by Elise Faber
“Good,” her mom said, completely ignoring Hazel’s protest. “Love you, Banana Bread Baby. Talk soon.” A beat. “Oh, I sent you a couple of books to your Kindle!”
Then she hung up.
In like a hurricane.
Leaving…something that was silent and begrudgingly charmed (Hazel) while the person on the other end of the line was running to gleefully dish all the details of her daughter’s five non-dates and Oliver’s abs (her mom, obviously)—which she hadn’t seen but based on her daughter’s reaction were fantastic (a rightful assessment).
Knuckles on her cheek. An amused voice saying, “I guess I’d better keep working on my abs.”
“Umm…”
Not the most intelligent statement.
But there was a lot to process.
The best, perhaps, was the sight of those glorious abs.
Chapter Thirteen
Oliver
He dropped his bag just inside the door and walked through his empty house.
Wide open spaces.
Large windows.
Furniture that wasn’t a bachelor pad, but instead was decent quality, not super expensive but still was something that wasn’t going to fall apart in a couple of years.
He liked his place.
But it reflected that he’d never really been good at letting people in. His home wasn’t lived in, not like Lexi and Luc’s with their plants and baby stuff and pictures cramming the walls. His space looked like a hotel.
Impersonal.
He’d thought he liked it that way.
But today, looking around at it, he realized that it had been a crutch, a way of bracing that barrier so that it wouldn’t fall.
He’d left Hazel at her car, and he’d wanted to follow her home, barrel into her house, to take her to bed and fuck her senseless then maybe make love to her if they had the energy after spending that hour breaking shit and then working the rest of the day. But she was more important, and she still hadn’t agreed to go out with him.
Even though she’d stroked a hand over his jaw, pressed a light kiss to his lips before telling him goodnight.
Now he was home, thinking about Hazel and how special she was and knowing that he wanted his place to be a home, to be someplace she would find warm and inviting, and he was wondering why he’d spent his whole life thinking he couldn’t have that.
His parents OD’ing. Foster care. Those were the obvious reasons.
Teresa and Alex’s house. His adoption. The car accident. Perhaps still obvious but also dug a little deeper. Because he hadn’t known his bio parents, but he’d known his adopted ones. And losing them had hurt.
But it had been easier to focus on hockey.
Because it had happened in the middle of the season, and the playoff push was real, so he’d organized their funeral, made sure the other kids they’d fostered were as okay as they could be under the circumstances, and then he’d gone back to work.
Skating was easier than dealing with the loss.
But now skating was gone, his leg was gone, and his job—which was going well—wasn’t taking up the same type of all-consuming attention that hockey had before.
He’d had hockey to get over Teresa and Alex.
His recovery and PT to push down what happened with his leg.
And now Hazel to forget that he’d lost hockey.
He wanted to make her his new obsession, to use her to chase all those demons away, and maybe he would have done it without quite understanding what he was doing and what it might mean to use her in that way.
But then he’d overheard her mom call her Darling Donut and ask about grandbabies and…
It was like Teresa had dropped down out of the clouds and shook him, had yelled in his ear to pay attention. He knew that he’d liked Hazel, liked her a whole hell of a lot. But she wasn’t a woman to just like. She was a woman to love.
A woman he could easily love if things kept going that way.
Which meant she deserved a home and a man without barriers propping up the concrete and barbed wire surrounding him.
He moved to his couch, wincing when he sat down, muscles he hadn’t used for months burning from his little show with the fake fruit and bowl—his obliques, the sides of his pecs, the tops of his thighs. And she’d given that to him without pressure, facing hockey in a way that he hadn’t been able to deal with yet (because it wouldn’t be the same, wouldn’t feel the same, he wouldn’t be the same).
It had been fun.
He’d found the joy.
And he meant to keep his promise he’d made on the sidewalk earlier that day, when he’d seen her hair shining and her eyes filled with happiness.
He was going to make her happy.
He just needed to get her to agree to a date first.
The following afternoon, he strode down the hall to the locker room and poked his head in.
Hazel had been in meetings all morning, and that meant he had time to enact his plan. The first part, he’d been able to take care of. The second part was…going to require a bit of assistance. Luckily, he knew exactly where to find a bunch of nosy fuckers who’d be happy to be part of something that they might be able to give him shit for later.
The guys had just finished with a short practice, just something quick and easy to keep the legs moving and keep the cobwebs off.
Smithy was sitting next to Marcel, a towel around his waist, his chest bare.
Honestly, Oliver was surprised the man bothered with the towel at all. Smithy loved being naked. Hell, Oliver had seen a lot of dick in his life in various locker rooms, but he’d seen Smithy’s an uncommon amount of times.
Marcel was mostly dressed—meaning he had boxer briefs and a T-shirt on—and the two of them were quietly talking. Well, Marcel quietly, Smithy was booming.
As usual.
At least until Smithy saw him.
Which was pretty much the same time that the rest of the guys saw him.
The room went silent.
So silent that Oliver could hear the water dripping into the drains in the attached showers.
He opened his mouth to say…something.
