Page 79 of Branded (Breakers Hockey)

Eight

Jules

His little legs were practically a blur as he barreled toward me, backpack bouncing as he ran, his metal water bottle swinging from side to side in his hands.

It was only a few weeks into school and the bottle looked like it had been shoved into a garbage disposal.

Repeatedly.

Dings and scratches marred the sides, and the bottom was so dented it would be a miracle if it survived to Christmas break.

How my child managed to destroy a supposedly indestructible bottle was one of those mysteries of the universe that would never be solved. I loved Ethan, but the kid was definitely a bull in a china shop.

Case in point?

His run toward me ending up in a tangle of limbs, backpack straps…and that bottle flying out of his hand to collide with the concrete and roll steadily down the path in front of school.

Well, I supposed that solved the unsolvable mystery of Ethan’s water bottle.

Moving toward him—steadily, but not running because he wasn’t crying and didn’t appear to be injured—I went to pick up the water bottle?—

“Julie.”

Christ.

It was Mr. Philips.

I’d successfully avoided him since the uncomfortable conversation from a couple of days before.

Not any longer, apparently.

I snatched the bottle, glanced up to see that at least he’d helped Ethan up and hadn’t just stepped over my child like he was an obstacle to bypass.

Ethan liked him, but he’d only been in school for weeks, and there was a real possibility that the shine would wear off—especially if Mr. Philips couldn’t take a hint, and then it affected how he interacted with my son.

Then I’d have to go mama bear and things would get complicated.

Mr. Philips squeezed Ethan on the shoulder as I straightened. “All good, Ethan?”

A nod. “Thanks.” Ethan spotted me. “Mom!”

Then his arms were wrapping around my waist, and he was squeezing the air out of me…and it was glorious.

My bull in a china shop, my little boy who was growing too fast, my loving and generous son was in my arms and hugging me tight.

God, I loved him.

More than anything.

“Thanks for the assist,” I told Mr. Philips cautiously, squeezing Ethan as he rotated in my arms.

“No problem.” A smile that almost made me forget the earlier awkwardness. “I know a little of what it’s like to have two left feet.” He ruffled Ethan’s hair, then glanced up at me, lips still curved. “How are you?”

His question brought that awkward right back into the forefront of my mind.

“Can I talk to you privately for a moment?” He tilted his head slightly to the side.

“Umm…” Shit . I was going to have to do this, wasn’t I?

Make it clear nothing could happen. A stifled sigh as I caught the determination in the teacher’s eyes.

Yup. I was going to have to do this. Scanning the area, I spotted one of Ethan’s friends running like a madman on the grass.

“Can you go play with David, bud? I just need to talk to Mr. Philips for a minute.”

Who would hopefully get the clue that he was only Mr. Philips and would always only be Mr. Philips.

“’Kay,” he said and dropped his backpack and bottle at my feet before running off.

Yup. That was definitely how his water bottle looked like it had been gnawed on by a gremlin.

Mr. Philips stepped off the path, toward a section of grass that wasn’t full of people.

Gut churning, I followed him, trying to fill my mind with ways to let him down easy, even as I spiraled with all the ways this was certainly going to go wrong.

I was going to have to be in the principal’s office. Or speak to the school board. Or?—

“Thank you for talking with me,” he said. “I hope I’m not keeping you.”

Except from running away from this conversation I wanted to avoid.

Which I was quite desperate to do.

“It’s fine,” I said. “What did you want to discuss?”

He stepped a little closer, managed to rattle my world further while simultaneously making me realize I’d been wrong about the interest I’d thought he had. “It’s about Ethan’s dad.”

My mind still spinning a few hours later—and not because Mr. Philips had been too familiar and made me uncomfortable, but because of what he’d told me—I still had to go to work.

Still had to focus on work.

I’d gotten Ethan home and settled with an afternoon snack. We’d blazed through his homework (twenty minutes of reading and one math handout). Then I’d sent in my homework for the online classes I was completing.

Then dinner was ready, and Ethan was bathed and in jammies and ready to spend a couple of hours with Mary, who’d showed up at my door just as I had finished changing into my CeCe’s uniform—that consisting of a CeCe’s T-shirt, a pair of dark wash jeans that hid any inadvertent stains, and comfortable shoes.

I’d answered the door, said goodbye, gotten my last Ethan Hug of the night, and left, confident that Mary—who I’d met a few years before in an English class we’d both been taking at the local community college, and had moved in next door the previous year—had Ethan covered.

She was invaluable, short on cash as most college students, and Ethan loved her.

I thought she was great, as much family as anyone had ever been.

Mary would put Ethan to bed and stay at the apartment until I got home, spending her time studying, watching trash TV, and then eventually passing out on the couch until I arrived and woke her up to walk her next door.

