Page 28 of Stick Break (Boston Bucks #8)

Charley

A s the golden afternoon sun slants through the kitchen window, pooling warmth across the counter, I press my hand to the sink edge and shake my head.

One week. Somehow it’s already been a week since I arrived, and it feels like I’ve lived a lifetime here, one that’s quieter, slower, and maybe. .. more honest.

I’ve spoken to my brother a handful of times. My parents only called twice. I didn’t answer them. There’s no point—they don’t believe anything I say. And I don’t have it in me to keep fighting.

But out there, I’m sure the world has moved on from Indie Rhodes, the darling of the Spotlight. s moving on. That’s the way it is in showbusiness. But the paparazzi don’t forget so easily, which is exactly why I told Rip I’d stay a little longer.

Okay, that’s not entirely true.

I’m staying because this beach house has turned into a bubble I don’t want to pop.

Because when Rip Hart touches me, I forget about performances, and like who I am with him.

Because we’ve spent lazy mornings tangled in bed, and nights that blur into sunrise—full of laughter, aching honesty, and, frankly, the best sex of my life with a man who still hasn’t told me what he really does for a living.

Maybe I don’t want him to. Maybe I like the space we’ve carved out.

But even beyond that, I see the way he’s physically improving—how the swelling has gone down, how he walks easier, breathes deeper.

The ice, the stretching, the rehab work I’ve been quietly guiding him through has been making a difference.

He’ll be ready when camp starts next month.

Assuming they do call it camp. I wouldn’t know.

I’ve always been more familiar with stages than stadiums.

Then there’s Emma. Bright-eyed, hungry to learn, absorbing every note I share with childlike enthusiasm. I didn’t expect to love teaching, but somehow it settled into an empty space inside me.

“Something on your mind?”

Rip’s voice breaks through my reverie, low and gravel-rich, as he steps behind me and folds his body into mine.

His warmth wraps around me and I turn slightly, my hands still resting on the sink, and he leans in.

God. That look. That softness in his eyes that never quite matches the gruffness in his voice.

My chest tightens, and I wonder—not for the first time—if I’m falling a little too fast, a little too deep.

“I was just thinking about Emma,” I say softly. “And how much I enjoy teaching her.”

Rip nods, his gaze warm and steady. “You light up when you teach, Charley.”

I blink. “I do?”

The words surprise me, but the truth of them lands heavy and hopeful in my chest. I didn’t know it showed. I didn’t know hesaw that in me.

“You do,” he says again, dipping his head to brush his lips over mine in a kiss. “I’ve been watching you.”

My breath catches. “You’re kind of a creeper, Big Bear.”

“Yup.” He grins against my mouth, then kisses me again, slower this time. “Have you made any decisions?”

I know what he’s asking—if I’ve decided to stay longer. I never gave him a real answer. Maybe because until today, I wasn’t sure myself.

“Are you sure you don’t mind?” I ask, keeping my tone light even as something heavier settles behind my ribs.

“I wouldn’t have offered if I minded.”

His voice is steady, sure, but it’s his eyes that unravel me. There’s nothing casual in the way he looks at me, his gaze lingers, reading every flicker of doubt, every unspoken fear I’m trying to swallow. He sees too much, and yet I don’t want to look away.

Lyra, you are such a fool.

“I’m going to stay,” I finally say. “Just for a little while longer. I hate to quit on Emma when she’s making so much progress. I just…” I hesitate, then add quietly, “I just hate quitting…”

Rip nods slowly, and I know he hears the other meaning—my unwillingness to walk away from helping him heal.

He looks past me, his eyes finding something out the window, or maybe nothing at all. I can tell his thoughts have drifted somewhere deeper.

“What’s on your mind, Rip?” I ask gently.

He hesitates, like he’s weighing whether he has the right to speak the next truth. “I don’t want to overstep here, but... I was thinking teaching might be your calling.”

The words hit me harder than I expect. I press my lips together, biting down on the sharp swell of emotion that rises.

“I don’t have the credentials,” I say, voice quiet. “I could keep doing one-on-one sessions, sure. But to work in schools or real studios… I’d need a different kind of education.”