But Smithy beat him to it. “Get your ass in here, Ollie! We were talking about getting beers tonight. Fucking loss last night sucked. Can’t believe we gave up that lead. You’re coming with us.”
Not a request.
Oliver might have still treated it as one, if not for last night.
Home. It wasn’t just a place.
And yes, fuck, that sounded sappy as hell. But also, it was true. He was realizing that home was also this place, these guys, the joking and shit-giving, and God forbid, Smithy and his dick that never stayed behind a towel. It was on the ice and grabbing beers when they weren’t. It was video games at Marcel’s sitting on lawn chairs because his girlfriend had taken the furniture in a final fuck-you and he hadn’t gotten around to buying new stuff. It was…this team.
But not because they were a distraction.
Because they were important.
They’d showed up for him. In the hospital. Afterward. His fridge had been stocked. He’d been chauffeured around when he wasn’t ready to drive yet. And when the season started, they’d still checked in.
Less because they were working and the job of playing hockey professionally took a lot of time.
Less because he’d purposefully pulled back, knowing they needed that space to do their job.
But still there.
Smithy moved over and patted the bench next to him. “What’s with that face?” he asked. Another pat. “Come and tell Daddy all about it.”
“Ew,” Raph muttered, throwing a balled-up sock in his direction. “Let’s leave the daddy talk between you and your woman.”
“He’d need to have a woman first,” Luca quipped.
“Man. Woman,” Smithy said, flinging his arms wide. “I’m equal opportunity.”
The room reacted to this in the same way they had the first time Smithy had made the decl
aration. With shrugs, no acknowledgment, and then moving on to the next important subject at hand—namely not who Smithy fucked, but rather the fact that his dick was out. Again.
“Christ, man,” Raph grumbled. “I don’t give a fuck who you fuck, I’d just like to go one day without accidentally side-eyeing your dick.”
Smithy glanced down, but for the record, didn’t fix the towel. “It’s a nice dick,” he said. “I’ve been told it’s a nice dick.”
Marcel sighed and shook his head.
Smithy was beaned with several more socks.
“So.”
This came from Luca.
Oliver turned to glance at him, deliberately ignoring the spot next to Smithy and his bare ass—since he’d tossed the towel aside and was now slowly tugging on his socks.
Socks before underwear.
What was the man doing?
“Beers?” Luca asked.
Oliver considered that, considered that if he didn’t go, what it would mean.
Namely that he was pushing them away again.
He was done doing that.
“Beers,” he said by way of agreement. “But then I need your guys’ help.”
There weren’t that many guys left in the room—Smithy, Marcel, Raph, Luca, Theo, and Martin—the rest having gone off to do who knew what, but the guys who remained were those Oliver was close to. They were the ones who’d been there and the ones he’d pushed away.
But he didn’t doubt for a second that they’d be all in.
And his instincts proved right because they all nodded or voiced their agreement.
Though Smithy did this by pulling on his underwear.
Thank fuck.
Chapter Fourteen
Hazel
Prudence Hansley was a hoot.
Hazel was thrilled she was coming to work for the Breakers, especially in Oliver’s department.
She knew the man had good taste.
But his hiring of Pru cemented that.
Pru and Hazel had been friends for near on six years now.
Hazel had been finishing up her doctorate and writing a thesis on mental health for collegiate athletes. Pru had been one of the athletes she’d interviewed and worked with at OSU. It had been a bonus to be at such a great school with such great athletes, but it had been a bigger bonus to have one with so many talented female athletes.
The biggest bonus?
Meeting Pru.
She was awesome.
And now Pru was going to be here for at least part of the time. Case in point, her coming in early so she could meet up with Hazel for a drink at their favorite place in town.
CeCe’s had the best bar food.
Mozzarella sticks. Cheese curds. Nachos topped with five blends of cheese. Jalapeño poppers (with, no surprise, extra cheese).
They had things like wings and fries and chicken strips.
But she and Pru tended to stick to the dairy-based side of the menu. It went better with the girlie cocktails they liked to order.
Tonight?
Cosmos.
Next time?
Maybe hurricanes, but they were laying off those for their current get-together considering that they’d both had too many of the alcohol-laden drinks that went down like juice the last time they were together, and Pru needed to be coherent for her first day on the new job the following day.
So, it was evening.
It was chilly.
The sky was clear, the moon was full, and she was in CeCe’s with one of her closest friends who was going to be working with her instead of several states away. Halftime because Oliver—and seriously, did he get more awesome?—had offered her a half-remote position so she could keep playing. Even though her playing career was a bit in limbo and she wasn’t sure she’d be returning to the NWHL next season because she’d been fending off back injuries for a while and she wasn’t sure she’d be able to continue playing. The want was there. Her body being ready for it?
That was to be determined.
But Oliver hadn’t made her make that choice—work over playing.
He’d made it so she could do both.
And even if Hazel hadn’t already been falling for him—let it be stated clearly that she was obviously falling for him—the care he’d taken for her friend, the support he’d shown, yeah, that would have done it.
