Page 94 of Branded (Breakers Hockey)

Twenty-Three

Cas

My ribs ached like a motherfucker, but I was still standing in the hall, having practically ripped myself, Hulk-style, out of my pads and scalding myself with hot water so that I didn’t smell like sweat and ass and disgusting hockey player.

Because I wanted to be there when Jules came down with Ethan.

Wanted to be waiting by the elevators in case she saw the chaos that always filled this level and decided to make a break for it.

Currently, back office staff were running around dealing with the usual post-game stuff—media requests, fan interactions, taking pictures for social media, and much more—while the equipment guys were pulling their normal (and heroic) efforts to organize and clean and pack up all our gear, making sure the players had everything we could possibly need for every game.

Then there were all the arena workers—cleaners and security, box office and management—as well as many of the front office people for the Breakers.

It was a madhouse.

Organized chaos, but still a madhouse, and Jules was…well, she was important, and I didn’t want her to feel overwhelmed and?—

I also didn’t want her to escape.

And great. Now I sounded like I was trying to be a dumbass evil villain from a crappy Hollywood movie.

I’ll never let her escape, muhaha!

Luckily, me being an idiot in my head meant that I didn’t have time to worry about whether or not Jules actually would come down.

She would, right?

Right. She wouldn’t let Ethan miss out on this opportunity.

Not everyone got to come down and—yeah, I was an asshole for using Ethan to get close to her.

Except, maybe I was only a baby ahole? Because I wasn’t just using Ethan.

I wanted Ethan to have the best night of his life, wanted to make the kid happy.

I just…wanted to make Julie happy alongside her son.

Add in all my plans to make that happen, and I really didn’t have time to worry.

Because then the elevator doors were opening and Ethan and Jules were inside, and fuck if my heart wasn’t skipping around like a motherfucker, slamming against my ribcage, stealing my breath and making me feel lightheaded.

“Cas!”

Ethan’s face lit up and he sprinted forward off the elevator, launching himself at me and throwing his arms around my middle.

I stifled a grunt. The kid was strong, and my ribs really were fucked. “Hey, bud. You have a good time?”

A nod that threatened to turn Ethan into a bobblehead. “You scored a goal!”

A rare feat indeed for me as a defensive defenseman. I wasn’t like Smitty. I didn’t often jump up in the rush, didn’t join the forwards in scoring opportunities.

Oh, I’d take one, for sure, just like I had that night.

But I wasn’t the player to seek those out. My strength was cleaning up shit in my own zone, protecting my goalie, blocking shots, and clearing out the front of the net.

Little arms dropped from around my middle, and Ethan stepped back.

“It was so cool!” he exclaimed.

“I’m glad you were here to see it,” I said, ruffling Ethan’s hair. “I don’t do that all too often.” I glanced up at Jules, saw that her face was gentle, that there was no anger in her eyes, not any longer anyway.

“Nice game,” she said softly.

“Thanks,” I murmured, and hell if my voice wasn’t gravel. I cleared my throat, focused back on Ethan, focused on my plan to give this kid the best night ever. “You want to go and see some stuff?”

Ethan pumped his fist. “Yes!”

So, I walked him around, showing him the training suite (complete with our intensely focused on her job head trainer, Sam).

Then I showed them the family rooms, where kids and spouses could hang out and watch the games on huge flat screens mounted to one wall, play with the provided toys, or use the copious craft supplies.

Beyond the training suit was the gym and the hot and cold tubs, including the new machine that players were strapped into while cold air was blown over our bodies (and wasn’t that a fucking joy?).

But it was supposed to help with healing by shocking the body in a way that was similar to the ice baths of old.

There were also massage rooms—though Ethan was definitely more wowed by our Rec Room, which was basically a huge room with a small kitchen, its cabinets jam-packed with food.

The rest of the open space was filled with leather recliners and televisions hooked up to different video game consoles, along with several coffee tables where feet could be propped up.

Basically, it was a space where the guys could hang out and chill.

Though, this was typically before games and in between warm-ups or after the occasional morning skate that Coach had us come to, rather than after games when everyone was tired and wanted to just go home and sleep.

After that, I took him to the locker room.

