Page 142 of Off Limits: The Firsts

“So, what? You dress the part at their games?”

I shrug and offer a coy smile. “Sometimes.”

“You’ve been on the road with us this whole stretch. I’ve yet to see you wear a LumberJacks hat.”

“I’ll only wear one once they’ve won the cup.”

“Ohhhhhhhh,” he says and then bursts out laughing. “Fucking brutal.”

But his laughter as we head toward the arena is all I focus on.

It’s all I hear.

It’s all I want.

Dekker

“You sure you don’t want one?” Hunter asks as he slides a pint of beer onto the table. The tavern is dim with Dartmouth paraphernalia lining its walls and teeming with college students excited after tonight’s win.

We found a seat in the back corner where we can blend into its dark edges and hopefully have a drink incognito. I’m surprised we’ve skated by this far, pun intended, without anyone recognizing him.

“You drink. I’m the designated driver tonight.” I take a sip of my Diet Coke and laugh.

“What?” he asks

“I’m just thinking of how confused that poor lady was until we convinced her you’re Hunter Maddox’s twin.”

His smile is tinged with sadness and I hate that I put it there. Maybe I was too caught up in the moment during the game to see it then, but I definitely see it now. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—how is your brother?” I ask, feeling like a heel. There’s not much I know about Jonah Maddox other than Hunter thinks the world of his twin, and that he became a quadriplegic after a car accident in their teens.

His brother is a topic Hunter rarely speaks about. In interviews and relaxed conversations, he keeps anything about Jonah close to his vest. I’d probably be the same if it was one of my sisters, let alone a twin.

“He’s fine.” He takes a sip and looks around at the patrons having a good time. “You were quick on your feet with that lady, Kincade,” he says. “Thanks.”

“You have to be in this job.”

A cheer goes up in the bar as some of the Dartmouth hockey team walks in and Hunter’s face lights up at the sound of it. He watches the Dartmouth forward I was scouting walk in and shakes his head ever so subtly.

“Give that kid a couple of years and he’ll be getting the same reception when he walks into The Tank after a game.”

“You think?” I ask, even though I already know the answer—the kid’s that good. But more than anything, I’m happy Hunter’s engaging with me on this.

“Yeah. The kid has it. Skill and that star quality that has you on the edge of your seat waiting to see what he’s going to wow you with next.”

“Kind of like another forward I know,” I murmur with a lift of my brows. I catch the hitch in his movement as he brings the beer to his lips. But he lets the comment go. He doesn’t push or prod or live for the praise that many athletes I’ve repped need to continually boost their egos.

Hunter’s different. He’d rather fade into the background than be the center of attention. I’ve always been curious why a man so brash in personality and bold in his play, hides from the limelight. As if he’s not worthy of such praise. Ridiculous.

“Your dad doing good?” he asks. “Your sisters still a pain in your ass?”

I nod, surprised he’s asking. Small talk was never our thing and this feels surprisingly normal, but maybe we’re stepping into new territory. “They’re always pains in my ass but isn’t that how it goes?” I laugh and think of Lennox and our conversation the other night about the man in front of me, and I have a sudden pang of homesickness. Sure, we fight and annoy each other, but there’s a comfort in knowing they’re there. In knowing we might tell each other we hate each other one moment, but the next, they’d have my back if I needed them to. “We’re all just super busy, always all over the place to tell you the truth.”

He chuckles. “Is that your polite way of saying you guys still don’t get along?”

I run my fingers up and down the condensation on my glass and let the water pool around the coaster. “It’s not that we don’t get along.” I sigh and try to put it into words so that someone on the outside of our family dynamic might get it. “I mean, we all care about each other but there’s a lot of resentment there. I—it wasn’t my choice to be the mom when my mom died. I was the oldest, so with my dad off all the time with clients, trying to provide for us . . . sure, we had a nanny, but the discipline and rules and shit fell on me for some reason.”

“That had to have been hard losing her when you were young.”

I avert my gaze from his and look at the bubbles moving up the side of my Diet Coke. What no one truly understood was that I was never allowed to grieve. To have her be there healthy one day and the next be gone when the aneurism hit without warning. I remember feeling so damn lost and alone. I had responsibilities and emotions way beyond most teenagers, but no one knew I cried myself to sleep every single night. No one saw me turn over the pillow because the case was soaked from the tears I shed.