Page 91 of Hard to Handle

He doesn’t have to say who she is, and I’ll save him the bullshit of pretending I don’t know who he’s talking about. I have more respect for him than that.

“Not sure. I don’t keep tabs on her.” But I was looking. I was wondering.

“Huh.”

“You got something to say, Withers?” I ask.

“Nothing you’re going to listen to,” he says. “Shit. We finally get to go home tonight. My bed is calling me.”

“I’m listening,” I say, ignoring his color commentary.

He pauses, stuffing his gear into his bag and stares at me. “She’s obviously under your skin.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“It means, I’ve never seen you give a fuck about anything other than hockey and your family . . . but you give a fuck about her.”

I blink and try to hear him—really hear him—and then like always, play it off. “I think that punch you took to the head tonight was harder than we all thought.” I chuckle to sell the lie.

“You’re indifferent with women. They’re a dime a dozen to you because they’re everywhere you go—”

“Whatever.”

“But Dekker challenges you.” He hefts the bag over his shoulder and walks a few feet toward me.

“Your point?” I ask.

“It’s a good thing she does.” He reaches a hand to my shoulder and squeezes. “She’s a good person, Mad. She deserves to be treated right. Whatever happens, just remember that.”

And without another word, Callum walks out of the locker room to our transport waiting to take us home for the first time in what feels like forever.

But I sit in the empty locker room. There are a few guys still in the trainer’s room getting worked on and their laughter filters out to me, but other than that I’m alone.

So goddamn alone.

The worst part? The only time I haven’t felt lonely is when she’s around. Fucking Dekker.

Closing my eyes, I think about what Callum said. About Dekker and what she deserves and wonder what I’ve never allowed myself to wonder. About me and what I don’t deserve, but hell if the moments spent with her haven’t made me want. An us. About the opportunities I’ve passed up, the dreams, the happiness I told myself weren’t merited.

Christ.

So fucking alone.

But this time when I stand to head to the bus, I don’t delete the text like I normally do.

This time, I hit send. Finally.

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

DEKKER

“IT’S MIDNIGHT. WHY ARE YOU here?”

I laugh as Brexton props her shoulder against the doorway of my office and debate how much I should tell her. “I guess the same could be said for you,” I respond.

“I forgot a contract I need for the morning. Less traffic to get it now than to fight rush hour, and you know how I love my sleep.”

I smile softly and wonder why brusque Brexton is being so kind.