Page 2 of Stick Break (Boston Bucks #8)

Charly

“ U m, what?”he asks, turning his back to me as he refills his already full mug.

“Sleeping on the sofa.”I nod toward the couch, even though he’s not looking.“You’re all twisted up.”

“I’m okay,”he practically growls without turning around.

I study him—his posture tight, shoulders stiff—and my stomach twists.

I stand frozen for a moment, weighing this whole ridiculous, complicated situation.

I glance at the door, sensing I’ve crossed some invisible line.

Breaking in, taking his bed, wearing his clothes, eating his oatmeal—maybe forgivable.

But mentioning his stiffness? That feels different. Like a sore spot. No pun intended.

Wait. Unless...hethought I meant something else. Some other kind of stiffness.

Oh God.

But there’s no way he could’ve thought I was implying he was attracted to me.

And that I wanted to do something about it.

That’s wishful thinking, right? Wait no.

That’s not what I mean at all. I’m wishing my life wasn’t a total mess.

That I didn’t have to break into a friend’s cottage and hide out like a fugitive.

I swallow hard, fighting back a nearly painful sob.

How the hell did I even get here?

Oh, you know girl you know.

Your ex put you here out of spite and his own climb to fame and fortune.

I catch the way his eyes flick to me—curious, maybe a little guarded—and I suck in a quick breath. Does he know who I am. I instinctively lean forward to hide behind my hair. Shoot. Now that it’s cut short, there’s nowhere to hide. I steal a furtive glance his way. But no, he can’t know who I am.

With no makeup, my long dark hair chopped short and dyed blonde, and this oversized sweatshirt I’m barely recognizable to myself. I’m far from the glamorous woman who’s been singing her heart out onstage these last months.

I gulp.“Sorry. Your business is your business.”

Best to leave it there. He might not know who I am, but I definitely know who he is.

I’m not exactly a hockey fan—too much violence, too many grown men slamming into things on purpose—but that doesn’t mean I haven’t caught a game or two.

Maybe I fibbed earlier. Call it intuition, but I get the feeling he doesn’t want me recognizing him any more than I want him figuring me out.

“Yeah,” he says, leaning against the counter in that maddeningly effortless way that reminds me I’m still a red-blooded woman with functioning eyes. “If we’re going to cohabitate for a week, maybe we need some rules.”

“Rules, right.” I try to sound casual, but my heart skips. He seems decent—I mean, he didn’t poison me. Are those my standards now? Honestly… after what my ex put me through, they might be. But still, what kind of rules are we talking here?

“Dishes—we do them after we eat. And we clean up after ourselves.”

“Done.”

He pauses, his brow pinching slightly. “Um… there’s only one bed with thin walls, so… no sleepovers?”

A surprised laugh bursts from my throat before I can stop it.

He cocks his head, assessing me with a look that’s way too observant for my comfort.

Yeah, okay, weird reaction to that rule.

But sleepovers? With a stranger? Not in this lifetime.

I clear my throat. “No sleepovers,” I agree.

“The bed’s yours. I don’t mind the couch. ”

He makes a low, grumbly sound and rubs a hand over his scruffy jaw.

No wonder they call him Bear. He’s big, broad, and just the right amount of adorably grouchy.

Not that I’m going to say that out loud.

As the Bucks’ infamously hard-hitting defenseman, I’m guessing “cute” isn’t his preferred descriptor.

“What?” I ask, when another grumble escapes like he’s wrestling with himself.

He shakes his head. “What kind of guy makes a girl sleep on the sofa? My mother would kill me.”

Something in me melts a little at the mention of his mom.

They say you can tell a lot about a man by how he treats his mother.

If only I’d paid attention to that the first time around.

I don’t know much about hockey legend Rip Hart—aka Ripley Stripley to the puck bunnies—but hearing him talk about his mom softens some of that tough-guy armor.

For a second, I get a glimpse of the man underneath the pads and the scowl.

And I like what I see.

I lift my mug and, hoping to ease his worries, offer a smile.

“A guy who makes coffee for Goldilocks—even after she crashes his place and breaks all the rules? That’s a true gentleman move.

” I tug at the hem of the oversized sweatshirt I borrowed.

“I’ll change and do the dishes. It’s the least I can do. ”

“Don’t worry about it,” he says, eyes flicking away—but not before he adds, a little too casually, “Maybe just, uh… put on some pants.”

Pants.

Oh. My. God.

