Page 21 of Stick Break (Boston Bucks #8)

Charley

“ O w. Ow. Ow!”

“Isaid I’m sorry!” I wince as Rip does a not-so-graceful hop around the living room like he’s avoiding hot coals. “Stop moving. You’re being a big baby. I just need one more dab.”

He glares at me dramatically over his shoulder, skin pink and angry across his back and arms. “How didyounot get burned?”

I dip my fingers into the cooling salve and arch a brow.

“Maybe because I didn’t dive into the water like a golden retriever after we fell asleep on the boat?

SPF and swimming don’t mix. You have to reapply, but you didn’t.

” He grumbles something unintelligible, which I take as reluctant agreement.

“Come on,” I coax, holding up my fingers. “Just let me get right here?—”

With featherlight strokes, I smooth the salve across his bicep. His muscles flex under my touch, and even though I’m trying to be clinical about it, my stomach flips like a teenager with a crush.

“Mmm.” He lets out a low, appreciative sound. “Okay, that actually feels good.”

“Of course it does. I have magic hands.”

He arches a brow, clearly biting back a joke. “You’re right…you do?”

I shoot him a look. “Keep your pants on. We have a casserole party to get to.”

He winces. “Fine, but I don’t know if Ican keep a shirt on. Everything feels like sandpaper right now.”

“Do you have something loose? Linen? Polyester? A toga?”

With a grunt, he disappears into the bedroom and comes back holding a breezy, lightweight shirt. “This one’s good. Should’ve worn it on the boat, I guess.”

I take it from him, inspecting it. “This is actually a sun shirt, Ripley. It’s literally designed to protect you from the sun. Why didn’t you wear this.”

“You were wearing a bikini under your dress. I don’t think there was enough blood left in my brain to make critical decisions.”

“Just be careful putting it on.” As he winces, I turn back to the counter and get to work tossing my salad masterpiece. Rip leans over my shoulder like a nosy roommate.

“That’s not a casserole. Mrs. Callahan is going to flip.”

I snort. “It’s a light refreshing salad, not a nineteen eighties potluck. Besides, you think she’d notice one missing casserole?”

“I’m the one who doesn’t want to go missing.” He mock shivers.

“I’ll claim responsibility for the salad.” I slice a cucumber and hold up a sliver. He doesn’t miss a beat, leaning in and biting it right from my fingers. A familiar zing shoots through me. It’s the second time he’s done that.

“You’ve got a weird thing for stealing food from my hand.”

“You keep feeding me like I’m a stray cat with a cucumber deficiency. What do you expect?”

“I expect manners,” I tease, popping a cherry tomato into his mouth before he can make another joke, he bites into it—and immediately juice squirts from the corner of his lips.

He blinks. I blink.

“That was... a juicy one,” I say, trying not to laugh.

“Are you flirting with me through produce?” he asks, mouth still full, eyes dancing.

I shrug, smug. “Depends. Is it working?”

“What are you going to do if she asks you to give her great-granddaughter lessons?” Rip asks, bumping my hip gently with his.

I shrug, but there’s this little bubble of excitement rising inside me. “Honestly? I’ve been thinking about it. I don’t see the harm. I could teach her a few chords—just the basics. You know, future rock star starter pack.”

“I’m sure she’ll love it.”

He leans in and brushes a kiss against my lips. Soft, easy, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like we’ve done it a thousand times before. And somehow, with him, it feelslike we have. This effortless comfort. This...rightness.

His ex must be out of her damn mind. Really, who walks away from this?

And worse, who strings someone like him along, making him question his worth?

I hate the damage she’s done. How it’s still hanging over him.

How he still pines for her. I hope he finds someone soon, someone who makes him forget she ever existed, and remind him what love is supposed to feel like.

...God, that person can’t…can’t be me.

Right?

“Okay,” I say, snapping myself out of it. “Let me pour the dressing and we’re good to go.”

I drizzle the citrusy blend over the quinoa and toss everything together with practiced confidence. It smells like summer and fresh herbs and maybe new beginnings. I scoop up the bowl and nod toward the guitar propped by the door. “Can you grab that?”

He slings it over his shoulder and follows me out, locking the door behind us.

We make our way down the narrow rock path between the cottages, my bare feet brushing the uneven stones.

The air is warm, the kind that clings to your skin and makes you feel alive.

I’m about to say something, probably something dorky, but then?—

I stop short.

Rip collides into my back with an “oof,” and I nearly lose the salad to the dirt.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, steadying me with a hand on my hip.