“So, are you excited?” she asked Pru when her adrenaline-seeking friend finally stopped chattering about the adventures she was planning for the off-season because Pru only had a few games left—
Let it be noted that Hazel wasn’t going shark diving with her off the coast of South Africa.
Though Pru had asked. Several times.
Shark diving was a step too far for Hazel’s meager daredevil abilities.
Frankly, it was approximately a thousand steps too far.
“For the shark diving that you’re going to do with me?” Pru waggled her brows. “Yes, really excited since my bestest friend in the whole world is coming with me.”
Hazel rolled her eyes. “You mean Beth is going with you? I’m sure she’d love that.”
A snort, then a grin, albeit chagrined. “You’re never going to let me forget that, are you?”
“That you told me in a situation where the lifeboat was sinking that you’d save Beth and throw me overboard?”
“Beth doesn’t know how to swim!” Pru protested.
“You love her more. I know how it is.”
“I—”
Their server brought their first course of cheese—aka cheese curds—and their first round of cosmos.
“I don’t love her more,” Pru said when the server had gone.
“I’m just teasing,” Hazel assured her. “Which you know but are trying to make me feel guilty for.”
Mischief on pretty, delicate features that shouldn’t be associated with a tough, strong hockey player. It was a hilarious juxtaposition for someone as kickass as Pru to look like a fairy. But she did. And it meant plenty of people hadn’t taken her seriously over the years.
But she usually changed their minds in just a few seconds.
On the ice that was.
Off it, that was a different story.
Pru didn’t take much seriously.
She lived big and brash and was always getting into adventures that made Hazel’s already curly hair, go more curly, just by proxy. And maybe a little gray.
She’d done Machu Picchu. She’d climbed Kilimanjaro. She’d talked about Everest (though thank fuck had decided against it). Kite surfing, sky diving, river rafting, bungee jumping, cave diving. If there was an adventure in it, Pru was all over it.
And doing it with zeal.
She lived, and Hazel thought Pru was amazing.
She still didn’t want to go shark diving.
Clogging her arteries with fried cheese?
Yeah, that was an adventure she could do.
“Would I try to make you feel guilty?” Pru asked, attempting innocence. But she was far from innocent and Hazel knew that, so she just lightly punched Pru on the arm.
“Um. Yes,” she said, “you would definitely try to make me feel guilty.”
“Rude.” Pru snatched the basket of curds. “Then I’m not sharing.”
“I’m the rude one?” Hazel snatched them back. “I’m not the friend trying to guilt the other one into shark diving.”
“I’m—”
“Holy shit,” Pru breathed, and Hazel knew she was truly distracted and not trying to fake her out by pretending there was something behind them so she could steal the fried cheese back because Pru let go of the basket without a peep. “Who is that?”
Still holding on to the basket, because Pru could be sneaky, Hazel shifted and turned to see a trio of huge walk into the bar.
And at the front of the trio was Marcel.
Who Pru’s eyes seemed to be glued to.
Hmm.
But before she could do more than slant a glance to Pru to see her practically drooli
ng over Marcel, who was trailed by Smithy and Raph, she watched Luca, Theo, and Martin follow them into the room. There was a reason Pru was drooling. Marcel was gorgeous. A jawline that could cut through ice, deep brown eyes. His nose was a little crooked, his cheekbones high, and there was a scar that sliced through his right eyebrow. Maybe those parts didn’t sound pretty together.
But he was.
Fucking beautiful.
And his body was…lean strength mixed with bulges in all the right places—arms, ass, pecs, thighs.
So yeah, he was totally drool-able.
But the man who walked in behind the six guys was the only one that made Hazel’s heart skip a beat. Oliver’s eyes seemed to go straight toward hers, warming, at the same time that Pru whispered, “Sweet baby Jesus, the man said to get you here, but he didn’t say anything about bringing a half-dozen specimens for bean-flicking material.”
“Bean-flick—” Hazel blinked, focused on the more important part of that statement. “Who said to get me here?”
A hand sliding down her spine. A chest coming close. Warm breath in her ear.
“Babe.”
She shuddered; knuckles drifted across her cheek.
“Hi, Oliver,” Pru sing-songed. “Who are your friends?”
Hazel shifted to glance up at the man who’d positioned himself at her spine. “Oliver?” she asked archly, breathing deeply to steady her racing heart. “Did you get Pru to bring me here?”
Half of his mouth curved. She wanted to kiss it. “I might have suggested that she buy you a drink, and”—he paused when the server came over with a full tray of food, of their cheesy delight—“apparently the entire kitchen’s quantity of fried food?” he finished on a question.
“Oh my God, mozzarella sticks,” Smithy murmured, reaching for the basket almost before it hit the table.
“No!” Pru smacked his hand away. “These are for us.” She narrowed her eyes when Smithy reached again. “Don’t make me break your hand, Connor Smith.”
“You need cheese curds, mozzarella sticks, a giant plate of nachos, and jalapeño poppers?”
“Yes,” Pru said. “And chili cheese fries and a Philly cheesesteak, and those are all for us.” Her chin came up, and Hazel watched the fairy fade into the badass hockey player. “You want food, you order it, but you don’t take ours.”