Page 1 of Stick Break (Boston Bucks #8)

Rip

E ither that one beer was stronger than advertised, or Goldilocks had broken into the wrong damn fairy tale—and decided my bed was just right.

The wood floor creaks, as I take a measure step closer, and peer at the petite blonde hugging my pillow like it just whispered sweet nothing and promised her coffee in the morning. I lean forward, but with her back to me, I still can’t get a good view of her face.

Heck, maybe it’s not a real woman between my sheets.

Maybe my buddy Gunter, or one my teammates thought it’d be hilarious to stash a blow-up doll in my bed while I sucked back some suds after exercising on the beach.

But no, that theory doesn’t add up. Gunter is away on his honeymoon, and only he and his wife Paisley know I’m here at their cottage.

Which mean, there really is a woman in my bed…

and Jesus is that my sweatshirt she’s wearing.

I clear my throat. “Um, hello.”

“Fftlelle…”

I scratch my head as she mumbles something in her sleep and flops like a fish having an existential crisis, until she’s turned my way.

That’s when I get a good look at her features—very familiar features.

Sure her hair is shorter, and a different color, but it hardly makes her less recognizable.

That pretty face of hers has been splashed all over the media for months now.

First for winning The Spotlight and second… well, because of a leaked sex tape.

I inch closer, and shake my head. What the ever-loving fuck is reality tv singing star Indie Rhodes doing in Connecticut, in my buddy’s beachside cottage. Maybe the better question is, how the hell did she get in? I double checked the door before I went out to stretch my legs.

As I work to puzzle it out, I come to the realization that she’s not waking up anytime soon, so I back out of the room and pull my phone from my pocket.

Should I call Gunter? Shit, I don’t want to bother them on their honeymoon.

Besides, Paisley plays four instruments and writes symphonies, which means it’s possible that she knows goldilocks, and that they’d given her a key.

But why would they offer the cottage to Indie, when they know I need to lay low, and keep out of the spotlight while I try to heal?

In the kitchen a warm breeze rushes in, and that’s when my gaze goes to the slightly opened window above the sink—a window that I’d also double checked.

Ah, okay so my friends didn’t offer up the place at all, or give a key to anyone.

It’s obvious that Goldilocks shimmied the window open and let herself in.

I walk over to the counter, and it takes extra effort to tug the window shut.

The damn thing must have been painted shut.

Little blondie might be a might of a woman, but she clearly has grit and determination.

I turn back around, and that’s when I take stock of the empty bowl, dirty spoon and to the ripped open, single serving packet on the kitchen table. You’ve got the be fucking kidding me?

Okay, so not only did this woman break in, tug on one of my sweatshirts before falling asleep in my bed, she made herself a damn bowl of oatmeal—and left the dishes.

Fuck my life.

A tortured laugh crawls out of my throat as I pinch my eyes shut and will myself awake.

I mean, I have to be sleeping right? Not only is this too crazy to be true, Goldilocks is a fairy tale and I don’t believe in fairy tales, or happily ever after.

Although that fable didn’t really have a happy ending, and if I remember correctly, little bear was pretty pissed off.

I might not be little bear, and yeah, my nickname on the team is Big Bear, partly because of my size and partly because of the scraggly beard I grow during the playoffs, but I’m pissed too.

I came here to heal in quiet. I can’t let anyone know that I tore my groin in our playoff game, and that if it doesn’t heal properly, it could be a career ending injury.

The last thing I need is a cute blonde—whose been drawing a ton of media attention—bringing unwanted cameras my way.

I stalk back to the room, ready to wake her, and send her packing, but the second I do, and see the dark circles under her eyes as she sleeps, clutching the blankets like they’re her lifeline, my insides soften.

That whole scandal has to be hard on her.

What if she too is here hiding from reality?

Shit, I can’t send her out in the dark. There might not be any vacant rentals and the hotel sign down the road has been flashing No Vacancy all week She stirs again and I go still.

Honestly, if she wakes up now and sees a guy my size hovering over her, it’d scare her half to death, and I don’t want that.

I quietly leave the room again, and eye the sofa.

It doesn’t pull out but it’s long, and comfortable enough for one night.

In the closet I find a pillow and blanket and toss them onto the sofa.

Should I do the dishes first? While I’d really like to, that could wake her, and I think our first meeting and our first conversation is best left for morning.

