Boldly

by Elise Faber

  Tension lanced through his body.

  “But I arranged this because I love you, and…um…I was hoping it might bring something back for you that you haven’t had since you got injured. So”—she swallowed—“will you get dressed and trust me?”

  Trust her?

  That was the easy part.

  It was what she might be bringing him to face that had tension clawing at his insides.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Hazel

  “So,” she said, forcing her tone to be even, “what do you think?”

  He stood in the lobby of the rink—not the one that the Breakers used as a practice facility, but one that was an hour away and had been modified…

  For the sleds that were flying on and off the ice.

  “I—um—stumbled on this league and reached out to them. They said they have extra equipment for new guys to use and invited me to come.” He was still and pale and silent. “I didn’t tell them it was you or that you’d play. Just that maybe you might be interested.”

  Oliver didn’t reply.

  In fact, he hadn’t said a word since she asked him to trust her.

  Just had gotten out of bed and dressed, trailed her to her car, sat quietly on the ride, and followed her into the rink.

  All silently.

  Now he was staring at the ice, a muscle clenching in his jaw, and she realized she’d made a mistake.

  A huge one.

  She grabbed his arm, squeezed lightly. “Let’s just go—”

  “Oliver!”

  They both jumped, and she whirled to see a little girl come tearing up to Oliver, brown curls bouncing. She was wearing a hoodie with the logo of a local youth team on the front and a pair of leggings with Velcro rectangles that Hazel recognized as the undergarments that held hockey players’ socks up, though most of the players on the Breakers wore the shorts version.

  “Hannah,” he said, finally unfreezing when the little girl launched herself at him and threw her arms around his waist. “What’s up, buttercup?”

  “I’ve got a game!” she yelled.

  He smiled. “That’s great.”

  “Want to come watch?” she asked.

  Oliver’s eyes flicked to Hazel’s, and she held perfectly still, trying to read his expression. An older woman came up then and smiled. “I think they’re busy, Hannah. We should go get you dressed for your game.”

  “Okay,” Hannah said, then her eyes drifted to the ice behind them. “Is that your game, Oliver?” She didn’t wait for him to answer, just kept chattering. “Oh, it is! That’s the game for people with superhero parts, and your leg is a superhero part! You’d better get dressed or you’ll be late. Coach doesn’t like it when I’m late, and I’m sure yours wouldn’t either.”

  The older woman spoke, voice cautious, probably because the only one who didn’t see the pain in Oliver’s eyes was the little girl. “Honey, I think we should see Oliver another time.”

  “But—”

  Hannah’s face dropped, her brows drawing together. “Why are you sad?”

  Fuck.

  Fuck.

  Hazel clenched her teeth so tightly together that she felt a sharp bite of pain in her jaw.

  Oliver squatted. “I’m not sad, sweetheart.” He paused, seemed to be considering something, and Hazel braced because his pale blue eyes were swirling with some pretty heavy emotions as they came to hers and held. “I’m scared.”

  “Do you want me to hold your hand when you go in?” Hazel’s voice had dropped to a whisper that was almost as loud as her normal voice. “When my mom holds my hand, it makes me feel better.”

  The air went taut.

  Hazel held her breath.

  If it looked like he was going to lose his cool, she’d step in because he wouldn’t forgive himself for hurting the little girl’s feelings later. She knew that because he was a good man, because this little girl obviously loved him.

  She knew that because she knew him.

  Oliver’s face gentled and he slowly shook his head. “I don’t want to make you late, honey.”

  Hannah shook her head, sending her ponytail flying. “Coach won’t be mad if I’m late because I’m helping someone. She always says that’s the most important thing. Aside from being kind.”

  Hazel’s heart squeezed.

  And yeah, there were tears in her eyes.

  Because this little girl was…beautiful. A beautiful soul who was waiting for a grown man to decide if he’d take her hand and gain the courage to step into the rink.

  Because the tumult of emotions rippling across Oliver’s face included longing.

