Page 90 of Branded (Breakers Hockey)

Nineteen

Cas

“Er-hmm.”

I glanced over at Smitty, who coughed again, then picked up his water bottle and took a long swig.

Fucker better not be getting sick and spreading that shit through the locker room. There was always one patient zero and then pretty soon everyone was hacking up a lung.

Kind of hard to play hockey when you could barely breathe.

“Er-hmm.”

Another glance toward Smitty, this time with narrowed eyes.

But all my teammate did was take another sip of water and continue on with tying his skates.

Okay, that was less patient zero and more full-on annoying Smitty-ness.

Case in point?

“Er-hmm!”

“Jesus fucking Christ, what Smitty?” Theo snapped—something that was uncharacteristically Theo, who was usually pretty easy-going.

Although, I had seen my friend and teammate cornered by a certain sports blogger and journalist turned television color commentator, had witnessed that easy-going disappear into a proverbial poof of smoke.

Eva Moreno was smart, took no shit, and had a body built for sin.

Exactly Theo’s type.

If their personalities hadn’t combined like oil and water.

And yet…I kept spotting them together.

Hmm.

Smitty, meanwhile, wasn’t bothered by being snapped at—then again, the troublemaker was probably used to it. He just straightened, took another swig from his water bottle, and then set it on the bench, lifting his brows…and turning a smirk in my direction.

Shhhhiiiittt.

“Er—”

“I swear to God,” Theo muttered.

“Hmm.” Sock balls were launched in Smitty’s direction, but he just ducked and then smirked at me again. “I hear that a certain favorite waitress is coming to the game tonight.”

More smirks turned in my direction.

“With…her son.”

Now raised brows joined the party.

Fuck .

“On Cas’s tickets.”

My groan was mental, but I was almost certain the rest of the room heard it because smirks turned to grins and Smitty said, “Finally got Jules to agree to go out with you, Cassy boy?”

Yeah, not exactly.

But I had finally made some progress, and I wasn’t going to fucking backtrack. And I especially wasn’t going to backtrack on it because of these nosy, pushy fuckers who wanted to know every single detail of each other’s lives.

“Leave it alone, Smitty,” I warned.

My teammate just laughed. “You know we’re not going to leave it alone, so I don’t know why you’re bothering to try to issue orders.”

Fucking hell.

That was it .

I jumped up to my feet—well, to my skates—and marched across the room, jabbing a finger in Smitty’s face. “She’s been hurt, fuckhead, so don’t mess with her.”

Now, Smitty might be an annoying asshole half the time (although so loveable the rest of the time that everyone forgot about his annoying nature), but he also had a protective streak that was a mile wide. At my words, his expression immediately changed, and his voice became a growl. “Who hurt her?”

That wasn’t my information to share—but that wasn’t to say that I wouldn’t drop a few hints before the next time we played the Sierra, would make sure that Nate Miller got his due.

And just to be clear, that due was ensuring that Nate Miller spent most of the game on the ice and slammed against the glass.

Smitty corralled (for the moment), I dropped my hand. “I’m taking care of it,” I muttered. “Same as I’m going to take care of Jules.”

“Does she know that?” Smitty—rightfully—pointed out.

I pressed my lips together, glared. “She knows enough.”

Laughter in that big, burly chest. Laughter that echoed across the room. “Good luck to you, man.”

“Right,” I muttered.

I didn’t need luck.

Jules was worth any amount of trouble or bad luck she’d dropped into my lap.

“It’ll be worth it,” Smitty said, like I was bestowing the most sacred of knowledge.

“I know that,” I snapped, striding back to my station. “I don’t need you to tell me that,” I grumbled, slumping onto the bench. “She’s fucking amaz— ow! ”

I glared at Theo, who’d decided to launch a sock ball at my face.

“What, asshole?”

“You’re supposed to be less cranky when you finally get your picker on straight.”

That was just…really…

“If I never hear that word again,” I grumbled, scooping up the sock and launching it back at Theo, feeling a little better when it ricocheted off his forehead.

Ha. Fucker. “It’ll be too soon. My picker isn’t broken or crooked.

It’s perfectly—” I broke off, scrambling for a word that didn’t sound… well, sexual.

My teammates weren’t so concerned with that.

“Hard?” Smitty chimed in.

“Long?” Theo asked.

“Thick?” Raph.

“Steely?” Marcel.

“Girthy?” Walker.

The room froze, and then a collective groan filled the space.

“Too much?” Walker asked with an innocent expression.

“ Way too fucking much,” Smitty said. “And coming from me, you know that’s true.”

“Girthy is a totally reasonable description for a picker.”

Christ. I needed out of this conversation.

As thus, I sped through the rest of getting dressed, ignoring the comments and conversation flowing around me, not acknowledging any of the parts that had to do with me. No way was I getting drawn in to that. I wanted to focus on the game. I needed to show Jules…

Hell, I needed to show off for Jules and Ethan.

Hello ego.

But it was the truth, and I wasn’t going to shy away from it, wasn’t going to shy away from any of it.

I shrugged into my jersey, shoved my arms through the sleeves, yanked my head through the opening, taking the opportunity to glare at my teammates. “I’m bringing Ethan down after the game, so make sure you fuckers stay around to sign stuff for him.”

“Whatever you say, boss,” Smitty said, saluting.

Fuckers.

“And play some decent fucking hockey tonight, yeah?”

“Want us to set you up for a goal too, grumpy?” Raph called. “Make you look good for your giiirrrl?”

Yeah. That’d be fucking nice.

Not that I was going to admit that.

No need to give them any further ammunition.

“Fuck you guys.”

“Ah, no need for that,” Smitty hollered. “You know we’d make love to you.”

I shoved my helmet onto my head.

“He means we love you,” Theo said.

“You mean you love seeing me be tortured by a woman,” I grumbled.

“Well, yeah,” Theo said, grinning as he snagged his own jersey. “That’s the best part.”

The annoying bastard.

And because of that, I made a mental note to do some digging into my friend and the sports blogger. Turnabout was fair play.

“Good luck with Jules,” Marcel said lightly, though my quiet friend was smirking just as widely as the rest of them.

I narrowed my eyes.

“Yup.” Smitty waggled his fingers. “Good luuuck!”

“Like you’re not going to be laughing your ass off the entire time.”

“Oh, I will.” A beat. “But I’ll still have your back throughout the entire wooing process.”

Wooing process.

Sigh .

But the having my back? That was good. That was what made the teasing, as light-hearted—and girthy—as it was, bearable. Because the guys were my friends, my family. Teasing came with hockey, and as much as I might grumble about being on the receiving end of it, I could dish it out just as well.

And I would.

Would!

Fuckers.

“Shut up and finish getting dressed,” I ordered, moving out the door and snagging my stick off the rack.

It was time to play some fucking hockey.

And hopefully impress the girl I was crazy about.