Page 108 of Branded (Breakers Hockey)
Thirty-Seven
Cas
Chelsea was standing on my porch, her fist raised, poised to knock.
Chelsea.
Jesus fucking Christ.
And when she saw Jules, her face hardened.
“You are not here,” I said, pulling my cell out of my pocket. “Please tell me that you’re not dumb enough to actually be here .”
More anger transforming her once-pretty face.
Her lips parted. “You?—”
“Mom?”
Fuck.
But before I could ask someone to occupy Ethan and to get him away from the psycho that was Chelsea showing up unwelcome on my porch—after having shown up unwelcome and getting rebuffed on various occasions since I’d unleashed the power of my attorney and the Breakers’ security team on her, and still not getting one fucking clue—Jules’s son was there, trying to squeeze past me and get to his mom.
“Hey, buddy,” I said, holding Ethan back and carefully tucking Jules behind me. “This is an adult conversation. Can you go with Nonna JoJo and pick out the movie we’re going to watch tonight?”
A long look, holding my eyes.
Then that stare shifting to Chelsea’s, and I bit back a curse when Ethan seemed to pick up on too much. His body went stiff, and he grabbed his mom’s hand, holding it tightly, silently telling me he wasn’t going anywhere.
Okay, normally, that would be extremely touching, Ethan standing by his mom, protecting her. But it couldn’t happen in this situation. I needed to make sure that Ethan could be a five-year-old, instead of the kid standing in front of me with old eyes and a tight expression.
“Eth?” I said as my dad stepped up next to me, correctly assessing the situation in a few seconds and blocking Chelsea’s view of Jules as I crouched in front of Ethan.
“I’ve got this,” I said softly, resting me hands on Ethan’s shoulders and holding the boy’s gaze.
“I love your mom, and I love you, and I won’t let anything happen to either of you. I promise.”
Ethan’s eyes went wide, his mouth falling open.
“And promises are meant for keeping, right?”
Ethan looked down, mouth closing, free hand tightening into a fist, and it took everything in me to wait it out, to shut up and wait, to not blabber the fuck on and beg this kid to trust me.
Then he was releasing his mom’s hand and wrapping both arms around my neck. “Yes,” he whispered. “Promises are meant for keeping.”
“Exactly, bud. Now,” I said, nudging Ethan toward my mom, “can you go with Nonna JoJo and trust me to have this?”
A nod. Ethan turning away.
Pausing. “Cas?”
“Yeah, bud?”
“I love you, too.”
Fuck .
That hit hard.
But what hit harder was that the first time Ethan and I shared that was on the front porch of my house while my dad was playing interference with fucking Chelsea.
“Movie, yeah?” I said quietly.
A nod and then Ethan was gone, my mom corralling him into the family room.
My siblings, though, they were gathered around the front door and spilling out onto the porch. A wall of Castillos.
“You have a son?” Chelsea snapped.
“Yeah,” I said, straightening and curling an arm around Julie’s shoulders, tucking her close. It was decided. Ethan was mine, same as Jules was. Biology didn’t matter in this, and frankly, Chelsea wasn’t owed any further explanation.
Chelsea froze. Then, “You have a son with her?”
Which was the point that my dad lost patience.
“Woman,” he snapped. “ Look at them, at us, at him.”
Chelsea’s eyes flashed, and she opened her mouth, no doubt to spit some vitriol.
“ Look ,” my dad said again. “And get a fucking clue. You never had this and you never will.”
Her body rocked back as though those words were a physical blow.
“Luca?” she whispered.
“Cas,” I corrected, sending a prayer up to the hockey gods that she would get it this time.
“And my dad is right. You know that. I’ve made that clear.
Repeatedly . And I’ll continue making it clear.
Because you’ll never be my family, Chelsea,” I said, and my tone wasn’t gentle, not in the least. “ Never .” I held up my cell.
“Now, I can call the cops and have you arrested for trespassing and violating the restraining order and you’ll be dealing with more charges”—besides the assault ones from the incident at CeCe’s—“or you can stop fucking around, leave, and live your life, getting a clue and understanding that what I have with Jules is far more than I ever had with you.”
