admit.
First, him calling me cold-hearted and then Katz calling me the Frigid Queen. What the hell?
I haven’t always been unresponsive. Uninspired. Passionless. But, I did realize that while I wasn’t in love with Chad, I also wasn’t in like with him either.
Maybe the thing with him was more of convenience.
Who knows.
I’m done.
We’re done.
Life moves on.
The doorman to the Thompson Chicago greets me as I step into the lobby of the luxury hotel. The dark brown décor is the perfect mixture of modern and old-world with its reception desk on one side and its elegant bar on the opposite end of the massive space. Classical music plays softly in the background, accompanying the soft hum of chatter from the bar’s occupants.
Glancing that way, I recognize a few players relaxing at the tables off to the right, and wave in greeting when one of them recognizes me.
“You good?” Heffner calls out.
“Yeah, thanks. Just tired. Good night, guys.”
With my coat wrapped tightly around me, I head toward the bank of elevators and push the up button. It dings within seconds and after I enter the car and push my floor, a hand stops the door from closing.
“Hold up.”
When I look up, I’m stayed by the intense eyes the color of the sky. I despise the thrill that shoots through me at the sight of him—at the complication of him—but it doesn’t make the ache it leaves me with any less potent.
Crap.
He doesn’t say anything as he steps beside me, but rather holds my eyes and leans a shoulder against the wall. I refuse to retreat.
The doors finally slide closed.
“You don’t date hockey players?” he asks, repeating my words back to me, as he cocks his head to the side.
“Nope.”
His chuckle is a low rumble that’s equal parts smooth and rough and reminds me of what his hands on my body used to feel like.
“Nope?” He reaches out and tucks an errant lock of hair behind my ear. “I seem to remember you dating a hockey player before.” He lowers his voice so it’s a seductive whisper and takes a step closer to me. “The one whose memory and stick skills keep you satisfied on lonely nights.”
I open my mouth and then close it, knowing there’s absolutely nothing I can say to take back those comments. Even worse, I can’t pretend those words were a lie . . . because they’re not.
“Stick. Skill. Finesse.” His eyes light up with so much more than humor when he stares at me. Desire swims with lust, and the sight of it shouldn’t surprise me, but it unnerves me.
“I was just . . . I was putting Katz in his place.”
“Was it true though? How exactly did my memory keep you satisfied on those lonely nights?” There’s a ghost of a smile on his lips with an intensity in his eyes that demands an answer.
Sexual tension thickens in the elevator as a floor dings, the door opens, but no one gets on.
It doesn’t matter if someone did though because nothing would break his focus on me.
And I feel it all the way to the apex of my thighs.
Memories of him—his skill, his prowess, his finesse—own my mind, and I can’t divorce myself from them and the man standing before me.