Page 14 of Branded (Breakers Hockey)

Fourteen

Kailey

Oliver lifted a brow.

I felt my cheeks get hot, the tell-tale twisting beginning in my belly.

His face gentled as he moved forward, dropping into a chair, holding out his tablet so I could see the screen. “I was thinking…” he began.

And then he proceeded to throw a curveball at me that would require me to write a whole lot of code.

So basically, he pulled me right out of my head, and the swirling in my mind and gut and focused me on what calmed me—my work.

But it was only a temporary solution.

Because when I paused in my note-taking for what I’d do when he left me to my program and my code and the safety of the clarity of the coding language that ran my program and happened to look up at him, he was staring at me.

In concern.

“Smitty?” he asked.

I sucked in a breath, released it on a five-count, slowing the spinning.

He let me do that, didn’t push further, and because it was Oliver—and also, maybe because it was about Smitty—the coil unwound. It relaxed.

It disappeared.

“He thinks we’re meant for each other.”

Oliver sat back in his chair, both brows lifting high. “Man doesn’t mess around, does he?”

That had me chuckling, nerves creeping. “No, apparently not.” I pushed back my bangs.

“I mean, I know it’s probably inappropriate or I should have checked with HR first.” More nerves.

“Shit, I mean, is there some sort of fraternizing paperwork I need to be filing? I—I—we only kissed once but last night—” I clamped my teeth together before I blurted out what had happened on the phone the previous evening, but my gaze caught on the cookbook, and I felt my cheeks flare.

“Kailey?”

“Yeah?” I asked, seizing the book and shoving it into my desk drawer.

“No one cares if you date Smitty.”

My head shot up.

“So long as you’re both consenting adults and stuff doesn’t get weird if it doesn’t work out,” he said. “Then no one cares. Hell, Luc dates head counsel. I’m with Hazel. Marcel is with Pru, who’s in charge of development. Consent. Happy. No drama at work, and everyone’s cool, okay?”

Lungs feeling like they were in a vice, albeit one that was slowly releasing, I nodded. “Okay.”

“Now,” he said, lips beginning to turn up at the corners. “When are we going on a double date?”

A knock at the door drew my gaze several hours later.

I’d been in full focus mode for ages, so glancing up and blinking at whoever was knocking was like stepping out into the bright sunshine, and it took a hot minute for my eyes and brain to focus.

On Hazel.

She held a bag.

“I hate to interrupt the flow,” she said. “But it’s well past lunch and Oliver mentioned that he’d given you something new to work on.”

My brows pulled together.

Hazel smiled. “He also mentioned that you tend to be singularly focused when working on a new project.” She jiggled the bag, the paper crinkling. “So, here’s me singularly focusing you on a bit of sustenance before you get back into it.”

My heart skipped a beat, and for a moment, I didn’t know how to respond to that.

It was thoughtful.

And really sweet.

Both of which were quintessentially Hazel.

But I was hard-pressed to remember a time when I’d experienced thoughtful and sweet.

Sharp, sharp words. Tiptoeing through a kitchen. A smack to the side of the head. Hair being pulled.

That was reality.

Not this.

But this made me feel…warm and buoyant and?—

Right. Time to stop staring at Hazel like an idiot.

“Wow,” I managed. “I— thanks.” I gestured at the chair in front of me. “Should I go to the vending machine and get us some drinks?”

Hazel grinned. “Oh no,” she said as she sank into the seat, and there was a twinkle in her brown eyes.

What?

Okaaay…

Well, I didn’t really need drinks anyway. I had a bottle of water.

Hazel leaned forward. “When we want drinks, we hit the boys’ kitchen.” A wink.

“So, I’ll go to the kitchen then?” I asked.

A shake of Hazel’s head. “In the future, yes.” The affirmative paired with the head shake threw her. “Today,” she went on, “you won’t need to?—”

Movement behind Hazel.

A big body, his freshly showered scent reaching my nose. Smitty held a bag, and this time I didn’t think it contained a cookbook that would bring a blush to my cheeks. “I don’t want to interrupt,” he said softly and for some reason, this made Hazel’s grin widen. “I just wanted to bring you this.”

And…

He set two cans on the desk.

Along with two Smitty-palm-sized cookies beside them—which meant they were giant.

As I knew.

Since they’d been on my ass, in my hair, coasting along my side, cupping my jaw. The memories made me shiver, heat flowing through me.

Then I looked at one of the cans.

What drink it was.

A special type of sweet peach tea that I knew for a fact wasn’t carried in the vending machines, and considering that the kitchen was home to healthy snacks and drinks courtesy of the nutrition staff, I highly doubted sugar-loaded sweet tea would be one of the offered options.

But there it was.

Sitting on my desk with beads of condensation starting to roll down the aluminum cylinder.

Along with two cookies.

My lips parted and I felt my eyes go wide, drifting from the can to Smitty and over to Hazel, who was wearing a shit-eating expression.

“Right,” Smitty said, rocking back on his heels, looking so different from that morning, so unsure and out of place. “I’ll leave you to your lunch, little bird,” he murmured.

Uncertainty in the big man’s frame, on his face.

I hated that.

So, I reached for his wrist, wound my fingers around it and squeezed. “Thank you,” I whispered.

“I—” A hand through his beard then thrust through his hair, mussing the damp locks. “It’s nothing,” he said quietly.

Another squeeze, hoping that my eyes showed exactly how much it meant to me.

But though he nodded, that uncertainty didn’t go away, not completely anyway.

Words.

He needed the words.

