Page 127 of Hard to Handle

Dekker: I love you too.

I stare at the text. At the three words and the weight they hold when I never thought I deserved them, and know I truly do mean them. Fuck, how can I not when it comes to a woman like Dekker?

She’s everything I need and nothing I deserve.

She’s strong, passionate, driven . . . and I love that she doesn’t take shit from anybody, least of all me.

She’s seen me at my worst and still loves me.

She champions my dreams when I doubt them, and she fights for me when I’ve stopped wanting to fight for myself.

How did I get to be such a lucky bastard?

CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE

HUNTER

“GOOD MEETING YOU, MAN,” KATZ says to Jonah before heading out of the meet and greet room where we’ve been hanging out in the underbelly of the arena.

“See you in a few,” I say.

“My, he’s handsome,” my mother says with a smile and a fluff of her hair.

“I like to think more of his hockey skills than his looks, but that’s just me,” I tease, the strain a little less with each minute we visit. “You too, right, J?”

My brother looks so very weak—the pallor of his skin, the hollow lines of his face, his size—but it’s his eyes when he looks at me that get me. He’s proud. So very proud of me, and I refuse to let him down tonight.

I lean over to his ear and whisper what feels like I’ve waited a lifetime to say to him. “Tonight’s the night, Jonah. We’re going to win that Cup we promised each other when we were kids. You pushed me to be better and fuck . . . I’d give anything for it to be you out there, for me to be rooting for you. I would.” I close my eyes to fight the tears so I can finish what I need to say. “I promised you I’d get here someday and that when I did, we’d do this together . . . so this game is for you, brother. Every shot, every juke, every block. I needed you here to win, because I couldn’t do this without you.”

I rest my forehead against his as my shoulders shudder with the weight of my words and the chance at my fingertips. When I lean back to meet his eyes, there are tears on his cheeks. He understands. He hears me. He forgives me.

He’s with me.

“I’ve gotta get to the locker room.” I turn to my mom and freeze when I see my dad standing in the doorway. “Dad.” I sound like a child when I say his name.

You came to a game. To my game.

You’re here.

“Son.” He nods and takes a step forward. He extends a hand to me to shake and I do so, feeling detached and uncertain.

“Sir.” I stumble over words. “Thank you for coming.”

Another somber nod. “Good luck tonight.”

Our eyes hold, and fuck if my chest doesn’t tighten. “I’ve got to go.”

And when I walk out of the room, I stop and brace my hands on my knees for a few moments to catch my breath.

The man I’ve called Dad for thirty-two years used to tower over me. Add in his anger, his shame, his . . . loathing, I’ve always felt so small.

But not now.

Now, I feel tall, like I tower over him.

Now, I feel proud, because I earned everything about this fucking moment. I’m the one who put the blood, the sweat, and the tears in. I’m the one who has sacrificed parts of my life for this chance.

Yeah, him showing up means something to me, but tonight I’m playing for something bigger than him and his relentless criticism. His presence doesn’t erase anything . . .