Page 23 of Hard to Handle

His words cause me to pause. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“We just thought—”

“We?” I bark the word out. “So that’s what this is? The team designated you to come play the shrink with me?”

“Not like you couldn’t use one,” he mutters under his breath.

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” Now he has my full attention.

“It’s . . . we’re concerned.”

“About yourselves? About the team? About me? What exactly are you concerned about?” I demand, the stick in my hand and the pucks lined up waiting to be shot now forgotten.

“You’re playing dangerously. Over the past two years, you’ve become the man we look to for leadership—to lead us—and now in the past four months, you’re like a one-man show out there. While that’s great for your stats and the scoreboard, it fucking sucks for team morale. You’re not better than us”—he pauses and emits a laugh of contrition—“well, maybe a little . . .” He chuckles. “We’re on your side, Cap, and when you’re on the ice, your play suggests you don’t know we’re even there. Sure, we’re winning, but at what cost? So again, what’s your fucking deal?”

His words are like a slap to my face. A slap I’ve anticipated but that doesn’t lessen its sting. “Good to know my team thinks so highly of me.”

“No one thinks more highly of you than you do yourself.”

My hands tighten on the beer bottle. “Where the fuck do you get off . . .” My words fade as I check myself before I say something I’d probably regret. Hell, I’m the leader of this team. I shouldn’t be the one being put in his place.

But can you fucking blame them, Maddox?

“We all have a stake in this. That’s where we get off talking to you.” He blows out a breath in frustration. “You’re the big shot the Jacks took on to build this franchise to its full potential. And it’s fucking working. We’re tearing up the league and closing in on a playoff berth for the first time in this club’s history.”

“And the problem with that?”

“What the fuck is your endgame? You were here for the long haul. The franchise player, but now . . . now it seems you want the fuck out. You went from being our captain who pulls us together, who’s led us to this point, to acting like you’re a one-man show.”

“Bullshit.”

“That’s exactly right. It is bullshit, but on your part. Hell, if you put as much effort into the game as you do your anger, we’d already have a fucking playoff berth clinched.”

“Or maybe you should do it without me.” I throw the baseless threat into the air between us but have never felt as strongly about the statement as I do right now. A man can only keep going for so long.

“That’s how you’re going to be, Hunter?” He shakes his head and I feel his disappointment—and fucking hate it. “Come on. We’re just concerned for your well-being.”

We hold each other’s stares for a few seconds as I try to process why I’m so pissed off by this. As I try to figure out why I should expect them to have my back when I’ve been a selfish prick for the past however long.

The hardest part about processing it all though is knowing how I should feel and still giving a shit less.

“Tell me something, Maysen . . . if I’m playing like a one-man show, being selfish but we’re still winning. . . which one do you want me to be?

“Because I assure you, if I started passing the puck more and shooting less, I’d have one of you on my ass asking me what the hell was going on in the opposite way.”

“Oh, so none of us have earned our own spots on the team, Maddox? That what you’re saying?” And when I don’t answer, I hear him mutter, “Asshole.”

Yep. That’s me. Grade-A asshole.

I throw the empty bottle across the ice in frustration and turn back to my row of pucks without saying another word.

My head is filled with so much shit I can’t see straight, think straight . . . anything. It’s so fucked.

You’re the one who fucked up, Hunter. You owe it to him to fulfill his dream. You owe him.

I’ll never stop owing him.

Grunt. Smack. Thud.