Page 187 of Off Limits: The Firsts

He watched me walk away thinking I was using him?

I’ve really screwed up almost every aspect of this.

“You have this pegged all wrong. Me all wrong.”

“Morning,” Katzen says as he strolls into the coffee shop and then stops and looks from Hunter to me and then back. “We still working on that coupling thing?” he asks obliviously. “Because if you are, I think there should be a lot more lovin’ and a little less fighting.” He holds his hand up in mock surrender and laughs when Hunter glares at him. “Just saying.”

“Whatever,” I say with a roll of my eyes and a forced smile.

“I’ve got a phone call with Sanderson,” Hunter says and holds his phone up as if that’s his answer to why he keeps walking and doesn’t engage.

Or maybe to throw it in my face who his agent is.

“Who pissed in his Wheaties this morning?” Katz asks with an over-exaggerated flip of the bird to his teammate.

“No idea,” I murmur.

Me.

I did.

I’m the one who pissed him off and screwed this up.

“Well, shit,” Katz says, sliding into the seat in front of me. “If he’s not going to sit with a pretty lady, then I definitely will. I’m around way too many jockstraps these days and not enough G-strings.”

I throw my head back and laugh. “If you’re looking for G-strings, you’re sitting at the wrong damn table,” I say but then shift in my seat, considering the black lace one I put on this morning.

Dekker

They’re being little brats, but their comments on the scouting memo give me a much-needed laugh.

And then I hit send, leaving the status for Hunter Maddox blank. Serves those nosy little punks right.

Dekker

I sit in the press booth in whatever damn city we’re in and answer my messages. One after another. Email and phone call after email and phone call.

But I work through them as the Jacks practice on the ice below and work on a new defensive play that just might work in the coming weeks.

It would be smarter to work in my hotel room, but I’m distracted. Not by work that desperately needs my attention but rather the man on the ice who has consumed my thoughts since he left the coffee shop the other day.

Who am I kidding? He’s consumed it much longer than that, but I’m not counting that part.

Maybe it’s because we’ve never had a chance to be alone since then, my texts have gone unanswered, and my phone calls sent to voicemail. I’ve even thought about sliding a note under his door, but just my luck, a teammate would find it and more shit would hit the fan.

We really need to talk about why I left, about why I’m here, and about what his perception of it is.

This could all be solved with decent communication—in fact, if it were one of my friends, that’s the first bit of advice I’d impart—but it’s not as easy as that.

The minute I tell him why I’m here—whatever’s happening or has happened between us can be no more. Then he becomes a client. Then I must put professionalism before him.

And the struggle between pleasing my father and owning what I want makes the path not so clear-cut.

“You sure are spending a lot of time with the team.”

I startle and look back to see Ian McAvoy standing with his arms crossed and shoulder leaned against the doorframe.

“The same can be said for yourself,” I reply with a smile, hoping he’ll smile at my joke. He doesn’t. “Most GMs aren’t fond of road trips.”