Page 42 of Hard to Handle

“What do you mean?”

“That’s why Ian and the Jacks gave me such a huge contract,” he says, referring to the LumberJacks general manager. “It’s on my shoulders to deliver the Cup in return.”

I laugh at the ludicrousness of that. “Any agent worth their salt wouldn’t agree to those terms.” I shake my head and place another mental tic next to why Sanderson is an asshole. Commission, first. Client’s well-being, second. “What happens if you don’t deliver?” I ask, and the only response I get is the twitch of that muscle in his jaw. Curiosity owns me, and while I understand that companies acquire benchmark players to build on, no one can guarantee a Stanley Cup.

“It doesn’t have to be written in the contract to know what’s expected of me,” he says answering my unspoken question.

“Winning is expected of every player.” I laugh, but it falls when I see the gravity in his expression. “That’s why you play the game, right? That’s why every player is out there on the ice. No one forms a team hoping they’ll be mediocre.”

“The teams without the big purse strings do.”

“You’re missing my point, Hunter.” I shake my head and lean back and stare at him. Now, he looks like the weight of the world is on his shoulders, and I wish I could take it all away. “Do you know how many exceptional players never won the Cup? I can list a ton of them.”

“So can I, and my name would be one of them.”

“Your career has been phenomenal. Even if you never win the Cup—”

“Don’t bullshit me, Dekker. You can be the greatest there ever was, but if you don’t ever win, it doesn’t mean shit. The greats win the Cup. More than once. So that was our deal. He paid me a ridiculous amount of money, and expects me to build the team around me that will help win the Cup for the first time in franchise history.”

“You’re staring down your first playoff berth. I’d say the team you built around you is working just fine.” But at what cost, I wonder. “What is there, fifteen games left in the season?”

“Yes.”

“That’s a hell of a lot of pressure,” I murmur more to myself than to him.

“You have no fucking idea.” He sighs. “And we’re almost there. We’re so close I can all but taste it . . . but, fuck if I know if we can do it.”

“What do you mean?” I ask, reaching out and putting my hand on his to stop him from pulling away.

“Never mind. It’s nothing.” His smile is tight as he downs the rest of the beer. “It’s late. We should get going. It’s a long drive back.”

I sigh as he scoots his stool out and goes to close out his tab, because I feel like we were making genuine headway. The positive in this? My hunch was right. Hunter Maddox has reached his emotional limit, and he doesn’t know how to admit it to himself.

Instead, he’s angry. He acts out. He burns the candle at both ends. For a man who prefers to fade into the background, he’s the face of a team who I think is going to take center stage in the coming weeks.

How is he going to handle it? Because if his reaction to the pressure he’s under now is any indication, it’s not going to be good.

Will helping him realize he’s burned out help the situation or hurt it?

CHAPTER TWENTY

DEKKER

“JUST SAY IT.”

The fight he’s angling for, the one I can sense in his tone of voice and how he’s pulled into himself and thoughts since we parked, I don’t really have the energy to give.

“Say what?” I ask as I glance over to Hunter as we walk through the parking lot toward the hotel entrance. It’s been a long drive, it’s late, and I’m beat.

“Whatever the fuck it is that has been on your mind since we left the bar.”

“Who said I had anything to say?”

“You’ve always been shit at hiding your emotions. You think you’re so good at it—a hard-ass—but they’re on your sleeve when it comes to me.”

“You’re such a liar.”

“Huh. Then I guess the last time I saw you before, when you walked out of the hotel, I misread you and had you pegged all wrong.”