He brushes his knuckles along my cheek, his touch feather soft. “It’s not too late.”

My laugh is short, breathless. “It’s a lot of work.”

His eyes don’t budge. “You don’t strike me as the kind of woman who’s afraid of hard work.”

“I’m not. Believe me, I’m not.” My chest tightens with the truth of it.

“I played every dive bar and open mic I could find just to get my name in someone’s mouth.

I busted my butt for years.” I shake my head, eyes stinging with the edges of regret.

But looking back… I didn’t evenlike that grind.

Not the way I like this. Then, with a quiet sigh, I add, “How silly of me. To skip college just to spite my parents.”

“Silly?” he echoes. “Charley, come on. You were young. We all do crazy things when we’re young.”

“Not getting a college degree when it’s handed to you with a bow? That’s high on the Crazy List.”

He leans against the counter, smirking. “You know what I did once?”

I lift a brow. “Please tell me you didn’t eat a laundry pod.”

He laughs, a rich, low sound that vibrates in my chest. “Nope. That ridiculous trend was way after my time.” He pauses, then gives me a look so sheepish it makes me suspicious. “I, uh… once hacked into the school system.”

My jaw drops. “You did not. ”

“Okay, technically I didn’t. I just watched my buddy do it. He wanted to change his grades.”

I gasp, playfully scandalized. “Ripley Hart, that’s accessory to a crime. ”

He chuckles. “Thank God we didn’t get caught. Otherwise…”

I press a finger to his chest, right over his heart. “Otherwise, it could’ve jeopardized your future.”

The humor fades from his face, replaced by something quieter, more thoughtful. He releases a breath. “Right,” he says softly.

I blink up at him, my voice barely a whisper.

“I don’t want anything to jeopardize your future.

” He nods, and I exhale slowly, before admitting, “I’m not sure what my future holds.

But I do know I can’t go running back to my parents’ house.

I can’t sleep in my childhood bedroom like I’ve pressed pause on my life and gone backward. ”

A beat passes.

Then he says it, almost too casually, like he’s testing the words in his mouth before committing to them. “You… you could always come back to Boston with me.”

My heart slams against my ribs. Boston. With him.

I glance up, caught off guard, and I see the way he straightens—his shoulders squaring, his posture shifting like he’s stepped into something real and doesn’t know how it’s going to land.

“Roman,” he says after a breath. “My buddy, the one I told you about?”

“The one who’s going to be your best man at our wedding in Italy?” I tease, trying to slow the pounding of my heart with humor.

He grins, relaxing a little. “Yeah, him. Last year… he helped out an old friend. She went back to Boston with him to get her life in order.”

I tilt my head. “This old friend… was it the runaway bride?”

His grin spreads wider, pure warmth. “Yep. That’s her. Gabby. She designs clothes now. For NHL families.”

He grabs his phone, scrolling quickly, then holds it out. “Look.”

The screen is filled with tiny jerseys, glittering team logos on baby onesies and booties.

“These are adorable,” I say, but the words catch in my throat.

He’s not just showing me clothes. He’s showing me a piece of the life he thought he’d have with Lyra. Marriage. Family. Stability. And I can see it, etched in the softness of his expression, in the way his thumb lingers on the edge of the screen, that he still wants that.

“I love them,” I tell him, gently. “So this is Gabby, the runaway bride you had to find clothes for? She and Roman ended up together?”

“Married,” he confirms, slipping his phone back into his pocket.

“I married them, actually. As in… officiated.” He gives a crooked smile, then quickly adds, his voice rushed and a little flustered, “I’m not offering marriage, obviously.

Just… a place to stay. I have a two-bedroom place.

It’s not much, but it’s safe. No pressure.

We could come up with new rules. Like… you know…

not sleeping together. If that makes things easier. ”

I let out a laugh that’s half breath, half ache. “I don’t think not sleeping together makes anything easier.” But still, I get it.

He’s trying to give me something solid without putting weight on it. Trying to offer safety without strings. But we both know the strings are already there. And then I say the thing I shouldn’t, the thing that’s been haunting the edges of this whole conversation.

“I know when you get back to real life, when we’re outside of this bubble, you’ll want to see other women.” I try to keep my voice light, teasing even, but my stomach knots at the thought.