All of this was the normal routine, one I could complete with my eyes closed. But this afternoon, it was a routine I’d completed with my mind a jumbled mess of thoughts, and considering my brain was still full of worry, I didn’t think the evening and post-shift one would go any better.

What the hell was I going to do?

What—

Loud laughter shook me out of my head, thankfully before the soda I was refilling could spill over the edges of the glass. Quickly, I pulled it away from the machine, set it on the tray. Focused.

Because the Breakers were in the house tonight.

And their women were in the house tonight.

And it meant…that Cas was in the house tonight too.

Also, why did I suddenly sound like I was a DJ in a club?

Everybody throw your hands up! Sexy Breakers players in the house tonight!

Losing it. Clearly, I was losing it.

And I needed more sleep and to spend less fantasizing about a certain hockey player and his yummy ass and his sexy, soft, rasping voice murmuring in my ear, his rough hands on my skin, his mouth brushing my skin, and?—

Cold liquid on my hand.

“Shit,” I muttered, yanking the next glass I’d been refilling away from the machine and using a paper towel to wipe the sides. Disgusted with myself, I set it on the tray, washed my sticky hands in the sink.

“Need some help?”

It was a question voiced in a sexy, soft rasp I instantly knew, a rasp that slid down my skin. Phantom lips trailing over my abdomen and belly and lower .

My head jerked up, eyes colliding with Cas’s.

They immediately filled with concern. “Are you okay?”

I tore my gaze away, went back to refilling glasses. “Yeah,” I said. “It’s just been a long week. Did Smitty decide to get another pitcher after all?”

Silence.

For so long that I found myself looking up, my stare tangling with Cas’s again.

And braced.

He wasn’t going to let this go. Men never did.

They pushed and demanded and pounced when I wasn’t prepared, tearing me to shreds, leaving me wounded and trying to pull myself back together and?—

“Yeah,” he said so softly I almost couldn’t hear it. “Smitty decided he wanted another pitcher.”

For a second, I couldn’t respond.

Because I had been mentally preparing for that argument surely heading my way.

But Cas didn’t rush me as I slowly computed his response, just kept leaning against the bar, one strong forearm resting on the wooden surface.

Springy, dark hair covering the olive skin there.

Not so much that meant he’d be a full-on grizzly everywhere else, but enough that there was no doubt he was a man.

Ropy muscles, thick blunt fingers I’d like to slip between my thighs, press up into the slick heat of my pussy, fucking me fast and hard before he fucked me with his?—

His hand flexed, those fingers pressing against the bar top, and I jerked again.

Shit.

I didn’t need another thing to fantasize about in the middle of the night.

“Want me to come back?” he asked.

“N-no,” I stammered, putting those fingers out of my mind, snagging a pitcher and filling it, forcing myself to focus so it wasn’t all foam. That only took a few moments, and I used that time to stop thinking about him finger fucking me into glorious oblivion.

Because it would be glorious.

I had no doubt about that.

I shivered, clenched my teeth together until my jaw protested.

Then rounded the bar, intending to bring the pitcher over to the guys’ table, so focused on trying to stop myself from fantasizing about Cas, I nearly mowed down the man himself.

“Whoa,” he said, catching my arms, steadying me—and then the pitcher—before I could dump it on both of us. “I was going to offer to carry it over for you,” he said, dropping the hand still on my arm and the other that had steadied the pitcher. “Since I’m heading out anyway.”

That didn’t make sense.

The exit wasn’t by the bar, by me, but I wasn’t thinking all that closely with him so near, with the scent of him in my nose, the imprints of his touch on my skin.

The heat of his body wrapping around mine.

Oh .

That was his hand, settling on my waist, sliding up to my arm, my hand, tugging at the pitcher.

“Here,” he murmured. “I’ll take it.”

I inhaled.

This was…strangely intimate considering the surrounding people, the noise, the complete lack of privacy. And yet, just like before, when we’d talked, our bodies close in the hallway, I felt as though we were alone, the rest of the world a blurry background.

“Jules?” he murmured, his voice very close to my ear.

“Hmm?”

God, even his beard was sexy.

How was his beard sexy?

Another tug and the pitcher disappeared from my hand.

Fingers brushed lightly over my cheek. “Try to get some sleep tonight, yeah?”

I inhaled. Sharply.

Not because of the soft, rasping question.

But because of the touch. That light caress that had lightning bolts sliding through my veins. I was still reeling from that as he spun and walked away, holding that pitcher, giving me a view of that glorious hockey player’s ass.

An image that was burned into my mind for the rest of my shift, right along with that soft, rasping question echoing in my ears.

An image and a question that firmly made their places at home inside my mind when I closed out and found a slightly crumpled hundred-dollar bill tucked into the front pocket of my jeans.

I didn’t have to think hard to know where it came from—or whom , rather.

None of my big tabs had paid in cash.

And none of the others had paid in bills that large.

It was Cas’s.

Amusement and annoyance tangled.

But all I could think was this was war.