In all the chaos, I somehow forgot that my legs are completely bare. When I bent over earlier… did I...?

I die a little inside.

Maybe that "stiff" comment really did hit the wrong way.

Nope. That’s crazy talk. Totally unrelated. Entirely coincidental.

“Pants. Yes. Of course.” I scramble to cover up, my dignity flailing somewhere in the distance.

“Um, maybe you should put on a shirt,” I say, equally as casual.

He grins, and I can feel my face flush.

Really Carly, you had to bring up the fact that he was half naked to.

Trying to spin a joke out of it, before he thinks I like what I see, which of course I do, I pluck at the sweatshirt. “Or am I wearing your only one.”

“No, I’ve got a shirt.” He heads to the fridge, not at all in a hurry to go find it.

But then I catch it. His gait. It’s not just casual morning stiffness.

There’s something off. A protective tightness in the way he moves, favoring one leg.

Suddenly, it clicks. My brother Jason is a physiotherapist, and I teach yoga at his clinic.

I’ve seen injuries like that a hundred times, an injury he’s hiding.

N ot your business, Charly.

Do not get involved.

I’m halfway through convincing myself to shut up when my mouth betrays me. “Rip.”

He pauses, glancing over. “Yeah?”

“I’m doing some yoga on the beach later. Thought it might help with, you know… the tightness.” I casually rub my shoulder, trying not to make it obvious that I’m totally calling him out.

He looks down, brow furrowing like he’s debating whether to take the offer or pretend he’s fine. After a beat, he gives a small nod. “That might be a good idea.”

Progress.

He gestures toward the bedroom. “Go get dressed. I’ll make us something that isn’t oatmeal. Or porridge. Any allergies?”

I shake my head, and he holds up the oatmeal wrapper, crinkling it in mock horror. “Obviously carbs aren’t a problem. And hey, I'm not mad about that.”

He tosses me a grin, casual and cocky, and it does strange, fluttery things to my insides.

“I was stress eating,” I say defensively, even though we both know I’d dive headfirst into another bowl if given half the chance.

He goes quiet, his expression softening, something tender flickering in his eyes. “I’m sorry you’re stressed, Charly.”

I offer a smile, but it’s the kind that never quite reaches your eyes. It sits on my face like a mask, brittle and tired. “I’m sorry for dumping that on you.” I try to shake it off with a wink. “But hey—a week at the beach? That’ll be just right.”

He huffs a soft laugh. “Okay, go. I’ll get cooking.”

I make a quick stop in the bathroom, where I wash my face, brush my teeth, and temporarily pack my emotional baggage.

On my way to the bedroom, I sneak a glance at him, fully dressed now.

He reaches into a cabinet, pulls out a box of pancake mix, or something equally simple.

My eyes betray me, lingering just a second too long on the way his broad shoulders flex and shift under the fabric of his t-shirt.

Nope. Not the time. I speed into the bedroom like I'm outrunning my own hormones.

I unzip my duffel and sigh at the sad excuse for a wardrobe inside.

I'd packed in a panic, bolting from my tiny California apartment after the story broke.

Paparazzi on the sidewalk, neighbors whispering, phones buzzing with fake concern.

I barely had time to call a rideshare, let alone think about clean underwear.

At first, I didn’t even know where I was going.

Most of my friends—what few I had left—had faded into the background over the years.

Turns out singing in bars every night doesn’t leave a lot of time for socializing.

My ex and I met during a last-minute booking screw-up at a bar.

We hit it off, played a few duets, dated for a year…

then cameThe Spotlightauditions, the rise, the chaos, the friends I didn’t know I had, until…

..the so-called scandal. A "leak," they called it. I called it betrayal.

With after my name made the headlines again, for all the wrong reasons, people either vanish or turn into moral compasses you never asked for.

I didn’t even consider going home to my parents.

One, they’re easy to find. Two, they acted like I personally posted the video for clout.

Because clearly, that’s what every daughter dreams of.

My brother was the only real safe space left—but he’s newly engaged, running his own physiotherapist clinic, and too good to be dragged down by the dumpster fire I’ve become.

So here I am. Hiding out at Paisley’s cottage.

She’s one of the few people who’s always been in my corner.

We met back in high school—her heading for university and classical training, me heading for smoky barrooms and open mics.

Different paths, same dream. We stayed in touch, and I knew about this place.

When I saw she was off on her honeymoon, I figured fate had finally thrown me a bone.