Page 50 of Hard to Handle

“You know he doesn’t need taking care of.” Finn laughs. “I’m sure you saw that for yourself.”

“We haven’t seen him yet. He said you had him scheduled all day. Maybe after the game tonight.” There’s sadness in her voice that replaced the excitement from moments earlier.

“Maybe.”

Hunter looks up my way again and raises a hand in greeting.

“Hi, honey,” Carla says loudly as if Hunter can hear her. “Jonah, Hunter says hi.”

“Dekker? Have you met Carla and Jonah Maddox yet?”

I take a few steps to where they’re set up. “No, I haven’t. I’ve heard so much about you though,” I say with a smile and extend my hand, hoping Sanderson just caught the implication that I’m close with Hunter. “Such a pleasure to meet you.”

“Aren’t you a pretty little thing,” Carla says in the warm and most non-condescending way as she shakes my hand.

“Thank you.” I turn to Jonah and suck in a breath. And it’s not because of his pale complexion or the trach tube or anything to do with his disability, but rather the fact that he’s identical to Hunter. Like exact. The hair, the eyes, the nose . . . it’s simply stunning. I force myself not to stare at him for that reason alone and offer a smile. “Nice to meet you, Jonah.”

He doesn’t respond verbally but his eyes meet mine, and I nod in greeting.

“Carla, this is Dekker Kincade. She’s the agent trying to steal your son away from me.”

Carla barks out a laugh while I try to figure Finn’s angle with the comment. “Well, she already has one up on you,” Carla says. “She’s a hell of a lot prettier.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

HUNTER

HE SHOULD BE THE ONE out here.

The thought is on replay in my head with each pass.

Each shove of the opposition.

Every whack of the puck toward the goal.

He should be the one out here.

The anger in my blood hums with a potency stronger than any drug I’ve ever been given. It surges and pushes me to take risks I don’t even register and beats the shit out of me when whatever I try to do on the ice fails.

He’s not doing well, Hunter. Another chest infection. Another blood infection. He’s not able to speak anymore. Dr. Masterson says it’s only a matter of time, really.

My mom’s comment from months ago echoes in my head and causes the split-second fumble of my thoughts and the puck is stripped away from me. Shit.

My head.

It’s way too fucking busy to be on the ice. Way too much shit going on.

How can I be down here doing this when he’s up there like that?

When he damn well knows what ice feels like beneath his skates? When the roar of the crowd was more his drug than it was ever mine? When life ended that night for him and finally began for me?

He should be the one out here.

The thought is the cadence of the fists I throw at Brighton for no reason at all—other than he plays like Jonah used to and it pains me to defend against him and remember—and then later at Vladkin for pushing me from behind like so many others have in my years playing this game.

But tonight is different.

Tonight, I can’t deny the pain that burns within. I’m the reason he’s not in my skates right now.