Page 10 of Branded (Breakers Hockey)

Ten

Kailey

I was in my office when a knock came at the open door.

And, oh wow, my heart skipped a beat when I looked up and saw it was Smitty.

His hair was wet and slicked back, his wild beard appearing to have been given only the barest modicum of taming by his fingers. His big body was encased in a tight navy Dri-Fit top, his bottom half in gray sweats that…well, should have been illegal.

Or maybe that was my thoughts?—

Big dick.

He had a big ole’ dick.

It swayed in the confines of those gray sweats, less confined than highlighted, and it was nearly impossible to pull my gaze up, to not stare at that big ol’ disco dick and want it in my mouth?—

Oh, Lord.

I should not have read that spicy book that Hazel had suggested to me the other night before my friend’s wife—and okay, my friend —had passed out on the couch.

My friend.

Hazel was my friend.

Along with Oliver.

And I knew I could have more of them if only…I could fucking talk to people!

Well, I was imagining a big ol’ dick in my mouth, so that had to be some measure of progress, right?

The dick stopped swinging, and…my gaze flew up, hit his, saw that there were flames of desire in his eyes.

“Um…”

My gaze dropped again, saw that there was a little—no, a lot —of action happening beneath his sweats, and…my mouth went dry.

What was happening to me?

Smitty cleared his throat.

He actually had to clear his throat.

This time my eyes flew up and stayed up and right, holy shit, I’d been caught looking at a coworker’s dick.

And yeah, were we only sort of coworkers because I just did some basic computer work and he, meanwhile, was part of the group of players who did the important stuff (like actually play hockey for the professional hockey team)?

Still, there was probably something against fraternizing with my coworkers, especially when that fraternizing came with dick-staring.

Right.

A breath.

Since I was unable to hold those deep brown eyes but couldn’t allow my gaze to drift south to his dick again , instead, I allowed my gaze to drift to the thick black beard lining his jaw.

I wouldn’t have thought I could appreciate facial hair, not when I imagined it was scratchy and sort of icky—like, didn’t it hold crumbs and shit?

But his looked big and thick, and it elicited thoughts of where else he was big and thick and?—

Shit, my eyes were drifting down again.

“Are you…?” He trailed off, cleared his throat. “Is this too much? I mean, me being here?”

“No!” I hurried to say, and it wasn’t.

In fact, since we’d talked and I’d sat next to him, helping him complete that personality quiz, comparing his answers to the ones I would make—and finding that the majority of the answers he’d chosen would be the ones—that knot in my belly that usually tangled itself further and grew and grew and grew until it seemed to be swallowing me from the inside out the longer I spoke with someone wasn’t there.

It wasn’t gone.

Not by a long shot.

I’d gone to my office, struggled my way through a meeting with Luc and then one with several members of the coaching staff and the statistician, and it had been present the entire time.

Knotting and twisting, filling the back of my throat.

Making it a challenge for me to push through and be a valuable member of the team. Luckily, talking about my program and its functions was a little easier than small talk or well, any other kind of talk.

It’s why it had been easier with Oliver, even when we’d first begun chatting online.

A common interest.

Something I knew down to the very bones of my being.

I knew it so well that I didn’t really have to think about what came next.

It was…well, not easy, but it was something I could do easily enough that it didn’t turn me into a giant ball of exposed nerves with a tongue that didn’t work with whatever words did manage to escape that useless muscle in my mouth not making a lick of sense.

It just…wasn’t twisting me into knots.

I’d seen a glimpse of his vulnerable underbelly, and he’d given it without preamble, and…hell, I had to respect him for that.

Had to like him for that.

Which…presented a multitude of problems.

How could I like him?

Besides the whole sexy lumberjack thing he had going with the plaid suit and the thick beard and the big dick swinging in his pants, it was that vulnerability and willingness to show it that had me wanting to know him better.

“Kay?”

“Hmm?” I asked.

Warm hands came in contact with mine, making me jolt and jump as his hot, calloused fingers wrapped around mine. “Do you want me to go?” he asked. “Is this too much?”

It was…and it wasn’t.

“No,” I whispered.

His beard twitched and I allowed my gaze to drift higher, and it was to see a flash of white teeth. “Is it my beard you’re admiring then?” he asked lightly. “Because I know I can grow an impressive one.”

Only he would describe his beard as impressive.

And that made my lips curve.

“You’re ridiculous,” I said softly.

Another flash of white. “I’m good at being ridiculous.”

Now, what did that mean?

I had no clue, but a part of me—the little pieces inside me that were knot-free, had always remained knot-free—really didn’t like that.

Because it was denigrating.

And Smitty was a good man.

“Fire.”

“What?” My brows pulled together.

He released one hand, brushed his thumb beneath one of my bottom lashes and then the other. “Tell me, little bird, what’s made that fire appear in your eyes.”

“You,” I whispered. “It’s your fault.”

His body rocked back like I’d dealt him an actual physical blow. “Me?” Concern deepening lines outside his mouth, at the corners of his eyes, in a collection of ripples on his forehead. “I’m the reason you look the way you do?”

“I—” I swallowed, because he was totally the reason for all the feelings rippling through me, and it was also totally not his fault. Everything was in my head, all twisting around. Only, words of explanation didn’t come.

