Page 11 of Stick Break (Boston Bucks #8)

Charley

I finish up the last of the dishes while Rip fusses with something outside.

Since he handled dinner, I volunteered for cleanup duty.

Normally, I’d let the mess sit until morning—my usual rebel move—but Rip’s clearly a clean-freak and, well, I’m technically squatting in his beachside hideaway. Not exactly the time to be a slob.

I tuck the final plate into the cupboard and freeze mid-step.

Wait. Was I just… humming? I blink at the sink like it personally betrayed me.

Yep. That was definitely humming. A sound I haven’t made in—wow—a long time.

Not since life got a little too real. But somehow, here, in Rip’s borrowed kitchen with the scent of garlic still hanging in the air, I feel… lighter.

I glance out the open window I may have crawled through earlier, and there he is. Rip. Watching me.

I lift my hand in a wave, a little sheepish, and he lifts his in return—stiff, awkward, like waving might physically pain him. Then, like I caught him doing something scandalous, he snaps his gaze away and pretends to be very, very interested in the grill tongs.

Okay… weird.

I let myself watch him a little longer. There’s a tightness to his movements, a guarded stiffness in his stride that makes my chest pinch.

He’s hurting. Not just physically—though the limp’s still there—but in that big, silent way men like Rip try to hide.

His career’s dangling on a string, and I’m guessing he’s not thrilled about his fallback plan involving dusty textbooks and political debates.

He’s not built for boardrooms. He’s built for ice and speed and cheering crowds.

But if he won’t let anyone help him? Fine. I’ll help without making it a thing . No pressure, no pity party. Just sneaky, subtle care. Ninja nurturing, if you will.

I check the freezer. Full ice tray. Perfect.

Then my phone starts jittering across the counter like it’s possessed. I glance at the screen and my stomach drops. Of course. Her . My fingers twitch, but I don’t move. Just let it ring. And ring. And?—

It stops.

Then immediately starts again.

And I still just… stare.

“Are you going to get that?”

I whip around so fast I nearly dislocate something. “Holy crap, Rip! Ever think of knocking?”

Hand to my chest, I try to slow my racing heart. A different kind of racing heart this time. Because he’s close. Like, closer than should be legal close. His eyes search mine, his voice soft.

“Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“Maybe you’re the one who needs a bell,” I mutter, trying to play it cool even as my pulse still tap dances in my throat.

He doesn’t laugh. Just drags his finger slowly over the scruff on his jaw, eyes flicking to the still-ringing phone. “You didn’t want to answer.”

“It’s my mom.” I sigh.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” I say quickly, my usual response, but when he cocks his head, I continue, “Today’s been... good. Really good. And she has a way of, you know, pouring rain on good.”

“Then don’t answer,” he says simply, picking up the phone like it’s radioactive. He holds it out. “Let’s ditch these things for the rest of the day.”

I grin, surprised. “Really?”

“Really,” he says. “It’s our vacation from reality, remember?”

“Okay,” I say, and I mean it.

I watch Rip’s back muscles flex as he hauls the phones into the bedroom. A drawer slides open, a quick plot twist, and then slams shut like it’s hiding some grand secret. He reappears, somehow looking even sexier—like mystery and muscle had a very attractive baby.

“Going for a walk?” I ask.

“Yeah, I like to stretch out after dinner.”

I grin, drying my hands. “Mind if I join? I could use some stretching myself.”

He nods—he gets my subtext, even if neither of us say it out loud. He grabs a ballcap, pulls it low over his brow, and we head out. Outside, he locks the door, and suddenly, our bodies are close as we cross the narrow road, our feet instantly sinking into the cool sand.

The beach after dark is a whole different world. Quiet, calm. Families have retreated to their cottages, kids tucked in or roasting marshmallows by their own fires.

A dull ache presses in the center of my chest.

“You okay?” Rip’s voice breaks the silence.

I laugh, trying to shake it off. “Yeah. Just thinking about how quiet it is now. So different from this afternoon—all those kids building sandcastles, believing in fairy tales.”

Rip smirks. “I gave up believing... until I found Goldilocks in my bed.”

I nudge him playfully. He pulls away just a bit, but the warmth doesn’t leave his eyes.

“Come on, Rip, we both know you’re a hopeless romantic.”

He steps back in close again, fingers brushing mine like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “You want a family someday?”

After the craziness of the contest and the club, I thought my life would be somewhere else by now. But here I am—kind of a hot mess, drifting nowhere.

I shrug. “I have to figure out what I want first. Can’t bring kids into this chaos just yet. How about you?”