  He wanted to be in there.

  He was just…scared.

  But he once again proved how amazing he was when he said, “Then I would love for you to hold my hand.”

  Hannah smiled and didn’t hesitate, just slipped her tiny hand into Oliver’s much larger one and started tugging him to the door that led to the ice.

  “I hope this is okay,” the older woman said quietly to Hazel. “My daughter is a force of nature, and—”

  Hazel squeezed her arm. “I think it’s perfect. I—I’m worried this wasn’t one of my better plans.”

  The woman had brown curls and eyes that signaled her to be Hannah’s mother, but more than the outside, it was the kindness on her face that marked her to be the mom of the sweet little girl who was currently towing Oliver toward a group of men organizing equipment. “I’m Aimie,” the mom said.

  “Hazel.”

  “You love him,” Aimie went on, “and that means sometimes you have to make tough decisions. One of those is pushing when you think they need it. Another is”—her eyes went back to Oliver and Hannah, who were now talking with the men—“giving them the world, or as much of it as you can.” Hazel sucked in a breath. “I don’t know you, or him very well, but I know enough to understand that this”—a nod to where they were pulling out a sled and a pair of short sticks with metal spikes on the shaft, a helmet with a cage, shoulder pads, shin guards, and elbow pads—“this,” she said again, “is both of those.”

  Hannah had gotten into the action, was scrounging through the gear, lining it up as though Oliver wouldn’t know what went where, bouncing around as the men fitted Oliver into the sled.

  She only backed off when he disappeared into a locker room to change, one of the guys at his side, but returned to him the moment he came back out, his prosthesis gone, his body strapped into the sled. The men who’d fitted him stood on the smooth plastic, showing him how to use the shorter sticks, all while Hannah watched, still bouncing but quiet.

  And Hazel couldn’t take it anymore.

  Slipping into the rink, Aimie behind her, Hazel clung to the wall, wanting to go over and make sure Oliver was good but worried it might make him lash out.

  Because amongst the fear and longing in his expression, there had also been anger.

  She’d overstepped.

  Now he was on a ride he might not want, with a little girl watching over and making him go through it because he was too nice of a guy to turn down a child’s offer of help.

  Her insides rippled and twisted, worry knotting her intestines.

  Then…he was on the ice.

  Oh God, he was doing it. Propelling himself around the cold, hard surface, using the metal spikes on the pair of sticks to shoot forward, moving faster than should be possible, especially considering he’d never done this before.

  He was flying, skidding this way and that, a little wobbly, the occasional near miss of a collision—though from her research, collisions in sled hockey were common and brutal, as brutal as those in the NHL—but she could tell that Oliver was just getting a feel for the sled, the long blades that held it aloft, the movements.

  He didn’t even touch the puck at first.

  Just skated.

  A quick turn had him compensating too quickly, weight flying back, and he wiped out hard.

  Hazel gasped.

  “He’s okay,
” Hannah said sagely, “Oliver is tough.”

  Hazel blinked, not having heard the little girl come over, but she swallowed another gasp when Oliver picked himself up and continued skating, only this time to try the same turn that had made him fall the first time. And made him crash a second time.

  Aimie squeezed her shoulder. “He’ll be okay.”

  “I know,” she whispered, though tears burned the back of her eyes when she added, “Thank you.”

  A nod. “We should go, honey,” Aimie told Hannah.

  “I want to see him score a goal,” Hannah said as she bounced around, her curls flying behind her like a cape. “Please, Mom?”

  “I think he’s just getting comfortable skating—”

  “Score a goal, Oliver!” Hannah shouted.

  Oliver’s head whipped in their direction, and Hazel saw a flash of white—a smile—before he began propelling himself forward, flipping the stick in a movement that seemed to be natural even though he’d never done it before, scooping up a puck, and carrying it forward. He fumbled a bit, finding a rhythm of skating and pushing, figuring out the right speed, but then it seemed to click, and he carried it forward, closed in on the goalie, and fired it at the net.

