Page 80 of Hard to Handle

“Hunter . . . I’m here for work and—”

“I wasn’t aware you were on the clock at two in the morning.”

“It’s not that. It’s just—”

“Just like old times, huh? Great sex. Poor communication. It’s best you leave before the fighting starts.” He takes a step forward and presses a kiss to my forehead. “Good night, Dekker.”

I stare at him as he opens the door. The second course of rejection from him tastes just as bitter as the first time. Maybe even worse.

The hotel clerk in the hallway rocks on his heels as he senses the discomfort between Hunter and me. I give him a half-smile and then turn back to face Hunter. Our eyes hold unspoken words exchanging between us—I’m sorry. Why is it like this? Why can’t we figure out how to do this right?

At least that’s what I think they say, because I second-guess every single one of them as I head to my hotel room.

Maybe this was the best way to end tonight.

Hockey.

Callum knocking on the door. The room service man shortly after.

Party.

Maybe a quick exit where neither of us had to talk about what’s next, and how we move on from here is for the best.

Fucking.

Because I just screwed up by sleeping with Hunter.

No repeat.

And the worst part? I know that I did, but I wish I was still in the hotel room with Hunter right now.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

HUNTER

THE CURL OF STEAM COMES off my coffee as I sit slumped in the chair where I moved it in front of the windows of my hotel room.

The city of Boston waits to wake up as I replay the last twenty-four hours in my mind and anticipate the sun to light up the sky.

Sleep was hopeless.

It is most nights as of late.

I’ve watched film of last night’s game twice. My notes are taken. My critiques of my performance ten times worse than my father’s. Maybe next game I can prove him differently.

Who can sleep when the world is burning down around them? When my brother’s dying, my parents live in an alternate reality, and I’m constantly fucking up one thing after another.

When I simply don’t want to care anymore.

It’s the white noise I’ve grown used to living with. The constant. The things I’ll never be able to change but will always try to.

“Christ,” I mutter and roll my shoulders, my body exhausted but my mind going a million miles an hour.

The lone difference tonight in my thoughts is Dekker. For the first time in as long as I can remember, the shit in my head is quieter. Or maybe not quieter, but not as choking. The anger, the guilt, the unease . . . they took a backseat for a snowball fight, her hand holding mine in the rideshare, and then the incredible sex soon after.

Or maybe it’s the relief in finally admitting to someone an ounce of my truth.

Either way it—us together—was like old times and yet so very different.