Note: this was last because I didn’t need Jules and Ethan scarred by Smitty walking around with his dick out.

Even though this was the public-facing room and we weren’t really supposed to be walking around with dicks out, Smitty really liked being naked, so one never knew with him.

Once I had deemed it was safe, we slipped in through the open door.

Also note: this was done after I poked my head in and made sure that everyone was clothed (e.g.

that Smitty was decent) and after I’d fixed the remaining members of my team with a death glare to threaten them to behave before I’d actually stepped aside and let Ethan walk inside.

“Whoa!” Ethan said, rushing in and running over to the Breakers logo that was printed on the carpet in the middle of the room.

“ Whoa!” he said again, spinning in a circle, seemingly taking in the stalls where the guys got dressed—many of which were still filled with players who were wearing skates and shin guards and hockey pants, their shoulder pads hanging behind them, their elbow pads on the shelves, plopped next to their helmets.

Jerseys went into the rolling bin in the middle of the room.

Gloves were dropped in the cubbies in the hall to be dried and cleaned (this was also done in between periods because there was nothing worse than trying to control the puck with wet gloves and slick palms).

“Who’s this?” Marcel asked, the quiet captain smiling.

“Ethan!” Ethan filled him in before Jules or I could answer. “And you’re Marcel Aubert,” he went on, his voice filled with awe—and hell if I wasn’t a little jealous. “And you’re Connor Smith,” Ethan said, turning to Smitty. “And Raph Gomez and?—”

That was the point that Ethan short-circuited, going mute, his eyes wide and he seemed to lose his confidence.

I moved toward him, crouching down and wrapping an arm around his shoulders. “Did you know that Smitty once tripped over Raph’s stick on the ice and sprained his wrist?”

It was still one of the best days of my life, watching that sequence of events.

The big, bulky defensemen tap dancing on the ice before going down.

Once I knew that Smitty wasn’t badly hurt, anyway.

“Really, man?” Smitty boomed. “You’re gonna do me like that?”

Hell yeah, I was.

Payback for all the shit I had been on the receiving end of.

“Did it hurt?” Ethan asked, and—damn—my heart squeezed. There was real concern in the kid’s voice.

Nice. Really nice.

Just like his mama.

“Not too much, buddy,” Smitty said, smacking a meaty fist against his chest. “I’m big and tough.”

“And klutzy,” Raph said, only halfway under his breath.

Smitty glared as the rest of the guys busted up, but then he was coming over to Ethan, taking him on a tour of the rest of the room, showing him sticks and his helmet and generally showing his good (instead of evil) side.

This was the side that had endeared him to each and every one of the members of this organization.

Smitty cared, and he did it big.

Even if he was annoying a lot of the time.

“What about you?”

“What’s that, gorgeous?” I asked, pushing to my feet with a grunt, biting back a wince when the movement made pain shoot through my ribs.

Yeah, my ribs were definitely not going to be my happy place for the next few days.

“What about you, honey?” she repeated, albeit with the addition of the endearment that sent my pulse skittering through my veins. And I was reeling from the honey when she came close, when she gently smoothed her fingertips over my side.

Over my ribs.

“What’s that?” I asked again.

“Are you big and tough?” Another smooth of her hand. “Big and tough enough that you’ll ignore and fight through whatever is making you wince?”

“I’m fine, gorgeous.” I shrugged, and newsflash, that was a mistake. I went on anyway. “Hockey is a contact sport and a lot of time that means it comes with bruises.”

A tilt of her head, concern in her deep chocolate eyes. “You’re hurting,” she said softly, fingers lightly brushing over my aching side again. “You should be resting, not showing us around.”

See?

Nice .

Just like her son.

“I’m fine,” I said. “Promise. And anyway,” I added, feeling oddly shy and nervous.

“We should go get Ethan. I’m sure he’ll want to see the ice from down here.

” That was the only stop we hadn’t made on the tour yet and Jules’s hockey crazed kiddo would love it.

“I know it’s getting late, and you hardly slept last night and?—”

She leaned a little closer, cheeks flushing, eyes warming.

My heart squeezed.

Hard.

Those nerves flared.

“Cas,” she whispered. “Honey, you should?—”

A child’s shriek had us jumping apart.