Page 47 of Hard to Handle

“I danced in the dog and pony show you set up, isn’t that enough? You want me to focus on the game tonight and play my hardest, then isn’t it time I go so I can prepare for it? I did what you said and you’re still crawling up my ass.”

“I asked you this the other day when your GM called me and told me to straighten your shit out and you dodged it, and I’m going to ask you again: what the fuck is going on with you? You answered their questions, but your smile said fuck you. The bad-boy act only flies so far. Are you trying to throw away your career, the stats, and records you’ve almost reached?”

“I played nice. Now I’d like to go study films. The Fishers have a new defense they’ve been toying with and I need to make sure I’ve got it figured out,” I say of the team we’re playing tonight.

He nods as he studies me. “Good to see your head is back in the game.”

“It never left it.”

“You’re the face of this team, Maddox. A lot is riding on you.”

My face is, but it should be Jonah’s heart and body.

“So you’ve said,” I mutter and look out the window of the otherwise empty room.

“Mind answering why you seemed so distracted? Why you keep moving around like you can’t sit still? Jünger was concerned the Oxy you were taking for your knee is—”

“Fuck this.” Fed up with the accusation, I go to walk past him and he reaches out and grabs my arm. I yank it the hell away. “Get the fuck off me, Finn. You think I’m using? Then drug test me. I’m clean. You think I’m drinking? Hell yeah, I overindulge a time or two, but not any more than anyone else on this team. Maybe my problem is you guys putting your nose in my shit when I’ve told you to back the fuck off.”

“My job is to have my nose in your shit and right now, it stinks. Straighten the fuck up.”

“Noted.” I move toward the door.

“I’m riding out the next few games with you, because I fear what you’ll do if I don’t, so I suggest you make sure we don’t have to have a talk like this again.”

When I exit the room without a response and turn the corner, I come face to face with Dekker.

Fucking hell. First him and now her. Both on my ass.

“Whoa! You going somewhere in a hurry?” she asks as we spin around so we’re in opposite positions now, and she puts her arms on my bicep to steady herself.

“Yeah. I’ve got shit to do.” A ton of it, in fact. Having too much to do gives me an excuse why going to my parents’ house isn’t an option until after the game.

That and being busy prevents the ghosts this place conjures every time I come back here from haunting me too much.

“Hunter?” I meet her eyes and it’s for a split second too long, because I can tell the minute she sees them—the ghosts—because her hand tightens on my arm. “Hey?”

“Yeah? What?” I take a step back.

“I’ve texted a few times. You’re not responding.”

Because if you’re the only one who’s noticed I’m burned out, I’m afraid if you look any closer you’ll see the rest of the truths I hide.

“Been busy.” My tone is clipped and my feet shift with impatience.

“I just . . . I wanted to apologize for the other night. I didn’t mean to push you. I—”

“Done and fucking over with.” I offer a tight smile and hate that seeing her makes me feel so damn rattled. Hating her presence and not wanting her to leave. Frustrated, because it feels like a burden has been lifted that someone else knows and unsettling that she does. That she can see me.

She worries her bottom lip between her teeth and shakes her head, her eyes loaded with concern I don’t want to see. “Got it. Done and over with. Discussion never happened. Night never happened. No need to repeat it.”

But it did. The laughter. The Kings hat. The tennis balls. The beer. The comfortable silence. The solidarity.

“Did you need something else?”

“Just know I’m here for you. If there’s anything I can do to help—”

“Do you know what would help? If people stopped fucking telling me that. I’m not a cancer patient. I’m not dying. I’m fine.”