I blink at the scene in front of me. “I didn’t think the entire communitywas going to be here.”

A sea of unfamiliar faces fills the yard. Laughter, lawn chairs, beer bottles, children darting between legs. It’s a full-on block party. My skin suddenly feels too tight.

I scan the crowd, searching for anyone who might recognize me. But I don’t see anyone familiar. That doesn’t mean theydon’t know me .

“Want to head back?” Rip murmurs, his voice low and protective. “I don’t want to be recognized either.”

I nod. “Yeah. Me neither.” I don’t explain why. And he doesn’t either. We might be sharing kisses and sunscreen and quinoa, but the deeper stuff, well, that’s still locked up.

I take a breath and steady the bowl in my arms. I came here to disappear, to outrun the mess I left behind. The scandal, the betrayal. The video. The fallout. But I can’t run forever. People are going to connect the dots eventually.

Then again, I don’t even look like heranymore. That girl had dramatic makeup, long dark hair, and a stage persona that sparkled louder than her voice. This version of me is muted. Raw. Bare-faced, sun-kissed, and blonde. I barely recognize her myself.

I hover on the edge of retreat, every part of me torn between going back and stepping forward.

Rip leans in, his breath brushing my ear. “I can go grab your hat if you want.”

I glance up at him, his brows drawn in a worried line, and something inside me settles. “I think…” I inhale slowly. “I think it’ll be okay.”

I smile, but I know it doesn’t quite reach my eyes.

He must sense it, because he smirks. “Want to pick a safe word?”

My head jerks in his direction. “Asafe word?”

“You know,” Rip says, his voice low and secretive, “A signal between us. For when we need rescuing or want to make a discreet exit. How about casserole.”

I laugh despite the knot in my stomach. “Why does that sound oddly appropriate?”

“Because casseroles are comforting,” he says with faux sincerity, “And no one in this crowd will questions a casserole emergency.”

I chuckle. “It has to be subtle.” I grin and give him a playful poke in the chest. “Just so we’re clear—asafe word…” I rise on my toes, brushing my lips against the shell of his ear, letting my voice drop, “…is for sex. The rough kind. What you mean to say is acode word, or an escape signal.”

His breath catches, and then he laughs, a little sheepish, a little flustered. “Yeah, right. We, uh, probably don’t need the first one.”

I tilt my head, letting my smile linger. “Was that aquestion, Rip?”

His expression shifts, his smile falters for a beat, and I can’t help but wonder if he saw the video. If he had, he wouldn’t even question my need for a safe word. He’d know I’d need one.

“There are just some things,” I say, more quietly, “That I’m not into.”

He pauses, and then his voice softens. “Not a thing wrong with any of it…if it’s between two people who want it. But yeah. I’m not into it either.”

Something unspoken passes between us—mutual understanding in a conversation laced with innuendo, but rooted in truth.

“Okay,” he says, switching gears. “So... a code word that’s not casserole, because that apparently is a safe word.’”

I grin. “We need something no one else will question, but we’ll know.” I glance sideways at him. “Goldilocks? Or Big Bear?”

He stills. Just for a second. Like he’s weighing something heavier than a nickname.

I know his teammates call him Big Bear. It’s part teasing, part respect.

But maybe he doesn’t want to invite that version of himself into this quiet corner of his life.

I let him off the hook. “What about something simple like window? ‘Honey did we leave the window open?’ Like, domestic panic, but low-stakes.”

“That works.” He brightens again, the shadows retreating.

“And if we can’t talk, if things get loud, I’ll strum the guitar and play…” I pause for a beat to think about it. “California Girls. That seems appropriate and that’ll be your cue.”

He smirks. “Bold choice. Surf rock as my warning siren. I like it. And ifI want out, I’ll… I’ll just strum. No real tune. Because, in case you forgot, I have zero musical talent.”

“Perfect. We're a disaster team with style. Ready?” I ask.

He gives a firm nod, tugging his ballcap just a little lower on his head, and together we walk the gravel path toward Mrs. Callahan’s place.

As we round the corner into the yard, I greet a few smiling strangers, and clock the way Rip subtly dips his chin, shadowing his face further.

The hat. The laid-back clothes. The avoidance of eye contact.

He really doesn’t want anyone here knowing he’sRip Hart, hockey royalty.

I get it now. He’s not just hiding. He’s protecting something. His peace, maybe even his heart. So much for the glamor of fame. It turns out even the big, charming guy who can light up a room needs his version of quiet. Just like me.

“There you are,” Mrs. Callahan beams, bustling toward us like a summer storm in florals.