Page 123 of Hard to Handle

He shakes his head, but I know he’s going to tell me. “You know how you get used to something and it becomes a habit?”

“Yeah,” I say, but I don’t know how that can play into anything that’s healthy for him.

“It’s kind of become that thing I do. After I play a game, I walk in the locker room and look at my texts before I do anything else.”

“But the comments are brutal. I mean, you played one hell of a game the other night and that’s what he said to you?” My voice is rising as I realize so much of the turmoil inside him, of his long-term mental health, has to be affected by this. “My blood is boiling just thinking of it.”

“But he’s watching.” And there’s something in the way he says it that stops the next comment on my tongue. It’s sadness mixed with resolve, but it’s something so much more. “It’s sick and it’s twisted and it makes no sense to anyone but me, but those texts at least tell me he’s following me. It’s not much.” He stops when his voice breaks and another piece of me dies inside. “But it tells me he’s still watching.”

A scrap.

That’s all Hunter wants from his dad. A scrap of love, of praise, of attention . . . anything from a father still hung up on a life that can no longer be lived the same.

I hate seeing him like this. I hate seeing him accept so much less than he deserves.

I tighten my ponytail and try to follow Hunter’s logic, but God knows it’s not normal. “He’s watching but he’s tearing you down. He’s watching because he’s trying to see if you measure up to your brother who hasn’t played in fifteen-plus years.” I get up from the bed and move from one side of the room and back, unable to shake the anger that’s eating at me. “This is bullshit. You need to tell him that. But you don’t need to because he can see it on his precious TV when he watches his son, the goddamn hockey star, score goal after goal.”

But somewhere during my rant, the distress in his expression morphs to a soft smile. He’s standing there with his shoulder against the wall of his armoire with amusement in his eyes, and it stops me in my tracks.

“What?” I ask.

“You’re more mad at him than I am.”

“Mad is an understatement. Mad is me wanting to pick up your phone, call him, and tell him he can take his texts and shove them squarely up his ass. Fury is—”

“Dekker.” That smile. Those eyes.

“What?” I ask again.

“I love that you’re so worked up about this on my behalf, but it’s not going to change.”

“Why not? Why can’t he see you for you? Why can’t he see the hours you put in studying film and the shot practice and the charity work and the way you love your brother and . . . Christ, Hunter, there are a million things that are incredible about you and a million more that I love about you . . .” My voice fades as my confession floats into the room before I have the courage to meet his eyes. This time when I speak, my voice is barely audible. A soft phrase spoken aloud, but it’s been screaming in my head for weeks. “And even more reasons why I’ve fallen in love with you.”

The tears that well in his eyes are blinked away but not before I see them. “That’s not possible.”

Months ago, he wouldn’t have believed them, but not now. Not after we’ve spent hours talking about his past and his guilt and how he deserves the whole goddamn world.

“Yeah, it is,” I say and take a step toward him. “It’s more than possible because there are so many incredible things about you that it makes it hard not to fall in love with you.”

“Dekker.” He shakes his head back and forth, but there’s a ghost of a smile on his lips that tells me he hears me. It tells me it’ll take more time for him to believe it.

I frame the sides of his face with my hands and smile. “You don’t have to say anything. Just hear me. Just know it. And while I’m sure your heart is pounding and your head is asking how this is even possible, know that mine does that every damn day I lay eyes on you. Without fail. And it feels pretty damn good.”

CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN

DEKKER

THERE’S A PALPABLE EXCITEMENT WITHIN the arena when I step into it. With home-ice advantage, it’s black and red everywhere you look—faces are painted and hair is sprayed to match. Instead of going straight to the manager’s box, I take my time walking through the arena to soak it all in.

I think of last night with Hunter. My confession that I don’t want to take back. Of how we spent the night making love before falling asleep in each other’s arms. How a man who swears he doesn’t deserve love sure knows how to give it.

I think of this morning—when he found out that Jonah had come down with another chest infection and wasn’t cleared to make the flight here. The fact that it was Hunter’s medical staff that made the decision and not his mother added validity to the outcome, but I know it still distressed him. But the calm I saw in his expression outweighed his disappointment. It’s what I saw years ago in him, an inner strength not many have. But the difference was his lack of anger. In the past few months, his temper would have ignited. Yet he accepted the news about Jonah calmly, and my heart only grew deeper in love with him because of it.

I think of how he sat in his office for over an hour on the phone with Jonah. The conversation may have been one-sided as Hunter worked through the Cyclone’s defense and offense and strengths and weaknesses, but you’d never know it. It’s like they had their own way of communicating. You’d think he could actually hear his brother. Even more touching was when Hunter told Jonah to look closely on the coin toss when the cameras pan in and notice how he had written Jonah sideways in the one of his number thirteen so he could be playing with him.

And when Hunter walked out of his office and then house to join his team at the arena, I’ve never seen him more at peace.

CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT