Page 9 of Branded (Breakers Hockey)

Nine

Smitty

A sharp breath in, her lips parted and tempting, even more so when her tongue darted out, moistened the bottom one.

Progress.

Words that were rattling around my head, about me, about her.

Clarity.

And… yeah progress.

It wasn’t that she didn’t like me, or at least, I didn’t think so, considering I was kneeling in front of her, holding her hands, and she wasn’t running for the hills.

But…she’d just given me something big.

And as much as I wanted to kiss her, I couldn’t.

Not right then.

I sucked in a breath, released her hands, and slowly moved back into my chair.

Kailey blinked, those green eyes shuttering for a moment, and I held my breath, wondering if she would backtrack.

But then her chin came up, just slightly, and she nodded at my laptop. “So, do you want help?”

“There,” she said, clicking the final selection. “All done.” Surprisingly—or maybe not considering her specialty—Kailey was a control freak when it came to the tech…and the trackpad.

I hadn’t needed her to click the responses I’d selected, but her doing that had required me to lean close to see the screen when she’d insisted on being the one to do the clicking.

Which had led to my leaning in.

Which had then been followed by her not leaning away.

More progress.

Especially because I wouldn’t have expected her to demand anything from me, and the fact that she had …yeah, I was definitely feeling that progress.

And surprisingly, I hadn’t minded when she’d begun skimming ahead and reading to me—which outside of an audiobook, was something I’d hated growing up.

I already felt stupid a good sixty percent of the time, so having someone emphasize that by blazing by me in reading speed and then having the audacity to just do it so easily always stung.

But there was no condescension in her voice.

Just a husky rasp that slid over my skin like lace, which made me want to forget the promise to just be friends that I’d made all of an hour before.

Did I want more?

Fuck yeah.

Was I going to respect her boundary? Also, fuck yeah (albeit that fuck yeah was slightly less enthusiastic).

She hit submit, rolled her shoulders, and my gaze was drawn to the slender column of her throat, the way her blouse clung to the curves of her breasts.

My cock twitched and I reached for the laptop, needing the cover.

“Wait,” she began, “you have to close it proper?—”

I shut the top, dropped it onto my lap, the heat from the computer probably frying my sperm, but what the fuck did I need that for now? The only woman my dick had shown the least amount of interest in in months was Kailey, and she wasn’t going to jump in bed with me and?—

“—ly,” she finished, and I couldn’t help it.

The juxtaposition of my thoughts—sexy body to fried sperm—was too much.

I laughed, loudly, cutting myself off when she jumped. “Sorry.”

She reached out, hesitated, then lightly patted my arm. “Don’t be.” A whisper. “Just…be you.

“So, here are some resources for your personality type,” Hazel said, handing me a stack of papers. “I know it looks like a lot.” A smile. “But there’s a page with all the big bullet points, and the rest of it is just in case you want to learn more.”

I took the pages, glanced at them long enough to see that there were five characteristics in bold, to focus and read the words.

Then I set them aside and picked up the ball I always played with during these meetings.

And insert all the balls and playing with them jokes here.

Hazel’s gaze went to my hands, to that ball, and she grinned, though if I had to guess, I’d say her thoughts were less about my testicles and more about the fact that she always liked to tease the guys about not being able to sit still during her sessions with us.

That’s why she had the bucket of foam balls and the punching bag, the mini basketball hoop in the corner.

“So,” she said. “I’m guessing that you’re wondering why you get a dissertation on personality traits and what the hell that has to do with hockey. ”

“I mean,” I grumbled, tossing the ball and…swoosh! Nothing but net. “I mean, I get homework and Marcel got to break shit.”

Hazel got quiet, and I turned to see her looking thoughtful.

“And you think breaking shit is more in your wheelhouse than his?”

Uh-oh.

Danger lay down that path.

I shrugged, moved to shag down the ball. “I’m big and strong, and it’s fun breaking shit. That’s what I’m saying.”

Silence.

Then, “Hmm.”

Then she asked me about my family and my childhood.

That thoughtful look remained in place. “And your brother? Was he happy that you made it into the league?”

I paused, surprised by the question. “Yeah, of course. My family’s been really supportive.”

She tilted her head, studying me closely. “Your brother used to play, right?”

“I—” I frowned. “Yeah, but he hasn’t for years.” I scrubbed a hand through my beard. “Maybe since he was a teenager.”

