Page 49 of Branded (Breakers Hockey)

Fifteen

Raph

“You know you fucked up, right?” Smitty muttered as he dropped onto the bench in the locker room next to me.

“How? Saving your ass in our zone?” I asked. “Or by taking that shot off my foot when Marty couldn’t get across the crease to make that save?”

Because the last still fucking hurt.

Would be throbbing for days.

My snark got me a punch to the shoulder—hard, though not hard enough to really hurt.

Just hard enough for Smitty to remind me of his strength.

It wasn’t nearly as hard as that puck I’d taken to my foot, and I was just thanking the hockey gods I’d begun wearing thick plastic coverings on my skates.

I wore them every game after I’d broken a bone in my foot a few seasons before.

Without them, that block tonight would have definitely cracked another bone, and it had hurt enough that I wasn’t looking forward to taking my skate off.

Samantha, our head trainer, would get me right, I knew.

But that didn’t mean I wouldn’t be sporting a monster bruise and sore ass foot for a few too many days.

“With Beth.”

I blinked, glanced up from my skates, and saw the knowledge in Smitty’s eyes.

Fuck.

Yeah. That.

I knew I fucked up with showing that , not only to my teammates, but to the arena full of Breakers fans.

But I’d seen her there with Oliver and Hazel, with Hannah and her teammates doing a fucking dance that was somehow both sexy and adorable—enough of the first that my dick had twitched in my cup (ouch) and plenty of the second that I’d seen more than one set of male eyes on her (even with that baby belly).

I’d caught a glimpse of her dancing with that little girl, her belly rounded, and…

I’d wanted.

No.

I’d wanted her for a long time, but I’d ignored it because of Monica, because of the complication of dating someone who was close with my friends. I’d ignored it, even as that wanting grew.

But I was at a breaking point.

Or maybe that had been at CeCe’s a few days ago.

Seeing her fall, witnessing the tears, the shadows, the way she tucked them all away and reassured her friend when it was clear that she was far from that after her nightmare that had woken her not knowing where or when she was.

Then she’d gone shopping for clothes she needed because she was doing something big for those friends and their babies needed it, not blinking when they weren’t her usual style, wearing them as she danced with a little girl, and smiling at me through the glass like I was a lunatic when I called her sugarpie.

I couldn’t ignore Beth.

Not anymore.

Not the way she looked through the window of the shoe store, teeth pressing into that bottom lip, like she was worried I was going to run out of patience or she was going to use up my good will, even though I was the one who’d all but bullied myself into the trip.

I fucking hated shopping.

But…I didn’t mind going with Beth.

Hell, I’d gotten off on thinking about her wearing those boots she’d bought, the panties and nightgown.

I didn’t mind schlepping her shit because I knew she was okay, knew she was eating and drinking enough, knew that she was with me.

Trouble.

I was in so much fucking trouble.

And I didn’t mind that either.

“Hey, dopey.” Smitty punched me again, and I realized a bunch of the guys were moving out of the main locker room, having tossed their gear in the various bins and cubbies, their jerseys in another.

I was still fully dressed, only having dropped my stick in the rack outside the door.

“Pull it together before Beth sees you being a dumbass on camera.”

Unfortunately, Smitty was right.

I’d had a good game, had already been given the high sign that I was going to have a few interviews. At least one of those would probably be on camera, so if I didn’t want to look dopey sitting there in my full gear, including my helmet, I should probably get moving.

So I did.

First my helmet then slipping off my jersey, shoulder pads and ignoring Smitty when he mouthed, “Beth.” A toss had the jersey in the bin, a twist had my pads hung up, my helmet on the shelf, and I had just enough time to plunk a hat on my sweaty-ass hair before the press came in.

Most of the questions were the same typical shit—how’d it felt to get a win, why we got it this time and not before, what was the outlook for the rest of the season.

But there was a new woman asking questions that were smarter and a hell of a lot more fun to answer than the typical stuff.

From what I knew of Eva Moreno, she was a blogger and podcaster, and had recently been picked up to do some commentating for a local sports show.

I could also see that she was gorgeous and smart…

And her eyes kept drifting toward Theo as I talked.

Maybe I should be offended, considering Theo seemed to be deliberately avoiding any and all eye contact with the pretty blond reporter, but instead, my spidey senses were prickling.

Hmm.

Watching that showdown was definitely more fun than being on the receiving end of Smitty’s attention about Beth.

Plus, Theo needed a good woman.

“Right,” Eva said, hitting the button to stop the recording app and tucking her cell away. “Thanks for your time.”

I nodded. “Of course.” Then couldn’t resist adding, “Though Theo might have something more to say about it.”

A flash in her coffee-colored eyes, maybe annoyance, maybe trepidation, but she didn’t back off like I half expected. Instead, her chin came up, and I watched her shoulders straighten as she pulled out her cell again. Then she marched over to Theo.

Whose eyes flared with something that had me knowing a showdown between him and Eva definitely would be fun to watch.

Yeah, so much more fun being on this end.

And yeah, just call me Smitty for all my nosiness and matchmaking tendencies.

Grinning, I moved in through the door and down the hall to the private locker room, where the guys could cool down, shower, and dress without the risk of cameras catching anything…

or in actuality, without the cameras catching Smitty’s naked ass strutting through the room “air-drying” because he couldn’t be bothered with a towel.

Like right then.

Because seriously, I entered the space and immediately saw Smitty.

Naked and coming out of the shower.

Sigh.

“Christ,” I muttered, moving to grab a towel, and tossing it at him.

Smitty caught it…and wiped his face, leaving ass and junk on full display.

I reached for my shirt, tugging it up and over my head. “Christ.”

“You said that already.” Beard and hair toweled off, Smitty tossed the towel in the rolling cart before moving over to his station.

Yeah, I had.

And I’d probably say it a million more times when dealing with Smitty over the years.

Knowing there wasn’t anything else to be done about it, I just shook my head and hit the showers himself.

But when I came out, I did it with a towel around my waist.

Unfortunately, when I came out, it wasn’t to an empty room.

Nope.

Smitty was sitting right next to my cubby.

Barely holding back a groan but knowing there was nothing to be done about it, I hit the bench and started getting dressed.

Underwear, socks, pants, shirt. I’d come in a suit, but I couldn’t stand collared shirts post game.

The pants were fine because they were tailored to me.

The shirt was, too, but hell, I fucking hated how tight they always felt around my neck.

So, I waited until last to button that up.

And then I skipped my fair share of buttons so I could fucking breathe .

Smitty, meanwhile, was in sweats and a tee, his ugly ass suit on a hanger and ready to be carried home. The pattern hurt my eyes, but Smitty never seemed to run out of even uglier and more plaidy suits.

“Beth,” Smitty said.

Right.

My teammate was a dog with a bone, and I knew I had two choices—lie about my interest, or just admit to it, take the interference, and then mobilize the full force of the Breakers and all their nosy meddling.

The lie was on the tip of my tongue.

What came out instead was, “Yeah.”

And then instead of Smitty grinning and slapping me on the back, congratulations booming through the room, as I had expected, my friend and teammate’s face went serious and he said, “Fuck, man, are you sure?”