And though my insides were squeezing tight, throat full of tension, I managed to whisper, “It’s not nothing to me.”

The uncertainty flitted away.

A cocky smile took its place. He turned his arm, dislodging my grip on his wrist as he spun his hand, wrapped my fingers in his own. They were warm and strong and big…just like him. And, just like him, his hold on my hand settled me.

Like something deep inside me, beneath the roiling anxiety, the self-doubt, the scars that had hardened my protective shell, had unfurled.

Opened.

To him.

And only him.

My pulse sped, prickles on my nape, sweat between my fingers.

A furrow between my brows.

That he smoothed away with a gentle swipe of his thumb. “I know,” he whispered. A wicked grin. “Think you’ll be able to take the whole can.”

Laughter—part cackle, part outraged mirth, part teenage-esque giggles—bubbled up in my chest.

Which he knew.

Because he nipped my bottom lip. “Call me while you’re watching Great British Bake-Off later, yeah?”

Oh. I was so going to kill him.

Especially since my cheeks flared and Hazel looked intrigued and my thoughts went fully dirty—like seriously, he was so damned good as just a voice on the phone, how would he be in person, “watching” the episodes with me?

Which had a wicked thought pinging through my mind.

I crooked a finger, grinning when he bent so I could whisper in his ear. “Or maybe you should come over and we can watch together.”

He straightened like I’d shocked him. “What?” he croaked.

And I supposed I had.

I’d kind of shocked myself.

Okay, I’d really shocked myself, and though some part of me—okay, my clit —had meant it, wanting that rough voice, those warm, strong hands on me, the rest of me couldn’t believe I’d just uttered the invitation.

Smitty knew that.

Because his face stayed warm, but it also went soft, and he tugged lightly at a strand of my hair. “Soon, little bird, soon.”

Warm and wicked.

Sweet and teasing.

I liked this man.

I liked who I could be with this man, liked that I could gather myself and lift my chin, fill my voice with tart, tell him, “We’ll see,” and we both knew it was an inevitability.

That he’d be in my bed, more than likely without the reality show blaring in the background.

He’d be there and his hands would be on me, his body over mine, his cock inside.

A bop to the tip of my nose. “Yeah,” he said. “We’ll see.”

Then he was gone again, disappearing out into the hallway, leaving me alone with Hazel.

Who was fanning herself.

“Holy sexual tension, Batman,” she said, tugging at the collar of her shirt.

I froze. “I?—”

“How does it feel to be one of us now?” Hazel asked, opening the bag with aplomb and setting out our sandwiches.

“Struck dumb by all that hockey masculinity until you forget that you’re at work and want to jump their bones—or bone , rather”—a smirk—“and preferably, that bone-jumping will happen with you perched on your desk while they’re orgasming you into oblivion and?—”

“Is this your fantasy or mine?” I interjected.

And then felt my mouth drop open.

Where in the hell had that come from? Surely not my mouth since that was a level of snark I’d never managed aloud. On direct message, sure. But forming the words on my tongue and actually saying them? Not so much.

At least, I’d not been able to do it with anyone except Smitty.

I had snark for him.

Ever since we’d huddled around his laptop, and he’d opened up…and I’d shared and…

Certainty in my belly, spreading up and out.

Maybe he was right about our hearts knowing each other. Maybe?—

Hazel burst out laughing. “Guilty,” she said, unwrapping her sandwich and taking a big bite, talking around the veggies and cheese and meat. “I may have a desk fantasy.” She smirked again. “Mostly because with Dominic at home, it’s really hard to live any of my fantasies.”

I blinked.

“Crap.” Hazel rubbed her forehead. “I didn’t mean it like that,” she said quickly. “It’s just…hard to be a mom and a sexual being. Especially, when I’m covered in spit-up and poop half the time.”

“I can’t say that I completely understand,” I said. “But having been on the receiving end of Dominic’s drooling powers, I can sympathize.”

We both laughed this time, and I was able to do it because Smitty made it possible for me to understand teasing that didn’t come from someplace mean.

But it wasn’t just him. Oliver had built that bridge and Hazel had helped pave it, but Smitty was the one who’d given me the courage to cross it.

I could be myself, and I could interact with my friends?—

Hell, I was worthy of friends and positive attention.

And maybe that wasn’t something that was all that amazing and out there.

Most people were probably born with that understanding, had it fostered by family and teachers and coaches.

But mine had been crushed to powder, washed away.

Until Oliver had invited me here to join the organization.

And Hazel had welcomed me in hers and Oliver’s and Dominic’s lives.

Until the team had included me in their events.

Until…a six-foot-plus man with a lumberjack beard and a penchant for plaid had shown kindness. He’d kissed me like a thunderstorm on a hot summer night, the sticky air clinging to my bare skin, the breeze coasting through my hair.

And given me a can of tea.

Then had flayed himself open and accepted my vulnerability with the same amount of openness he’d given me.

Add a dash of patience, plenty of wicked, and how he looked at me and saw me and liked me, and somehow only found himself lacking. Him. Not me .

It was unfathomable.

But it was a truth I was finally understanding.

One that meant I could keep moving forward.

Inching toward the person I wanted to be while accepting that the person I was right at that moment was just as good.

I had the strength to keep moving, to keep swimming, to keep making progress—even crawling if I had to.

But I was finally out of that rigid prison.

Worthy and good and…not a disappointment.

There was laughter in Hazel’s eyes. Not disappointment.

And when I looked deep into myself, for the first time ever, I didn’t find disappointment either.