Page 78 of Branded (Breakers Hockey)

Seven

Cas

“And our colors are going to be peach and silver.”

That sounded…well, like something, but I had been raised with a mom and two sisters. It could be said, I knew a little about women—or at least enough about women that I knew to look to Margot and my mom for instructions on how to properly react to Kathy’s announcement about wedding colors.

Since they were both nodding vigorously, my mom going so far as to clap her hands excitedly, I smiled too, joined in with the “That sounds great”s of my brother and dad.

They were well-trained, too.

“What are you planning for food?” my mom asked.

“I think we might do a carnival theme,” she said. “Corn dogs, pretzels, a flavored popcorn bar, and a whole spread of fried things.”

My arteries cried out in worry, even as my belly gave a happy growl.

“And then,” Kathy said excitedly. “Johnny suggested a Pop-Tart bar, and we’re going to have those instead of cake. All sorts of flavors and toppings, so it’ll be like a sundae bar but with Pop-Tarts! ”

In case it wasn’t obvious, my sister loved junk food.

But her doing jazz hands over Pop-Tarts was next level, even for her, and when I caught Sam’s eyes through the screen of the video call, it didn’t matter how much experience I had being raised with a mother and two sisters, keeping my laughter in was impossible.

Kathy glared at me through the camera. “No Pop-Tarts for you.”

I grinned. “You know you love me, and you know I love your food ideas. Even if I’m going to have to do a shit-ton of workouts to make up for it.”

“Hmph.” Her scowl was adorable. I’d seen it from almost the moment she’d been born, and it was no less cute now that she was a grown woman.

“And you know,” I said, “considering the amount of county fairs we attended as children, that I’m down for fried anything”—though my favorite was a fried peanut butter cup—“just like you know that all the strawberry Pop-Tarts are mine.”

A sniff. “Maybe we’re not getting any strawberry,” she told me churlishly. “I’m only getting you brown sugar cinnamon ones.”

Fake retching, I glanced at Margot on the screen. “Talk some sense into your sister.”

She reclined back onto the couch, video feed bouncing as she got comfortable on the cushions. “Nope,” she said with a smirk. “You know brown sugar cinnamon are my favorite too.”

I glared.

She blew me a kiss.

“Evil siblings,” I muttered. “Picking on your older brother.”

“That’s how our family shows love,” Sam chimed in. “None of the sappy shit.”

“Lies!” Margot said. “You’re sappier than the rest of us combined.”

Sam shook his head. “Not a chance in hell.”

“Do I need to bring up the book of poetry you wrote after your breakup with Jessica Sullivan?”

Kathy cackled.

I would have been lying if I said I didn’t do the same.

“Let’s hear more about Kathy’s wedding,” my mom said before the conversation could devolve further.

She glanced toward me on the screen—something she’d only recently perfected because she’d only recently figured out how to get her and Dad on the camera without me and my siblings getting a lovely upshot of her nose.

“There will be strawberry Pop-Tarts”—toward Margot—“ and brown sugar cinnamon”—to Sam—“ and s’mores, so no more complaining. ”

Suitably chastised—and, I supposed, suitably provided with the proper amount of Pop-Tart motivation—we shut up and listened to Kathy tell us about the rest of the details she and her fiancé had decided on.

My younger sister was getting married.

Christ, that was wild.

As was the brutal reality that I was single and apparently equipped with a bad picker.

Then we listened to Sam talk about his new job—he was really liking the position and his new manager, and even with school, it was manageable.

Margot’s update was that she was still slogging through grad school applications while working as a barista and focused on the art of making the perfect latte.

My parents were settled and happy (this being communicated by my mom while my dad—man of few words—sat back and listened).

The only time I had heard my dad say more than a few words was when I had paid off their house.

He was equally pissed-off and touched, mostly because after he’d initially refused the money, I had gone around his back and taken care of the remaining mortgage directly with the bank.

My parents worked hard. They’d sacrificed for me.

It was easy to make the decision to live a bit smaller than some of my teammates for a couple of years after getting my first big, non-rookie contract (and bonus after winning the Cup).

And it wasn’t a sacrifice to live in a decent house and have one nice car (rather than several very nice cars and a mansion).

My life was good.

But seeing the expression on my parents’ faces when they’d learned the house was free and clear was a hundred times better.

Which meant that even with Kathy’s wedding expenses, they were still going to be able to take a cruise this year.

Something my mom had dreamed of for as long as I could remember.

So, we talked about that (and I managed to sneakily get the name of their travel agent—I’d see what kind of upgrades I could arrange for them) and then it was my turn to be on the hot seat.

“Not much,” I told them when they asked me what was new. “Doing some on-ice conditioning, getting ready for the season.” I shrugged. “The usual.”

“Are you still dating that girl?”

“Chelsea?” I asked.

“The blond one with the pinchy face,” Margot supplied.

Yeah, I supposed that sounded about right. Chelsea had made it very obvious when she wasn’t pleased…and made my life pretty unpleasant when she wasn’t. Now that I thought about that, she hadn’t been shy about showing that during the one interaction she’d had with my family, either.