Rip exhales slowly. “I need to get my shit together too.”

There’s a long pause, the kind that hums with unsaid things. Knowing he’s talking about his ex, I ask gently, “She’s hard on your head, huh?”

He rubs the back of his neck, voice raw. “Yeah. How do I still want her, Char? One minute, she’s all love and promises. The next, she’s gone—bed cold, off doing who knows what with who knows who. What’s wrong with me? I thought other girls would fix this. They don’t.”

His honesty catches me off guard. It’s like all the love and pain he’s been bottling up is finally spilling out.

He trusts me. And honestly? I barely know him.

Maybe we’re trauma bonding, maybe not. But in a week, I’ll walk away with his secrets locked tight in my heart—and maybe that’s why it’s easier for him to talk to me now.

I’m definitely not the person who should be doling out advice, but here I am, trying anyway.

“Rip, you’re a good guy. There’s nothing broken about you.

” My voice feels small, almost fragile in the quiet night.

“Sometimes the heart wants what it wants—no logic, no rules. But you have to protect yourself. You can’t let anyone string you along like a puppet.

She’s dangling you, and that’s not fair. Not to you.”

We fall silent, words slipping away like sand between our fingers. Our knuckles brush, just a whisper of contact as we keep walking, lost in our own storms. The second my feet hit the harder sand, I stop.

“This would be a good place to stretch.”

His voice barely carries, soft and hollow. “Okay.”

I lift my arms above my head, and he mirrors me.

We move slowly, the world narrowing to the rhythm of our breath and the quiet stretch of muscles.

I ease into some gentle groin stretches, watching his jaw tighten, then relax, then tense again.

When I think he’s done, I shift back to the dry sand and flop down.

Rip slides down beside me, his body warm against the cooling night air. He points upward. “There’s the Big Dipper.”

I smile, teasing. “I thought I was lying beside the Big Dipper.”

He rolls onto his side, facing me, and my breath catches. The moonlight softens his sharp features, makes everything about him glow. “I’m the Big Dripley. There’s a difference.”

I roll toward him until our bodies align, our mouths just inches apart.

God, what am I doing?

The beach, the day, the food, Rip—they’re all conspiring to mess with my head. His fingers reach out, rough pads brushing back the stray hair that falls across my face.

Before I do something reckless—like kiss him—I flinch and flop back onto my back.

“I see the Little Dipper.”

He follows, landing with a soft groan. When he stretches his arms out, our fingers brush and finally clasp.

“How was the stretching?”

“Really good.”

“Maybe we should get in the cold water.” I try to sound casual, but my heart’s racing. “I like to use ice or cold water after yoga. Helps with inflammation.”

“Something’s inflamed, alright,” he mutters, a grumble beneath his breath. And I can’t help but love the way he reacts—gruff, but honest. That little moment reminds me how much of a mess I am. How much I shouldn’t want this guy. How much I shouldn’t be thrilled he might want me.

But here we are.

He stands, walking to the water’s edge, bathed in silver moonlight, looking like a god or a gentle giant straight out of a fairy tale. I laugh softly.

He throws a glance over his shoulder. “What’s so funny?”

“Nothing.” I push myself up and step closer. “Going in?”

He shrugs off his T-shirt and starts unbuttoning his shorts.

I blink at him. “What are you doing?”

“Going in? Didn’tyoujust ask me that?” He’s grinning like he knows exactly what he’s doing—stripping to throw me off balance.

“You’re getting… naked?” Way to state the obvious, Charley.

Rip looks around the empty beach like a mischievous child caught sneaking cookies.

“I don’t see any kids here.” Then his gaze snaps back to me, that playful grin spreading wide enough to melt ice.

I swallow hard, heat creeping up my neck.

“You don’t think I got the nickname Ripley Stripley for nothing, do you? ”

He tugs his shorts down, and his boxers follow like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

I whip my head away. Either look like a total gawker, or pretend I’m not staring at his… well, everything.

I shake my head but I shouldn’t be surprised. Everyone knows his rep.

Once he’s stripped down, he steps into the water, and my eyes sneak back to his back—the way every muscle ripples like it’s made of steel and poetry.

No wonder he’s a force on the ice. He glances over his shoulder, catching me mid-stare, and his grin just dares me to look again.

How can I resist? The man is a walking sculpture.

Heart pounding, I reach for my top. Am I really doing this? Looks like it.

I peel it off as he wades deeper, water almost up to his chest. “It’s warm,” he calls out, voice teasing.