Page 23 of Branded (Breakers Hockey)

“Aw, fuck,” I breathed, my heart squeezing hard, a spark of something big and life-changing settling into my soul.

I sat in that feeling for a second, sat in how good it made me feel, and then I set the drawing down and moved to the other flower, seeing that this one’s name, written in glitter pen on the side of the ceramic pot, was Donner.

The man wasn’t subtle.

But he was fucking wonderful.

Hands shaking, I reached for the package, unwrapped the cheerfully printed paper, opened the box, and smiled, my eyes prickling I was so touched.

A tiny unicorn sat inside, its expression a little grumpy, but in a cute way.

The mane was rainbow-colored fluff, threaded with glittery gold and silver strands, and its fur was so, so soft. Pulling it out, I cuddled it close, and noticed a piece of paper beneath, more of his slanted, compact writing scrawled across the page.

I’m hoping that this adorable gal (note the lack of creepy, beady eyes) will replace Herman in his place of honor.

My eyes flicked to my monitor, where Herman had sat since that first day. Then went back to the note.

But I’m guessing that she won’t, so hopefully, at the very least, she and Herman will be best friends.

P.S. It might be presumptuous, but I named her Hailey.

Bailey, Hailey, Kailey. Conner, Donner.

I’d fucked up with Herman, needed to improve my rhyme game.

But, in fairness, Kailey was a bit easier to rhyme. What, was I going to rename Herman, Lonner? Tonner? Wonner?

Didn’t quite flow off the tongue the same way.

The thought of names had me smiling, shaking my head at my ridiculousness, and picking up my phone, typing out a text.

Just got into my office.

A few seconds brought a response.

Oliver have the air on too cold again?

That had me laughing.

No. But there were a couple of items on my desk.

A beat. A buzz.

Extra work? I hate that.

I laughed again, shook my head. This man .

Part of it is extra work.

Another buzz.

And the rest of it?

My heart squeezed, a giant chunk breaking off, floating through space and time zones and over to a man who was quickly owning it. I posed the unicorn, snapped a picture, sent it over.

Herman’s got a new best friend.

The “…” appeared then disappeared. Then re appeared.

Mean.

I grinned.

Thank you, baby. Hailey made me smile, and the plants, don’t worry, I’ll keep them safe.

My phone vibrated.

Then my day is complete.

That had my heart squeezing.

Charmer.

Another buzz.

Occasionally, but, little bird, I could give a fuck about the plants. I just wanted you to have a chance to participate if you wanted.

I typed back.

I seem to remember a lot of heckling happening between you and the guys about who’s going to win Mac.

Mac was the creepy blue monster that had been made purposely so-ugly-it-was-cute, and it had been the prize for the plant contest since their inaugural competition. I knew it brought bragging rights, especially amongst the very competitive professional athletes.

Oh, if I win, I’m going to lay it on.

I shook my head.

Well, I’ll do my best to make sure that happens.

But before I hit send, I added,

And if I kill Bailey, I’ll happily accept my punishment.

A long pause. Then those dots did the reappearing, disappearing thing again.

And now I’m desperately thinking of wombats so I don’t have an erection in front of the guys.

My laughter was loud and bright and unembarrassed. Even a month ago, if I’d thought that I could be this comfortable in my own skin, laughing and bantering, even via text, with a man I loved?—

Yes. Loved.

I sat in that for a second.

Realized it wasn’t terrifying.

Maybe it should be.

Maybe I should run because it was too much too fast, but…it was me and Smitty. It was right, and…

Loved.

Yeah, I loved the man.

“You eat that?”

I had been reaching for the basket of mozzarella sticks (the cheese made in house, right along with the breadcrumbs), but the bitchy question had me freezing.

Yes.

Bitchy.

Because, frankly, Monica was a bitch.

A gorgeous, slender, beautifully contoured, and designer-clothes-wearing bitch.

And look, it wasn’t the makeup or the designer clothes that Monica was sporting that made her a bitch.

Beth was equally put together (and thus significantly more put together than me and Pru, both in jeans, sneakers, T-shirts, and team hoodies). Hazel almost as much, looking gorgeous in her blouse and slacks, a pair of sensible flats on her feet and a pretty necklace to cap off the ensemble.

But there was a bit of drool on her shoulder.

Drool that Monica had sniffed at.

Monica, who was pregnant, and would soon be having a vomiting, drooling baby making a mess of all her designer digs.