“No,” I said. “We broke up.”

I didn’t miss the relief on multiple faces.

And seriously, my picker was broken.

“Anyone else have any updates?” I asked, wanting the eyes off me and onto someone else. Anyone else.

Because the woman I really wanted—and probably the first woman my family would actually like, damaged picker or not—wasn’t interested in exploring the spark between us.

“Tell me about the woman who’s put that look on your face,” Kathy said.

“What look?” I went for innocent.

It didn’t work.

“The kicked-your-puppy look,” Margot said. “I can feel the pathetic through the call.”

“Seriously, this is how you treat your big brother?” I grumbled. “What happened to respect?”

“I lost it the time I saw you puking up Three Musketeers after trying to tell me you could eat a dozen of them,” Kathy said matter-of-factly.

Christ.

I’d forgotten about that.

My stomach hadn’t, apparently. It churned as the memory tried to surface.

I turned to my mother. “Why do I get the dating inquisition when they all get to talk about other stuff?”

“Because,” Margot said before our mom could reply, “we’ve all heard enough about sticks and pucks and how you like your skates sharpened.”

“It’s called a radius,” I corrected. “And I prefer?—”

“Five-eighths,” Kathy said, rolling her eyes. “Please save us the time spent waxing poetic about your skate blades and tell us when our highly successful and attractive older brother is going to stop playing the field and settle down.”

If they only knew.

That I did want to settle.

That I wanted to find that settle with Jules, or at least to explore what we had together. Because she was funny and smart and worked her ass off. Because she was beautiful and I’d caught her gaze on me as often as my eyes were drawn to hers.

But I didn’t want to talk about Jules.

I understood why she’d turned me down—well, I didn’t really understand it, not when her stare tangled with mine so often, not when she was always friendly and stopped by my table to say hi and chat, even if I wasn’t sitting in her section.

Those brief moments of conversation only lasted a couple of minutes, but they were the best parts of my day.

My week.

And she didn’t want to date me.

So, none of it really mattered.

Not the conversations, nor the way our gazes caught hold.

Not the way my body focused on hers whenever she was in the vicinity, an inner Jules Detector that had my fingers itching to touch, my pulse speeding, my nose searching for any scent of her.

Not even the way she intrigued me, made me desperate to know every secret and memory and thought in her mind.

That made me sound like a sociopath.

But I couldn’t help it.

Jules was a puzzle I wanted to solve.

All of that was a fact that I didn’t want my family to know.

The nosiness, the pressure from them if they did…fuck?—

No. I’d rather talk about wedding colors—and all the merits of the various shades of peach—than share the fact that I wanted a woman who didn’t or couldn’t or wouldn’t want me back.

So, I tried to come up with an answer that would prevent any further questions.

Unfortunately, despite my trying, I was drawing blanks.

“I’m not dating anyone,” I said.

And the tone was wrong.

All wrong.

Which was why every single pair of eyes on the screen suddenly focused on me with laser precision.

Damn. I’d set off all of my family’s internal alarms.

“But you want to be dating someone,” Margot said softly. “The woman who put the kicked-puppy look in your eyes.”

Fuck.

Because I did.

I wanted it so badly that I was jerking off a good three times a day, fantasizing about her for most of the rest of the day.

And even when I managed to stop thinking of my dick, I was still thinking of Jules—planning all the questions I’d ask her if I got two uninterrupted minutes with her at my table.

I wanted to know about her son, her past, her family, her dreams and hopes, if she’d ever been to a hockey game… and if not, if she’d like to go.

Which was back in date territory and crossing that barrier she’d set.

But maybe she wanted to take Ethan, wanted to take her son, and?—

“It’s clear you do want to be dating someone,” Kathy said gentle too, joining in with Margot for their familiar one-two attack to dig out every juicy detail. “Dish, big bro.”

Was it too much to think fuck again? It had been a constant litany in my mind of late.

Probably it was too much, but I thought it again, anyway.

“Kath—”

“ Dish ,” she repeated.

“Baby,” my mom said, and hell, I was a grownup and she could still make my feel like a little kid. “You might as well just tell us.”

I glanced at Sam, who just lifted his brows, telling me that he wanted to me to dish too. A look at my dad told me the same—well, my dad didn’t want me to dish , but he wasn’t going to wade in and save me either. He was too familiar with his wife, his daughters.

“Traitors,” I muttered.

Sam smirked.

“ Cas ,” Kathy pressed.

“What?” I asked loudly, taking the only out I had. “Sorry, I think my connection is bad?—”

“Don’t you dare,” Margot began.

“Luca!” my mom exclaimed, telling me I was in big trouble because she’d used my first name and not the nickname bestowed on me almost at birth.

“You’re all frozen.” I tapped the screen, all in on the deception. “Sorry, I can’t hear?—”

I hit the button to end the call, closed my laptop.

There would be hell to pay for my avoidance.

Without a doubt.