  She held her breath.

  Unnecessary.

  It flew into the goal, and Hannah cheered like a loon, her and Aimie joining in. Hazel saw another flash of white, and Oliver continued working, weaving through and mixing with the players, who were all warming up, shooting and skating, getting ready for whenever they would put teams for a scrimmage together.

  “Okay, baby,” Aimie said, “now we’ve really got to go get ready.”

  Hannah nodded.

  “Thank you,” Hazel said, squatting down so she could give Hannah a squeeze, and then rose to do the same to Aimie. “Can I—can I get your number? I’d like to take you out for lunch as a thank you. Both of you. I don’t think I would have—” A shake of her head. “I don’t think I would have gotten this far without—”

  “Nonsense,” Aimie said as Hannah took off for the doors. “But I will gladly exchange numbers, and we owe Oliver—and you—lunch, not the other way around. Hannah has slept in the jersey he got for her every night. He made her year”—Aimie’s eyes held Hazel’s—“and you did, as well. She loves Oliver, and she loves helping people. Missing five minutes of an 8U game isn’t a sacrifice in the least.”

  “I—”

  Aimie nudged Hazel with her shoulder. “No arguments.”

  It was official. She was adopting this woman and her adorable daughter, and she was doing it today.

  “Okay,” Hazel said, handing Aimie her phone. “We’ll split lunch.” A beat. “And then we’ll argue over who’s paying the next one.”

  Aimie laughed as she plugged in her number, handing Hazel her cell so she could do the same. “It’s a deal.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Oliver

  By the time he showered and dressed and made his way out of the locker, his entire body was a mess of tired muscles and over-sensitized nerves.

  Hell, it felt like his heart was still pounding, even though he’d been off the ice for a half hour.

  But that was hockey.

  It was exhausting in a way that was nearly impossible to train for.

  Intervals. High impact action. Strength. Speed. Finesse.

  And with the sled strapped to his hips and leg, learning a different kind of balance, using a different type of strength.

  Nothing was instinctual.

  It all took extra brainpower to move, to turn, to sprint, to shoot.

  Which meant he was exhausted in a way he hadn’t been since he first started playing. But…he’d played.

  Holy shit.

  It hadn’t felt like before. It was different. Frustrating in a way. But it was hockey and on the ice and feeling the breeze on his face and shooting and scoring—even if it was with one hand and his angles were off because he was lower to the ice.

  It was hockey.

  It was amazing.

  And Hazel had given that to him.

  He pushed through the doors after he’d thanked Zack and Shelly—the two men who’d loaned him the equipment and had helped him gear up and navigate—promising to be back soon and stepped out of the rink and into the lobby.

  His upper body was tired, but he was surprised at how wiped his thighs were, his hips, his calf. Every muscle overcompensating, he supposed, but he’d also figured his back and core, shoulders and arms would be wrecked. Instead, they were tired but okay, and his lower body was like Jell-O. He was ready for a rubdown, a soak in the cool and hot tubs, and then to sleep for a hundred years.

  Unfortunately, the best he might do is some IcyHot, coaxing Hazel into bed (for that rubdown…not of his thighs, ha), and then passing out and vegging for the rest of the day.

  But he had to find her first.

  He’d looked up frequently, had seen her watching him in the stands, but when he came out of the locker room, he didn’t see her there. Nor was she against the wall of windows where she, Hannah, and Aimie had cheered for him when he’d chipped a puck into the net.

  Not really a goal because they were all just messing around on the ice.

  But sort of one because it was in the net and Hannah had called for him to score and he had, even if it had been just in a skate and shoot.

  So, not in the stands or by the windows or hiding in the shadows. He tugged out his phone, checked the screen. Nothing.

  Weird.

  Maybe she was in the bathroom.

  He glanced around the lobby, but it was empty.

