Page 128 of Off Limits: The Firsts

“Fuck the management.”

His comment surprises me. Always a team player and public mouthpiece for the team, I’ve never heard him talk like this.

“Those are some strong words,” I say.

“The iron fist they seem to hold me with is even stronger.”

“Iron fist?” Where is this coming from? “I believe they pay you a healthy sum to put their jersey on every night and play a sport that you love, so unless they’re handcuffing you to a locker afterward and forcing you to not eat or drink for days, I think you’re being ridiculous.”

“Handcuffs, huh?” His eyebrow quirks up, and his constant need to distract from the gist of our conversation tells me I’m hitting too close to home.

“What’s going on?” I ask again.

“We’ll just say we’re not seeing eye to eye at the moment,” he mutters and then slaps a shot off and hisses when he misses.

“No one likes a player who’s hard to handle and honestly, Hunter, you’re becoming hard to handle.”

“No one likes unsolicited advice from someone who has no bearing on his career, either,” he counters, the rebuke stinging but deserved.

The problem is, I do care about him. Doesn’t he get that’s where my hostility stems from?

And only a crazy person would say that, Dekker.

I put my hands up in surrender to both him and my own thoughts. “You know I only want the best for you.” I take a few steps in his direction in the first row of the stands. I’m close enough to catch the hitch of his movement and to see uncertainty flicker in his eyes. It’s almost as if he needs to talk but doesn’t see me as someone he can trust. I hate that. “What is it, Hunter?”

“Nothing. It’s . . . never mind.”

But I see it, and he knows I see it. The question is what do I see, though?

“Twelve years in the league. You’re thirty-two, in the top twenty of all-time best scorers and you still have years left to play. Made it there faster than anybody else.”

“You make a habit of studying people’s stats who aren’t your clients?” he asks.

“It’s my job to know who the best of the best is.” I only speak the truth but hate that it probably comes off like I’m kissing his ass.

“What’s your point, then?” he asks, but his tone is different, quieter, more reserved.

“No point. I just know you’ve been running full steam since you entered this league. Straight off NCAA championships, where you still hold some records, right into the NHL.”

“Every kid’s dream, right? So many would kill to be in my shoes. Save it. I’ve heard it all. I’ve thought it all, and I leave everything out on the ice every damn time I play.”

I nod slowly, letting him know I hear him, but I don’t buy what he’s saying. I’m missing something. “But you’re angry.”

“And your point?” he snaps.

“It’s affecting your game. Your life.”

“You don’t know the half of it,” he mutters as he skates past me.

“I know a change of scenery is sometimes needed. I know that stars can sometimes burn out. From what I’ve seen—”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says, his skates cutting into the ice as he stops right in front of me, the plexiglass the only thing separating us.

“I make a living knowing what I’m doing. Just like you do.” I shrug, trying to act as unaffected as possible by his nearness. Trying to pretend my pulse isn’t racing as my body remembers his kiss last night. Trying to hide the flush on my cheeks over how I overstepped.

“I’m sorry about last night,” I say quietly. “I overstepped. I . . . your point was made. Again. I apologize.”

Our eyes hold, question, dismiss, and right when I think the conversation is over, his lips turn up in the slightest of smirks. “Same hotel as the team?”