“Did you break things then?”

The ball I’d been tossing hit the carpet. “What?”

“You say you’re best at breaking things and hitting guys. I’m just wondering if that’s how you’ve always played or if it’s something that’s evolved over the years.”

“I…” I picked up the ball. “Well, I wasn’t as big of a guy then. I used to play, or”—a shrug—“at least, I used to think that I was a bit like Marcel. Smooth and fast, good hands. Then, my coach…well, we decided that I was better suited for defense.”

She frowned.

“It’s not like it seems. I was just…a disappointment—” Fuck.

Why had I said it like that? Now her expression was concerned, and she was looking at me like…

fuck , like I was a little bit pathetic.

“I just…I had a better chance of moving forward as defense. The position came more naturally and I love it. I really do. Protecting Marty. Being able to jump up in the play occasionally. But I really like working my ass off for the guys. That’s my comfort zone, and though I missed the excitement of being the one who was getting all the glitz and attention at first.” I grinned at her.

“We aren’t professionals because we’re not competitive.

” She smiled back. “I’m glad I found my way back to the blue line.

If my coach hadn’t suggested”—ordered, really, but coaches didn’t do anything else, did they?

—“then I wouldn’t be here, glitz or otherwise. ”

Hazel leaned back in her chair, her expression gentle, but not giving anything else away as she studied me.

And for some reason, I was…tense.

Was she judging me?

Had I said the right thing?

Would she think I was a disappointment, too? That I wouldn’t fit with the team and?—

Her lips curved. “I could see you with some glitz,” she teased. “Glitter in that beard? A sparkly bowtie to go with all the plaid?”

Laughter bubbled up in my chest, and I tossed the ball, sending it sailing through the hoop. “I could totally rock some glitter and sparkles.”

The crack of my stick.

The cool air on my cheeks seeping in through my beard.

Long, flowing locks…on my face.

Heh.

I wondered if Kailey liked beards.

Maybe I should trim it up, try to look a little more put together. Maybe if I cleaned up decently, she would?—

“Ow!” I cried, leaning forward and bracing against the sting of a puck hitting me right between the shoulder blades. I sucked in a breath, whipped around to glare at Theo. The bastard was looking suspiciously innocent.

But being as I had been part of plenty of mischief, I knew when someone was up to no good.

“What?” Theo asked, skating over, and snagging a puck.

Another puck.

The first being the one that had beaned me right between the shoulder blades.

“I’m so glad that we’re on opposite teams for the scrimmage,” I said.

And yeah, my tone was more than a little evil, and Theo went a little pale, but the skinny little fucker needed to understand to not fuck with me.

I was the one who did the fucking?—

And also, yeah, that wasn’t going to be a thought I uttered aloud.

Ever.

A whistle trilled, and I glanced up to see Tommy Franklin gesturing us over.

Tommy was a former NHL player and had been the Breakers’ head coach for a number of years.

I was noncommittal about him and the job he was doing as a coach, but since I mostly worked with Jacob Ralston, the D coach—also a former player—who had a sharp mind, was funny as hell, and hadn’t been there, standing by and doing fucking nothing when Mark Fucking Shelby had been tearing the team apart piece by piece a couple of seasons ago, I could remain fairly neutral about the man who had been there while Shelby was spewing his poison.

Poison that had eventually ended Oliver’s career, lost him his leg, and had fucked with every player on the roster, including Marcel.

Who was one of the coolest people I knew.

So, yeah.

Tommy Franklin wasn’t one of his favorite people, but he was a decent coach.

Even though he knew his stuff, he didn’t try to play the big man and didn’t scream just for screaming’s sake.

But I had lost some respect, frankly (no pun intended, despite my love of puns), when Tommy hadn’t recognized what Shelby was doing to the room.

Luc, our GM, on the other hand, had taken ownership, apologized, then had taken actions to make sure the room never got that toxic again.

But moving on, doing the shit I loved to do—skating fast and hitting things (hitting people ).

I followed my teammates over to the huddle, listened to Tommy’s spiel, and then when we were dismissed to drills, I bided my time.

I worked hard, as always.

I focused, as always.

I learned, as always.

And then when it was time to scrimmage, I made sure that I got Theo back for the puck between the shoulder blades.

Tenfold.