  Or at least, empty of anyone but a few siblings keeping themselves busy by tearing through the space, empty of Hazel. A whistle drew his attention, and he headed toward the next set of doors, to the second rink. It was divided into thirds and there were several games happening at once.

  Girls. Tiny little girls who looked more like marshmallow men than hockey players skated around the space.

  And one flew on the ice.

  Snagging the puck off a teammate’s stick (not ideal, but he appreciated her spunk and desire to take the puck), skating it up, scoring the goal, and then immediately going to the halfway point of the sectioned-off rink and waiting for the face-off.

  While the other girls slowly made their way back—some with a little encouragement from their coach.

  The puck dropped.

  The girl got it.

  Goal.

  Again.

  A whoop from the stands.

  Oliver turned to look, saw Hazel and Aimie cheering loudly, Chuck beside them.

  The girl skated back to the middle, and he looked closer, saw that it was Hannah. Of course it was Hannah, he thought, grinning like a fool. His little Hannah had spunk for days and was a killer on the ice. Though…

  He watched as play continued and Hannah scored three more times, each time scooping up the puck with a definitive confidence he loved but also knew wasn’t exactly ideal (or at least the times she took it off her teammates’ sticks—which was well more than a half-dozen occurrences). When the coach blew the whistle for a water break, Oliver moved to the bench.

  “Okay if I talk to Hannah for a second?” he asked the slender woman with dark brown hair.

  Her eyes widened when she recognized him. “Sure,” she murmured. “But we’re back on in two minutes.”

  “Got it.” He tapped Hannah lightly on the helmet, soaked in the smile that spread on her face.

  “Oliver!”

  “Hannah!” He winked when the coach chuckled, earned a smile from the cute brunette. “Can you come over here for a sec?”

  “Yup!” She jumped down the two stairs that led up to the player’s bench and raced over, barely able to contain herself when she asked, “Did you see my goal?”

  “Your goal?” he teased. “I saw four of them. You’re doing awesome.” He held his hand up for a fist bump.

  “Did you do awesome, too?”

  “I h
ad fun.” Another fist bump. “Thanks to you.”

  She bounced, smile still wide.

  “I thought I’d tell you a special secret that makes hockey extra fun for me. Do you want to hear it?”

  “Yes!”

  “You know what can be better than scoring?” he asked.

  Her brows drew together in a way that told him she couldn’t imagine anything being better than scoring. Which was kind of true. Putting a goal in was awesome. But, “Passing to your teammates or waiting for them to pass to you can be even more fun.”

  Her face screwed up. “Why?”

  Definitely not convinced.

  “Because it takes more skill sometimes,” he said. “You know out there that you can skate straight up and score—you did it four times that I saw—but doesn’t doing the same thing get a little boring after a while?” Her brows were still furrowed, though maybe slightly less. “You can do something different—make a move, try to shoot on your backhand, or see if you can get your teammate a goal, too.”

  Her face relaxed.

  “Because it feels good to score, right?” he asked.

  She nodded.

  “And it’s fun to make our teammates feel good, too.”

  Another nod.

  “But it also makes you a better hockey player when you can pass and shoot and make a move.” He patted her helmet. “You get good at all three of those, and you’ll be unstoppable.”

  That she liked, as evidenced by her raising her stick in the air and yelling, “Unstoppable!”

  “Damn right,” he said.

  She giggled. “Damn is a bad word.”

  Shit. He glanced toward the stands. “Don’t tell your mom.”

  A shrug. “Okay!” The whistle blew. “Gotta go!” She was gone before he could say goodbye, but his eyes stayed on her as she went back onto the ice, took the face-off, and started for the goal. Straight for the goal, forgetting everything he had just told her.

  Until, in almost comical fashion, she skidded to a stop, the pieces seeming to click into place.

  And…then she looked up.

  She saw a teammate.

  And she passed. A damned good pass, too. Slightly in front of the little girl—so she could skate to it without having to slow down. Hannah’s teammate fumbled a bit, but then got the puck under control and skated to the net.