I tug off my shirt, and debate my pants. I’m not a fan of clothes at the best of time, hence the Ripley Stripley nickname the bunnies gave me. In this situation, however, I think it’s best to leave my pants on.

I fling myself onto the couch, where I’m forced to drape my legs over the armrest like I’m posing for a Renaissance painting.

Nevertheless the position is perfect…for completely destroying what’s left of my groin.

Eventually I contort into something that could pass as comfortable, and close my eyes. Sleep, however, is not a team player.

After a very restless night, the first rays of sunlight stab through the window and pull me awake. Groaning, I toss my cramped legs to the floor. Big mistake. Huge.

Not only is one of them dead, the other lights up with pins and needles like I accidently stepped on a porcupine. To top it off, I’ve planted myself directly in the sun’s death beam.

“Jesus,” I mutter, shielding my poor, innocent, eyeballs as the sun blinds me. I swear I can hear them sizzling. Bones cracking, I stumble to the kitchen, like a man three times my age.

Coffee.

Sweet, caffeinated salvation.

I mash buttons on the machine and when it begins to gurgle, I tiptoe toward the bedroom, praying goldilocks decided to vanish in the night the same way she appeared—magically and without explanation.

Nope.

Of course not.

With her short blonde hair falling across her face, her arms and legs spread wide like she’d been making snow—or rather sand—angels, she’s still snuggled between the sheets. The covers are down, exposing her legs, and I force my gaze away.

Now is not the time to be admiring the criminal in your bed, dude.

Right. Because later will be a much more appropriate time to ogle a fugitive.

No , I mentally slap myself. There will be no later.

I’m kicking her out. Nicely. Politely. But firmly.

There’s no way I can allow her to stay here, in this one-bedroom cottage.

Not only am I trying to heal in private, I have a damn girlfriend.

Well, not really a girlfriend. I have a friend, a girl, who used to be my girlfriend.

Lyra and I were a thing during our college years in upstate New York, but now, we’re sort of on again, off again.

Yeah, on again when she needs something, dude.

I push that thought from my mind, and make my way back to the beloved coffee maker.

I grab a mug and fill. As I sip, I lean against the counter.

Then I hear movement. The soft rustle of sheets.

A thump. Shuffling. And finally…none other than Indie Rhodes appears in the doorway, head ducked, hair a mess, not at all looking like someone broke into my buddy’s cottage.

“Sleep well, Goldilocks?”

Her head snaps up, eyes wide. One hand shoots out and grips the doorframe, like the sight of me might shocked her legs right out from beneath her.

“I uh…who…” Her eyes bounce around the room, as her other hand grabs a fistful of the oversized sweatshirt.

My sweatshirt. Which may or may not look better on her than me, and I’m leaning toward may. “What…what are you doing here?”

I blink. “What am I doing here? I’m pretty sure I’m the one who should be asking you that question.”

Her gaze slices to the door, and I swear I can hear the mental math she’s doing—distance, speed, angle of escape, odds of success. She’s looks like she’s two seconds from trying a full Olympic sprint when I push off the counter and grab another mug.

“Relax. I’m not going to hurt you.” I pour coffee into a big mug with the Connecticut skyline on it, and pretend this is just another Tuesday. I set the mug on the table and take a step back, like I’m trying not to startle a skittish kitten. Nibbling her lip, she stares at it. “It’s not poisoned.”

Her eyes dart to mine, and that’s when I see just how blue they are. “I didn’t think it was…until now.”

That gets a laugh out of me. I grab the carafe and pour more into my cup and take a big, dramatic sip just to prove I’m not the villain here. I raise it in salute as she tiptoes to the table and scurries right back to the safety of the bedroom doorway.

“Thank you.” She takes a sip and a visible chunk of tension melts from her shoulders.

“So, are you going to tell me what you’re doing here…in my sweatshirt?”

I arch a brow, watching her tug at the hem like it might suddenly stretch into pants. It rides higher on her thighs instead. Distracting.

She blinks rapidly. “I didn’t realize it was yours.”She juts a thumb over her shoulder.“I found it in the dresser.”

“Yeah, because I put it there.”

Is she wearing anything under that sweatshirt?

She leans against the doorframe, chin tipped up now.

She's presenting calm, maybe even cocky, like she’s decided bluffing is better than bolting.

“I’m renting this place. From friends. Maybe you’re the one who’s lost. All the cottages look the same, right?

