"This is actually a pretty good article."

"Don't care."

"Seriously, you should read it. Didn't you read it?"

Jonathan tightened his fingers around the pen, took a deep breath, then relaxed his grip. "Said I don't care."

"I think you're fucking lying."

Jonathan raised his eyes from the file on his desk, glared at Mac, then went back to pretending he was making notes. He wasn't. Hell, he didn't even know what fucking file he was looking at. For all he knew, the tip of the pen was tearing into the latest resume they had received.

His mind wasn't on work—hadn't been since he walked into the small building that housed their new offices three hours ago. He knew exactly what article Mac was talking about, had damn near committed the entire thing to memory. That didn't mean he wanted to admit it. And he sure as hell didn't feel like talking about it.

Mac obviously had other ideas because he kept rustling the damn paper and making humming noises as he read. First a mutter. Then a chuckle. Then another mutter. Jonathan blew out a deep sigh and pinned Mac with a scowl.

"I'm trying to fucking work here."

"No, you're not. You haven't been working since you walked in. Doodling isn't work."

"I'm not doodling."

"Dude. You're scribbling lines on a scrap sheet of paper that used to be my notes from the other day. You're not working."

Jonathan frowned then glanced at the wrinkled sheet of paper. He looked closer, noticing the sloppy scrawl of Mac's handwriting for the first time. Over that were deep lines and gouges, made by Jonathan's own pen. He swore under his breath, wadded the paper in his fist, then hurled it across the room.

"Fuck."

"Uh-huh. I'm thinking that's your problem. Too much build-up. You need to get that taken care of."

"Fuck you."

"Sorry, but you're not my type." Mac raised the newspaper in front of his face, but not fast enough to hide the grin. The scar that sliced across the lower part of his face turned the grin into something that looked more like a clown face—or the sinister scowl of a boogeyman.

"Don't you have something better to do?"

Mac glanced at him over the top of the paper, one dark brow raised in amusement. "Don't you?"

"Just put the fucking paper down and—"

"When I'm finished reading."

"Christ." Jonathan pushed away from the desk and grabbed a file from the stack on the cabinet behind him. It was nothing more than busy work, something to keep him from ripping the paper out of Mac's hands and shredding it to pieces.

Something to keep his mind from that stupid fucking article.

Not that there was anything wrong with the article itself. It wasn't even a full page, unless you counted the pictures. It talked about the new hockey team, the obstacles they were facing, how the Blades were competing in a market that already had a professional hockey team—the Baltimore Banners.

It could have been a total downer and filled with negativity, but it wasn't. The article focused instead on the strength and perseverance of the women on the team and talked about the spirit and gumption they needed for success.

And yeah, the writer of the article—one TR Meyers—had actually used those words: spirit and gumption. Seriously? Whatever. More power to him. Or her. That wasn't the issue Jonathan had with the article. No, his issue was on the player the article featured: Sammie.

And how they played up the fact that she was a single parent struggling to juggle her dreams of playing hockey with a full-time job, all while meeting the demands of motherhood.

Just another shot straight to his heart. One more reason for the guilt to eat at him even more than it usually did.

Fuck.

"You know, your wife is actually pretty damn cute, especially in all that gear. She's—"

Jonathan hurled the closest object—which happened to be the pen in his hand—toward Mac. "Shut the fuck up."

The other man batted the pen away with a laugh. "Touchy, touchy."

"She's not my wife, okay? Just—fuck. Just drop it, okay? Let it go."

The door opened behind him. Jonathan spun around in the chair as Daryl walked through, a cardboard tray with three large cups of coffee balanced in one hand. He kicked the door closed behind him, his pale gaze darting between Jonathan and Mac.

"Is that the article about your wife?"

"She's not my wife."

"Not anymore. And not yet. Again. Whatever." Daryl placed the cardboard tray on the edge of Jonathan's desk then passed the coffee around. "But I think I came up with a game plan to help."

Jonathan's gut twisted and he damn near dropped the coffee. He sat the cup on his desk then leaned back and aimed a scowl at Daryl. "What the hell are you talking about? I don't need a game plan. There's nothing to plan for. I told you—"

"Yeah, whatever. I don't know who the fuck you're trying to kid with that bullshit lie you fed us earlier, but we know better."

Fuck.

Fuck him.

Fuck his buddies.

Fuck everything.

He should have never opened up to them. Should have never told them about Sammie. Not that they didn't already know—they did. About everything. Because they'd been there with him, playing in that fucking sandbox. They knew exactly what he'd done because they'd given him hell about it and called him every kind of fool.

