Page 62 of Hard to Handle

Taking a sip of my martini, I close my eyes, and lean my head back to listen and unwind, but as per usual, my head never quiets. Everything I need to do sifts through my mind. Contracts and negotiations and endorsement deals. I understand my father’s reasoning in sending me here to recruit Hunter, but in the meantime, I feel like I’m neglecting my other clients who need my attention.

Sure, I can work most crises remotely, but not being in my office makes it difficult. Living in a hotel room that changes every other night makes it even harder.

I tune into the conversation in front of me. Comments about the game tonight, including a few snide remarks about one of my clients on the opposing team, make me smile.

“It’s true, isn’t it, Dekker? The fucker must eat lemons the way he’s so damn sour,” Finch says.

I belt out a laugh. “Client info is confidential, but uh, he’s got some killer lemon trees at his house,” I say with a wink.

He throws his head back and laughs while Maysen stands suddenly, the expression on his face causing us all to turn and see what has his attention.

Hunter stumbles near the entrance of the other side of the club. His shoulder falls into a guy and much like Maysen, we can see the fight coming a mile away.

Unlike Maysen, though, I overheard the conversation tonight between the LumberJacks GM and Sanderson.

The last thing Hunter needs to be doing is getting into a fight.

But before I can react, Maysen leaps over the back of the couch on legs that don’t look like he just played sixty minutes of high-intensity and brutally physical hockey, and jogs over to his teammate.

Between the distance and the music, I can’t hear what’s being said, but body language—Maysen’s hands are up and his smile is broad as he talks to the guy Hunter is staring down. A few tense seconds unfold where I’m sure Maysen offers to buy a round of drinks or something to that effect, before he wraps his arm around Hunter’s waist, and starts veering him our way. Situation handled.

Thank God.

But what the actual fuck?

What the hell is Hunter thinking?

Disgusted with his immaturity, I turn back to the company in front of me, down the rest of my delicious and much-needed martini, and choose to ignore whatever the hell is going on with him, because I’m off the clock.

At least that’s what I tell myself.

I should be prepared for Hunter’s flop on the seat beside me a few seconds later, but I still emit a startled yelp when he does.

“It’s Dekker the pecker wrecker,” he says with a huge grin that would be charming if he weren’t drunk or his words weren’t shitty. His cheek is red where a punch was landed in the game tonight, and his hair is falling in his face. I can’t deny that small tug that hits me at the sight of him.

And I hate everything about that admission.

I have just enough of a buzz going that I’m primed to pick a fight with him. Despite his behavior, how he’s shutting me out, the way he’s turned me on, the fact that I haven’t told him why I’m here, and the career he’s trying to throw away with his bullshit antics.

Reason would tell me I shouldn’t engage. The last drink I had encourages me that I should.

“Oh, look. It’s out-of-control Hunter who’s going to get his ass kicked off his team if he keeps his bullshit up,” I add with an equally charming smile as I meet his eyes.

“Bullshit?” he scoffs. “Nah, it’s just me getting warmed up.”

“I’m sure your teammates are thrilled to hear that.”

I don’t back down from his glare, so the silence settles between us as we stare at each other.

“Where’ve you been, man?” Callum asks, trying to ease the tension, as he leans back in his chair.

“Just taking care of some business,” Hunter says and dismisses him.

“Old friends?” Finch asks.

“Something like that.” He stands abruptly. “Can’t an asshole get a drink in this place?”

I push myself up. “I’ll get it,” I say, knowing if I get it for him, I can ask the bartender to make it light. Hunter’s so drunk he probably won’t notice. “What’ll you have?” I ask when I already know the answer.