Maybe you’re supposed to be in the one next door. ”

Nice pivot. “Mrs. Callahan’s?”

“I don’t know her name.”

I sip my coffee, now amused with her antics.“These friends of yours…they forget to give you a key?”

“What?”

I nod toward the window. “ Assuming that’s why you had to climb in like a cat burglar.”

She groans, eyes fluttering shut.“Damn.”

“I liked the effort though and you should be glad you didn’t crawl into Mrs. Callahan’s place.” I mock shiver. “She kind of scares me.”

When she lashes flutter open, the bluff’s gone. Just like that, her shoulders drop. The whole show collapses. “I’ll go. Thanks for the coffee.”

She starts to leave, but something in me won’t let her. “Wait.”

Jesus, what am I doing? I should let her go. I need to let her go.

But I ask anyway. “Do you actually have a rental here? Are you really in the wrong place?” She stares into her coffee cup like it might offer an excuse she hasn’t thought of yet. “Just tell me the truth.”

She finally lifts her eyes to mine. They’re raw now—sad and tired and real. It hits like a puck straight to the ribs.

“No,”she says quietly.“I broke in. I needed somewhere to go. Somewhere to…disappear.”

She drops her gaze again, distant now, like whatever she’s remembering is darker than she wants to say.

I watch her in silence. Then, “How long do you need a place?”

What the hell, man. Show her the door. This is a terrible idea. And yet…I don’t move.

Her eyes flick to mine, wide and uncertain, but there’s hope there too, and it’s that glimmer that dissolves what little resolve I have left.

“A week, maybe.”

I exhale.“There’s only one bedroom room.”

“I’ll take the sofa,”she blurts, like she’s been rehearsing that exact concession.“I’m sorry you had to sleep on it last night.” She walks over, bends to pick the blanket up off the floor.

And my sweatshirt rides up.

Way up.

White panties.

Bare legs.

Jesus.

I clamp my jaw tight, fight a groan as my body reacts like I have got zero self-control. Which, apparently, I do. She straightens and turns, totally unaware she just turned my brain to static.

“I really didn’t know anyone was staying here,”she says.

I roll one shoulder, a stiff ache radiating down my arm.“Yeah, well…”I groan softly as the knot protests.

“You’re stiff.”

Jesus.

She flinches.“I mean…your shoulder.”

“I know what you mean.”

“That couldn’t have been comfortable. And it was really sweet of you to let me crash in your bed.” A smile ghosts across her lips. Soft. Real. The first I’ve seen. “It was just right.”

I bark a laugh.“Sure. And I’m guessing the oatmeal was just right too.” I grab the bowl and spoon, carry them to the sink.

“At least I didn’t break a chair,”she offers, playing along.

“Or the window. I think it was painted shut.”I glance at her.

She frowns. “I don’t recall Goldilocks breaking a window, but I’m not up to date in my childhood fairy tales.”

“Right, same. Do you know the owners?”

She nods. “ Yeah. Paisley and I have crossed paths a few times. I knew she was out of town, so I?—”

“Broke in. Yes, we’ve established that. Gunther and I—” I catch myself before saying we play together. The last thing I need is for her to connect the dots. “We’ve crossed paths, too.”

“Gunther’s a hockey player.”

I nod and try to play it cool. “You a fan?”

“I don’t love hockey. Do you?”

“Yeah, I do. Play occasionally.” Okay, not a lie. But not enough for her to put two and two together right. “So, what do I call you?” I only know her stage name, and I’m not sure if she wants that to ring a bell with me either. I’m guessing not.

“I’m ah…”She hesitates, her teeth tugging on her bottom lip.

“Goldilocks is good,”I offer, turning my neck and wincing as pain shoots down my shoulder. Great not only is my groin fucked but my neck is too.

“Right. Um… but you can call me Charly.”

Charly. Not her stage name. Yeah, she really doesn’t want me to know who she is either.

“And you are?” she asks.

“Bear. Big Bear, actually.”Not a lie. Just not the full truth. She grins, amused.

“Not papa bear?”

“I’m no one’s papa, and you can call me Rip.”

“Rip. As in, Rip who allows women to break into his sanctuary, and doesn’t ask too many questions. That about right, Big Bear Rip?”

“Right.”

We lock eyes. The silent agreement hums between us like a live wire. The less we know about each other, the safer we both are.

She steps closer, sets her coffee on the table. Her eyes flick to mine. “So… we need to do something about your stiffness.”