How did I say that I could talk to him when I couldn’t talk to anyone else?

How did I explain this…connection, this…tie drawing me to him?

How did I tell him that I didn’t like him denigrating himself because he was good and smart and funny and kind?

How did I give him all that when I was a mess who could barely hold a conversation?

I needed to figure out my own shit and my own life and my own anxiety. I needed to be normal before I thought of pursuing anything with a man. Because, yeah, he’d said he wanted to be friends, but he’d also made his interest clear. If I gave him an opening, he’d take it.

And he’d be disappointed when he got to know me, really got to know me.

Oh, he’d be nice about it when he left.

Because he was Smitty.

And he was a good man.

But when he broke things off—as men always did after getting through my walls—I would be just a little bit more broken, a little bit more shattered, a little bit more impossible to find my way back to whole.

Trust me, Kailey.

Believe in us.

Let me in, honey.

I had.

Three times.

With three men, who’d pursued me with a sort of dogged challenge, as though my shyness were a tactic to draw them in. My anxiety a tool to attract them. Playing hard to get when really, the words just wouldn’t come.

They’d played the long game.

Once in high school, and I’d ended up having a panic attack when I’d lost my virginity.

Once three years later, in college, my therapist encouraged me to broaden my horizons, and I’d made it through the sex without panicking, but that not panicking was the best thing I could say about the entire experience.

And, eight months before, when a man had approached me at a restaurant and asked me out, I’d accepted, thinking that I’d read enough romance novels, bought and practiced with enough toys, masturbated enough times that I would be comfortable knowing how to enjoy the process…and…it had been fine.

Fine enough that we’d gone on a couple of dates, and I’d told him a little about me. Fine enough even though I’d never gotten off —for the record—though I thought that perhaps I’d done a decent job of pretending I had.

But then I’d had a moment. A moment where my anxiety had gotten the better of me, after a bad day at work, after a phone call from my father, and though I’d gotten that gripping panic under control relatively quickly, using my techniques from my therapist, he’d still seen it.

He’d played it cool.

Told me it was no big deal.

And he’d fucked me that night.

Then he hadn’t called.

And I hadn’t cared.

Not really.

Okay, I’d cared because…

Dammit.

I’d tried to be myself—well, the best version of myself—and when a little bit of the real me had squeaked out on the date, he’d…

He’d been happy enough to use me as a vessel to get off, but the glimpse inside was too much.

I wasn’t enough.

I was a disappointment.

And…hell, I knew that I already liked Smitty too much, that if he looked inside and found me lacking…

That would break me…break me in a way that was permanent.

He dropped my other hand, stepped back. “I should leave you to your work.”

I should let him go.

But when he turned to leave, I found I couldn’t.

My arm shot forward, hand gripping his wrist. “No.”

Slowly, he spun back to face me.

“No,” I said again. “Don’t go. I—I— I—” A breath, frustration making my grip tighten, my nails digging into his arm. I tried to get my fingers to unlock, not wanting to hurt him. But instead, he lifted a hand, dropped his palm over the top of my hand, and held me in place.

“I’m here,” he said.

“It’s your fault,” I blurted.

His throat worked, but he didn’t try to pull away again.

And fuck, God. Could I say any fucking thing right?

“I know,” he whispered.

“You make me want something I shouldn’t.”

“I just…” A breath that lifted and dropped his big shoulders. “I just want to be friends, little bird. No pressure. Nothing except getting to know each other.”

“Why?”

His brows drew together. “Why what?”

“Why would you possibly want that? We hardly know each other and?—”

His hand on mine squeezed. “I saw you, and I knew.”

“Knew what?”

“That you were someone worth knowing.”

A punch to the gut. Those words were a punch to the gut. Not a disappointment. Not something to be ashamed of.

“How?”

He gently brushed the skin beneath my eyes again.

“These.” I inhaled sharply. “I saw these—just for a second—and I felt it”—he thumped a fist to his chest, just above his heart—“ here . I knew I needed to know you.” His lips twitched. “Even though you wanted nothing to do with me.”

“I—” That was the second time he called me little bird , but it wasn’t the most important thing in that moment. It was…

I leaned back enough to meet his eyes.

“But how?” I asked. “I mean, I ignored you and barely said anything?—”

“You said, Not interested.” His lips twitched again.

My cheeks went hot. “I’m sorry. I—” I bit the corner of my mouth. “I just?—”

“Wasn’t interested.” He grinned. “Which was cool then. And it’s cool now. You don’t have to like me.”

He thought I wasn’t interested in him?

Him and his lovely smile and big dick and the beard I wanted to feel on my face?

Well, on my face and other places.

Between my thighs. On my breasts.

But I digressed.

Because the problem wasn’t that I didn’t like him. It was that I liked him too much.

He was dangerous and would make me want things and I would inevitably disappoint him and…

He was sweet and nice and gorgeous and strong and?—

Ballsy .

Smitty just laid his feelings and thoughts and vulnerabilities out there. He was himself without apology and just took the shit that was tossed his way.

And he’d taken one look at me and knew that he wanted to know me?

Him?

Conner Smith.

How did that even make sense?

It didn’t.

But it did make me want to be more. To be like him.

To be ballsy .

Which was probably why I did what I did next.