They weren't wrong. At least, not then. But now?

Fuck.

Yes, he wanted Sammie back. He'd give anything to have her back. But it wasn't that fucking easy, not after what he'd done. Mac and Daryl didn't see it that way. To them, it was a simple matter of talking to Sammie and making things right.

But how the fuck could he do that without explaining why he'd done what he did in the first place? He couldn't. Hell, he couldn't even manage to string together coherent sentences in her presence—last weekend was proof of that. Showing up at her parents' place like that, unannounced and out of the blue. And then just standing there, not knowing how to say what he'd gone there to say, not even knowing what the hell he wanted to say to begin with.

Fuck.

Yeah, Mr. Warner should have thrown him off the porch face-first. It was no less than what Jonathan deserved. He was still surprised that Sammie had stopped her dad from doing just that.

Seeing her, talking to her, had been harder than he'd thought it would be. And to hear her say he was no longer part of her life…fuck, that had hurt.

Because it was true. He wasn't. He hadn't been for nearly three years. He'd been so fucking stupid back then, thinking he was doing what was best for Sammie and Clare.

And he was still paying the price, still dealing with the gaping hole in his soul.

"Do you want to fucking do this or not?"

Jonathan gave himself a mental shake and looked over. Mac and Daryl were both watching him, their shrewd gazes seeing way too much. "Do what?"

Mac shook his head in disgust. "Stupid fucker. I don't even know why we're bothering. Get your head out of your ass and get with the program, Reigler. Do you want your wife back or not?"

"It's not that easy—"

"That's not an answer." Daryl propped his hip on the edge of Jonathan's desk, folded his arms across his broad chest, and stared down at him.

"I told you—"

"You haven't told us shit, except to make excuses. Do you want to do this or not?"

"I—"

"You only have two options for an answer: yes or no. Which is it?"

Jonathan bit back a curse and shook his head. What the fuck? They knew his answer. Why was Daryl fucking pushing?

He reached for the cup of coffee and took a long swallow of the strong brew. It was nothing more than a stalling tactic and both his buddies knew it. Jonathan blew out a heavy sigh, his gaze focused on the worn paneling covering the far wall.

"Yes."

"Fine. Then I need both of you clowns to head down to the Blades' office at zero-nine-hundred tomorrow." Daryl shifted and pulled something from the side pocket of his cargo pants. He unfolded it, his brows lowering over his pale eyes as he skimmed it before shaking his head. A hint of a smile played around his mouth as he shook his head again.

Jonathan exchanged a questioning glance with Mac. "Why the fuck are we going down there? And what the fuck is so funny?"

Daryl pushed away from the desk as he tossed the sheet of paper at Jonathan. "Apparently the owner of the Blades is looking to hire a security firm to cover their games. I'm figuring this would be a great job for Cover Six Security until other shit starts rolling in."

Jonathan didn't bother to hide his confusion. Why the fuck would a hockey team need the kind of security they provided? He glanced at the paper, frowning as he read it.

And read it again, just in case he was missing something.

He wasn't.

"Are you out of your fucking mind? This isn't for us. This is for—"

"You want an in or not?"

Mac kicked out with one foot and sent his desk chair rolling across the floor. He snatched the paper from Jonathan's hands to read it for himself. The expression of disbelief that crossed his face matched Jonathan's.

"You have got to be fucking kidding me. They're looking for mall cops, not a personal security group."

"We all have to start somewhere."

"But—"

"Hey, it's up to you. If you want your in, there it is." Daryl grabbed his coffee and stepped away from the desk. "If you want it, be there at oh-nine-hundred. If not, don't show up. It's up to you."

"Where are you going to be?"

"I'm heading down to DC first thing in the morning for meetings." Daryl paused outside his office door and leveled Jonathan with a meaningful look. "Shit's about to take off, so I wouldn't waste too much time deciding."

Jonathan grabbed the paper from Mac and looked at it again, his fingers tightening around the edge and creasing it. As far as ideas went, this one ranked right up there in stupid-land. There wasn't even a guarantee this would get him closer to Sammie. In the same building, yeah, but anything other than that? Probably not.

Was it better than nothing? Yes.

Would it work? Doubtful.

Was Jonathan willing to toss a chance, no matter how slim, out the window? No way in hell.

He nodded in Daryl's direction then passed the paper to Mac. "Looks like we have an interview tomorrow morning."

"Well fuck."