Page 24 of Hard to Handle

His talent was unmatched.

Grunt.

My one-man show isn’t even good enough for him.

Smack.

My dad’s words . . . they fill my head, fuel the anger, feed the rage, expose the hurt. The goddamn everything.

Thud.

“Since when do we drink when we work?”

Catching me off guard just as I hit the puck, Dekker’s voice rips through my flustered concentration, and the puck goes sailing into the stands.

I hate that I don’t want her here.

I despise that I do want her here.

And when I turn to where the sound of her heels clicking on the concrete of the tunnel leading up to the ice, I hate myself even more for remembering. How good we were in bed, how explosive—almost violent with lust.

Fucking incredible.

She stands with the beer bottle I chucked onto the ice in one hand, her other hand on her hip, and rocking a pinstriped pantsuit that looks part time to party, part don’t fuck with me.

Totally in control when last night she was anything but.

Maysen is behind her as he walks down the tunnel toward the locker rooms. I was so pissed, so focused, I didn’t even realize he’d left.

Lucky for me, now I don’t have to address the bullshit he was hoping to resolve. Unlucky for me, I’m being stared down by a much tougher opponent, and the look of disappointment on her face isn’t one I really care to acknowledge.

I already have a mother.

I already own guilt.

“Should I be worried there are more bottles hidden elsewhere?” she asks and shifts her weight.

“You know us hockey players, Dekk. If there’s a rule, we’re going to break it. You want to strip search me?” I lift my hands above my head. “I might have a stash somewhere on my body you can find.”

“Drinking on a game day? At eight in the morning?” She lifts a lone brow and ignores my comment.

“What? Last night you were all about touching me and today you’re not?” I tsk. “My, how things change.”

Anger fleets through her expression, followed closely by embarrassment, but just as quickly as it’s there, it disappears.

Hmm. Seems what I did last night got to her more than I thought.

“The beer?” she asks, giving a stoic glance from the beer bottle in her hand and then back to me.

“Sometimes you just need to relax.” I shrug. What does it matter? What do I care what she thinks of me?

Why is she here?

“You going to call the LumberJacks management police on me?”

CHAPTER TEN

DEKKER