Me?
“I’m not getting a good vibe,” Hunter says dryly. “You don’t seem to be jumping at the chance.”
“Jesus.” I blow out a breath. “I’m surprised, Hunter.”
“Yeah, I get it. How about I take you out for lunch tomorrow and we can talk about it?”
My lips twitch. Usually, I’m the one wining and dining prospective clients.
Then my stomach clutches. Lunch with Hunter? God.
I press a hand to my forehead. Both are sweaty.
“Okay,” I say, attempting a casual tone. “We can do that.”
“Great. What’s convenient for you? I’m in New Jersey.”
I swallow. “How about we meet somewhere in Soho?”
“Sure.”
I give him the name of a casual place just off Seventh Avenue. “I don’t think we’ll need a reservation.”
“Is one o’clock okay?” he asks.
“Perfect.”
“Great. Thanks, Kate. I really appreciate it.”
I tilt my head back and make a face. I still don’t know what to say. “Well. See you tomorrow.”
I end the call and stare across the room. Holy shit. What just happened?
I jump out of my chair and walk around the room. My apartment is slightly bigger than a postcard. My office is in the living room. The kitchen is also basically in the living room. I have a small island from IKEA that acts to separate that space and give a bit more storage and counter space, but this one room is definitely multi-purpose. I feel lucky to have an actual bedroom.
I pause at one of the windows that looks down onto the street. Trees outside soften the view of the brick buildings opposite me. Right now, I’m not really seeing them. I’m…flummoxed.
I press my hands to my still-hot cheeks.
Hunter Morrissette.
I turn and shuffle over to my couch. I sink down onto it and lean back.
Get your shit together, girl.
I can’t help remembering that last night in Cancun, the last time I saw Hunter. The time I let my guard down and acknowledged to myself the feelings I had for him. Feelings he didn’t share.
Okay. This is actually great! Hunter’s not a mega star player, but he’s become known over the last year or two as someone dependable, hard working, a character guy to have on your team. This season…okay, I haven’t memorized his stats, but I think he played well. He needs a new contract.
And I need clients.
Perfect.
Suuuuuure. Perfect.
Can I do this without things getting all weird? He would probably be better off with someone else. Why isn’t he with someone else? There are lots of great agents out there. Why did he call me?
Just when I’m questioning my abilities to keep my feelings separate from business, when I think I bend over backwards too much for my clients, this happens. With another rush of adrenaline, I jump to my feet and pace again over the black and cream patterned rug on the floor.
I’m a professional. I can do this.
3
Kate
The first time I saw Hunter Morrissette was across the gym at the DeWitt Center at Bayard College. We were both working out. We were both freshmen. We both played hockey.
I had a hard time taking my eyes off him. To be honest, it’s hard to explain why.
I mean, he wasn’t ugly. He had a lot going for him—tall, ripped, athletic. There was certainly appeal about watching his biceps bulge as he lifted weights or his massive thighs flex when he squatted. But I was surrounded by fit male bodies, so it wasn’t just that.
His eyes, deep-set beneath thick, straight eyebrows, were focused. His mouth was firm, his jaw set. He radiated intensity and determination. He had an air of maturity that other freshmen didn’t have. Later I learned he was nineteen compared to my eighteen, but still, he seemed older even than that.
I found myself watching him from my treadmill. Curious about the fierceness and…okay, yes, attracted to it too.
The second time I met him was when he returned the pink lace panties I’d dropped on my way back to my dorm room from doing laundry. We lived in the same dorm—all the freshmen lived on West Campus.
He held them out to me, his face impassive. “You dropped these.”
I stared, then heat flooded my face as I recognized the underwear. I reached out and plucked them from his fingers, trying to be nonchalant. “Thank you so much!” I added a flirty, “These are my favorite.”
My smile was met with flinty aloofness. “Better be more careful with them, then.” He turned and strode away.
My smile ebbed. Okay, Hunter Morrissette was an asshole.
Our paths crossed time and time again—we were in Economics class together. We played and practiced and worked out at the DeWitt Center. Watching the men’s hockey team games was my Saturday night fun. We ate in the same dining hall and ended up eating at the same table most of the time as friendships formed between men and women athletes.
My best friend, Bryson James-Bolton, was also a hockey player. We’re from Chicago and were ecstatic that we both got into Bayard. We started off eating together, and then girls from my team joined us and guys from his team joined us…including Hunter. We had a big group of jocks always sitting together and we all got to be friends.
Although Hunter was anything but friendly.
I came to see it wasn’t just me. He was aloof and unsmiling with pretty much everyone. One day, someone dropped a tray in the dining hall. The loud clang and crash echoed through the room, startling everyone, heads whipping around. But Hunter jumped right out of his seat. His eyes got a panicked look in them as his hands curled into fists. He looked poised to actually bolt out of the room.
I stared at him and he met my eyes. Slowly, his hands relaxed and his face loosened. He dropped into his chair and shook his head. “Too much caffeine today,” he said dryly. “That scared the shit out of me.”
The others barely noticed it, but I kept watching him, observing the tension in his shoulders and the tightness of his mouth. I didn’t know what to make of it and it made me curious.
Hunter rarely partied with us and didn’t seem to have close friends, and yet more than once he came to our nine A.M. class with dark circles under his eyes and an exhausted droop to his sculpted lips. Yet he never missed class and was always at the gym later that afternoon pumping weights then hitting the ice for warmups and drill work. He was never one of the guys yukking it up or playing pranks, always serious and focused.
For some reason, it irritated me.
Not that I was a big partier, either. Life as a D1 athlete was a full-time job, leaving me little time for much else besides hockey and studying, never mind partying or even dating.
“Hey, Bridges,” Bryson said to me one day at dinner late in late October. “That was an amazing goal the other night against Quinnipiac.”
I beamed. “Thanks.” I got the puck and skated in on their net, one on three, undressed one of their defensemen, and got the puck up and over the right shoulder of their goalie.
“You had a hot stick,” Bryson added.
Sitting next to him, I slid him an affectionate smile. “Or maybe I’m just that good.”
He leaned his shoulder into me. “Or that.”