That sniff, at someone I respected (Hazel was awesome and kind), had been the first strike.

The second had come after Beth had shown up, joining me, Pru, and Monica who had been waiting for her outside CeCe’s (her flight had been late), when we’d walked into the bar.

Another sniff. A disgusted expression.

Daintily hefting her skinny ass onto the stool like it was climbing fucking Mount Everest, and then she’d touched the table—a worn and scuffed blond wood top—and made another face.

I’d caught Hazel’s eyes then.

The psychologist’s shoulders had risen and fallen on a sigh, but her expression had been bland, and she’d seemed determined that we would all have a good time, taking over the conversation and turning Monica’s focus to what she clearly wanted to talk about.

Monica.

Pru had muttered something under her breath.

Beth’s brows had dragged together.

But we joined in, and after a few minutes, the tension broke, and Monica, though centering the conversation constantly around herself, at least engaged with us, and it was with significantly less sniffing.

Though, there was snark (and a bit of sniffing when it came to ordering).

And snark about the paper napkins.

And snark about Julie, who the girls knew well and had served me and Smitty the other time I had been here.

Julie, who was really nice and competent at her job, and definitely didn’t deserve being sniffed at in disdain just because she’d asked Monica if she was sure that she only wanted a side salad for her entire meal.

Especially considering Monica had started off by declaring she was pregnant and the rest of us had ordered enough food to feed an army.

All of that could be forgiven.

Monica was a lot, but maybe she was just nervous and said the wrong thing (unlike me whose nerves meant I struggled to say anything ).

But this?

Stopping me from eating one of the best things on the planet—fried cheese—and I was ready to snap, understanding be damned.

Hazel pushed the basket a little closer and smiled at me, before flicking her gaze to Monica’s and saying nicely, but firmly, “It’s Cheese Night Extravaganza.

” She helped herself to a cheese stick. “You can have the salad you ordered, or any”—she swept a hand toward the copious baskets in front of us—“of this.”

A protest welled in my throat because by this point in the evening I was feeling very possessive of my cheese, and Hazel offering it up to someone who might not appreciate it, seemed very sacrilegious.

But I bit my tongue.

Because God knew I didn’t need to create drama for Raph, especially since he was going to marry this chick.

The irony didn’t miss me either.

That I normally was desperate to talk, but that evening was struggling not to.

Smitty would get a kick out of that, and I couldn’t wait to text him about this wild dinner, and how I’d suddenly become another person who kinda, sorta (okay, there was no kinda, sorta about it) wanted to dump a beer in Monica’s lap, just to see how she’d react if her designer duds got ruined.

But drama.

I’d been around enough of it of my father’s creation to want to avoid the entire process.

So, I just ate my cheese stick, soaked in the gloriousness of fried cheese, and when the guys’ game came on TV, I devoted most of my attention to that.

I did manage to summon up a smile for Monica when she’d had enough of the attention being off her and onto the game and our respective men and prospects (Pru had two of the players she’d scouted playing that night and wanted to watch how they were doing, for obvious reasons, and Hazel always liked to watch how the guys were doing so that she could assess and help any who were struggling) and decided to leave.

This time it was less sniff and more huff, but I couldn’t care less.

Because the moment that Monica had disappeared out the front door of CeCe’s (let it be noted that it was without leaving any money to pay for her salad or the Diet Coke she’d ordered), Beth turned to the table and lifted a cheese stick like it was a sword.

“I hereby declare that she is never invited to Cheese Night Extravaganza again.”

I, who was holding a tortilla chip that was—no surprise—doused in cheese (this of the bright orange, definitely not homemade but still delicious variety) froze as Beth whipped around to me and pointed that cheese stick right in my face.

“You, on the other hand, are faithfully invited to Cheese Night Extravaganza every week.”

“Hear, hear,” Hazel quipped.

Pru, who held a half-eaten cheese stick, gestured with it over her shoulder, eyes glued to the television that was playing the Breakers game. “I concur.”

And I, fuck it, used that cheese stick to toast Beth’s. “Good, because otherwise I think I’d show up anyway, and I promise that I’d make a dent in your cheese.”

Hazel grinned.

Pru nodded approvingly.

Beth gave her another stick bump.

Then I stopped thinking about cheese and snarky women and focused on the game and the lovely, friendly group around me.

And just was.

No anxiety.

No drama.

Just being.

It was fucking perfect.