Page 43 of Branded (Breakers Hockey)

Nine

Raph

We were four big hockey players crammed into a tiny ass eighties-style oak booth, flower curtains on the window behind our heads separating the booths.

Our drinks were sitting on doilies.

Actual doilies.

Coffee for me and Cas. Water and coffee for Smitty and Theo.

And we were impatiently waiting for our pancakes.

My day was looking up, mostly because Smitty was talking about his woman, Kailey, who was Smitty’s polar opposite (smart and shy and soft, but perfect for Smitty).

But because with Smitty prattling on about Kailey—his favorite subject—that meant he wasn’t picking at me for being on the ice early on a day we didn’t have to be on the ice, not trying to get in my head and send that gossip train barreling down the tracks toward me.

Instead, Theo and Cas had been in the weight room, and mention of Donna’s had sent the weights right back onto the rack, and they’d horned in on pancakes.

Fine with me.

Plenty of pancakes at Donna’s.

A buffer from Smitty and his gossip-attuned antenna.

Though I could have done without being pressed thigh-to-thigh to Theo.

I’d rather be pressed to Beth.

Which was a problem in and of itself.

Especially since instead of choosing my typical Nutella-filled flapjacks, I’d ordered strawberry.

Fuck.

I was fucked.

But I was pretending I wasn’t, pretending it was normal for me to have ordered strawberry pancakes when Smitty and I had eaten here enough together for my teammate to know that I only ever got Nutella ones.

Which was why I’d done my best to get my friend on the Kailey ramble—not hard since Smitty loved his girl—and was silently drinking my coffee, doily or not, as it rolled on.

But pondering the doilies, the flower-laden curtains, the scarred Formica tables, and the fact that half of my ass was hanging out of the booth didn’t mean my mind was so busy to not have missed Beth walking into the restaurant.

The flash of red drew my eyes to the right.

Pretty auburn hair.

Not fire engine red, but softer with hints of brown.

Like I said, pretty, and the first thing I’d noticed about her.

The second being those bright red lips, currently curved up in a smile at the young hostess leading her to a booth perpendicular to where the boys and I were sitting.

My stomach began churning, and I tried not to turn my head.

Tried and failed because I watched that smiling Beth in a pretty blue sweater that matched her eyes, her legs in tight black pants that had my temper spiking because they were tight and hell because they showed off her shapely thighs, the lush bottom curve of her ass.

Her feet were in—thank fuck for one tiny victory—low-heeled boots.

Fuck, she was pretty.

That had my temper spiking.

I didn’t want to notice that either.

I didn’t want to notice one fucking thing about her, and instead, I was tracking every step, watching her move in that fluid way, even though she was carrying two babies, holding my breath until she made it into the booth, her ass sliding across the unpadded oak bench.

Unpadded, I knew, because my ass was on my own unpadded bench.

One that wasn’t particularly comfortable.

One that had me getting up and moving to the hostess stand, asking her to bring Beth one of the few cushions Donna’s had available on request.

My own ass was hardened from years of bruising it on the ice.

Beth’s was lush and curvy and…

Fuck, but I didn’t want her to be uncomfortable.

“So, she came up to me after she got out of the bathroom,” Cas was saying as I returned to the table, studiously avoiding both Smitty’s gaze and that booth perpendicular to ours, even though I was watching out of the corner of my eye to make sure that the hostess brought over the cushion.

Thankfully, the conversation had turned to Cas, and Cas being young and hot and a professional athlete, had no shortage of crazy stories, most of them involving women and stupidity and most of that was because he continued to go to bars where young, beautiful, but perhaps not the most mature, women spent a good deal of time.

Hot, no doubt.

But a fucking nightmare, as I had personally lived through.

“And she was fucking pissed as hell because I’d talked to Jules.

” He tossed up his hands. “That I talked to our waitress like a fucking human being. I don’t know what her deal was, but it was like she expected me to either be a total dick to Jules or to communicate in sign language or smoke signals or something that didn’t involve me actually verbally addressing her.

Like my voice was somehow going to make Jules strip down and fuck me right on my stool. ”

“Jules?” Theo groaned. “Aw fuck, man, please tell me that you didn’t take that chick to CeCe’s.”

Cas winced. “We’d been on three dates,” I muttered. “I thought she was at least semi normal.”

“Rookie mistake.” Smitty shook his head, lifted his mug, and took a sip. “We fly under the radar at CeCe’s because the staff and patrons are cool. We can’t do that if you start bringing women there who can’t deal.”

Like Monica.

Though Smitty didn’t say that.

Lucky for me, Monica had hated it so much she wasn’t going to stalk the place hoping for me to show back up. Nope, she’d just broken into my apartment and tried to convince me that she really did want a baby and she’d just made a mistake.

I’d had to make it clear, really fucking clear, that we were done.

A-fucking-gain.

Which hadn’t made me happy.

Though, thank fuck, that meant she’d cleared out, I’d changed the locks, and all was good again.

Good being a relative term, I supposed.

“Like I said,” Cas muttered. “I thought she was cool. Unfortunately—or maybe fortunately, all things considered—she proved quickly she wasn’t.” He sighed. “And I made it worth Jules’s while. She got a huge ass tip for putting up with Chelsea’s bullshit.”

“And she might have to put up Chelsea’s bullshit again if your semi-normal date decides to stakeout CeCe’s,” Smitty pointed out, protective to my core, particularly of women and particularly of women like Julie, who worked hard to provide for her son at home and didn’t need bullshit from a puck bunny who couldn’t even stand for her date to talk to a waitress.

Cas winced again. “Fuck.”

“Yeah,” Smitty said on a sigh. “Fuck.” I plunked my mug down. “You need to check in with Jules, make sure she doesn’t get any blowback from your rejects.”

Said casually.

But in a way that had me eyeing my friend closely.

Said too casually.

I studied Smitty’s face, saw interference and interest brewing in the edges of his eyes. Nosy, pushy, matchmaking motherfucker.

But thankfully that gaze was directed at Cas, not me.

So that was a victory. For the moment, anyway.

“Fuck,” Cas said. “I’ll make sure she’s good.”

Smitty nodded. “Good.” Then the big gossiping bastard turned his focus to me. “Just like you’re making sure that Be?—”

“Here you go boys!” the waitress—a hundred years old if she was a day—chirped, our plates stacked up her arms.

Pancakes.

Bacon.

Eggs.

Toast for Theo, who’d for some reason decided he needed more carbs.

For my part, I was ready to kiss our waitress, but I settled for passing out plates and getting everyone settled, encouraging them to dig in to their food so their mouths were full, and they could focus on something that wasn’t me.

Wasn’t Smitty putting the pieces together of me and Beth.

Wasn’t Smitty commenting on those pieces.

And then I started shoving pancakes into my mouth.

So it was full, and no responses could possibly be required.