“Cas,” Chelsea whispered, and I almost snapped at her, ordered her to leave again. But my name was paired with a trembling hand dragged over her face, her feet moving, taking her back down the steps and onto the walkway.
“Now I see that you’re finally looking at them,” my father said.
Another rock back onto her heels, more words that were a physical blow.
A jerky nod.
“I—” she whispered. Then she glanced at me, at Jules. “I’m sorry.”
Chelsea didn’t get to see my reaction to that statement—and it was definitely shock, albeit with a dash of pity thrown in, because she did seem to be looking, did seem to be finally seeing.
She didn’t get any of that.
Because she’d spun on her heel and run.
“Then she disappeared, man,” I told Smitty. “I reported her to the detective in charge of the restraining order, but she’d already reported herself, said she wouldn’t do it again.”
The ref blew the whistle, and both teams began getting ready for the pregame festivities.
“And you think she’ll get a clue and finally leave you the fuck alone?” Smitty asked.
I wasn’t sure of anything when it came to my psycho ex.
Which was why I just shrugged. “Fuck if I know.” I chugged some water.
“All I do know is that it’s been two weeks and I haven’t heard a peep from her.
She hasn’t come to my place or CeCe’s or the arena or the practice rink or anywhere that she used to show up before.
” I chucked the bottle back into the holder.
“And all I can do is hope that she’s finally gotten that clue. ”
“Damn,” Smitty muttered. “And I thought my girl had it bad.” He tossed his own bottle back into the rack. “At least she never had to deal with any psycho exes.”
Unfortunately, my teammate had a point.
Unfortunately, that point did little to distract me from the fact that we were playing the Sierra.
Lake Jordan was the captain and apparently also the only person who’d been nice to Jules growing up. He was also a pain in the ass on the ice and had left Jules to work her ass off in Baltimore, her rebuffing his help or not, so he had a hit—or a plethora of them—coming.
But it was Nate Miller who was going to get his ass handed to him.
H.A.N.D.E.D.
“Asshole,” I muttered.
“You love me,” Smitty said with a smirk, wrongly assuming I was talking about him.
Not that I hadn’t uttered the moniker at him enough times before for Smitty to make that assumption. Clearly. So I didn’t bother to correct him.
“You sure about that love?” I asked dryly, watching as the guy who’d sung the national anthem left the ice and they rolled out the red carpet for a ceremonial puck drop.
“Pretty sure you’re going to love” —Smitty waggled his brows—“that I gave your woman and her kid tickets to the game so they could watch you?—”
Ice through my veins. “What?”
Smitty ignored the interruption and continued, “Watch your cute little butt skate around the rink.”
I grabbed the water bottle again, clenching it so that I didn’t wrap my hands around Smitty’s neck and squeeze.
And squeeze.
“What?” I repeated icily.
“Are you asking about your cute butt or?—”
“You gave my woman tickets without talking to me first?” A quiet question, but even I could hear the edge of danger in it.
“Hell, man, it’s not like that,” Smitty said. “It was all on the up and up. She asked and wanted to surprise you, and I know you liked the last time she came to watch you and?—”
I lost it, shoving the bottle at Smitty’s chest, hard enough that water squirted everywhere.
Then I did my best to corral my temper and to not do it by punching the fuck out of my teammate and have that particular action be caught by fans’ cellphones and broadcast on social media—or on traditional media.
Ethan might see it.
And then what would my kid think of me?
“What the fuck, man?” Smitty growled, chucking the bottle into the holder, and wiping a hand over his dripping face.
I inhaled. Exhaled.
Struggled to not throttle my teammate.
“The fuck, Smitty ,” I gritted out, “is that I didn’t ask Jules to come to this game”—one of only a handful of matchups we had against the Sierra this year—“because Nate Miller is Ethan’s dad.”
And for once—and for all the wrong fucking reasons—Smitty didn’t have a response to that .
A fucking miracle.
A fucking disaster.