Of him with someone else. Of me watching from the other side of a shared apartment wall, pretending I don’t care.

The silence between us thickens.

“Take your time to think about it,” he says quietly.

I nod, but my mind is already spinning. Is he really offering me a place to stay? A safe space to figure out who I want to be? Or is this just the next version of hiding?

And if I say yes...

What happens when the bubble bursts? When he finds out who I really am?

When he sees the video? Will he believe it was fake, or will he look at me differently?

Will he see me as the girl the internet says I am—just another fame-chasing, sex-tape-selling scandal?

Even if none of it’s true, that doesn’t mean it won’t ruin everything.

I swallow the knot forming in my throat as Rip lightly trails his fingers up and down my arm. “I’m just saying, Char,” he murmurs, voice soft, “You could use a friend or two. I know you and Gabby would really hit it off.”

His kindness is almost too much. I’m not sure what I’ve done to deserve it. Honestly, people don’t do things like this without expecting something in return—or at least, that’s what life’s taught me.

“Thank you, Rip.” My voice trembles more than I’d like. “We don’t even really know each other that well, and this... this goes above and beyond.”

He shakes his head, sincere and steady. “It’s nothing. And I know enough to know I wantto offer you a place to stay.”

But it’s not nothing. It’s everything.

“For the record,” I say, lifting my chin. “Idohave a friend.”

“Yes, your brother, I?—”

I rise onto my toes and press my lips to his, cutting him off. “No,” I whisper when I pull back. “You . You’ve been the best friend I’ve ever had.”

A flicker of surprise crosses his face, then warmth floods in. “Do you mean BFWB ?” he asks, eyes twinkling. I wrinkle my nose and he says, “Best friends with benefits.”

I laugh. “It’s a great romance trope.” I narrow my eyes. “Wait, tell me something, Rip—have you been sneaking those romance novels Betsy keeps stashed at her place?”

He looks out the window and lets out a low, innocent whistle.

I burst out laughing, and something inside me settles . Like maybe, in this moment, I can forget everything else. The scandal. The cameras. The career in shambles. Because this man, this house, this feeling is more real than anything I’ve known in a long time.

Before I can say anything else, he scoops me up and deposits me on the counter. My legs wrap around his waist on instinct, arms sliding around his shoulders, and he kisses me like he’s starving. When his hips press forward, I gasp at the hardness straining between us.

“Rip,” I murmur, already breathless.

“Babe,” he whispers, voice thick with heat.

And God, I want him. I want to disappear into him for the rest of the day. But... “I promised Emma a lesson this afternoon.”

He groans and presses his forehead to mine. “Right.” Then he winces, lips quirking. “I could be fast . ”

I laugh, even as heat pools low in my belly. “Oh, I know you can.”

“Hey,” he mock-offends. “I resemble that comment.”

He lifts me off the counter and sets me gently on my feet. “Fine. Go. Abandon me. I’ll just be here… suffering. Alone.” He winks to let me know he’s kidding and gestures toward the door. “Maybe I’ll go catch dinner. A little solo fishing therapy.”

“I just need to finish the dishes first,” I say, glancing toward the sink. “I know how you are about keeping this place in order.”

He swats my butt playfully. “Go. I’ll clean up. You can think about how to repay me later.”

That look in his eye says he already has a few ideas.

I hurry to the bathroom to brush my teeth and splash some water on my face.

When I return, Rip is still at the sink, forearms flexing as he scrubs a plate.

I pause in the doorway. There’s something so deeply right about this.

It’s domestic, intimate… and unexpectedly beautiful.

Who knew seeing a man do dishes could make my heart flutter like this?

I thought NHL players had chefs and assistants. Schedules, handlers. But Rip is just... grounded. A man who fixes things, cooks meals, scrubs pans. There’s no ego here, no spotlight. Justhim. And I love that about him.

Love.

My breath catches. Nope. Nope, we arenotgoing there. He wasn’t offering me marriage—he was offering mespace . A spare room. A no-strings arrangement. That’s all. Still...

There’s a sting in the thought that he doesn’t see me as marriage material. But I’m not looking for that either.

Right?