Boldly

by Elise Faber

  And then a male voice.

  But he was moving before he really processed the sensation. Not because of the male voice, but because of the tone of Hazel’s.

  It hadn’t been happy.

  In fact, it had been alarmed.

  He strode for the hall, feeling Chad behind him.

  “Babe—”

  What. The. Fuck?

  A man had his hands on her, his mouth on hers. Red hazed the edges of Oliver’s vision, his stride—the one he’d worked so fucking hard to make steady after the injury—faltered, and he nearly ate it. But he recovered and did it in time to see Hazel shove the man roughly away from her.

  “Haze, don’t be like that—ow!”

  And then she kneed him in the groin.

  “Fuck you, Trevor!” She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, spun away from the writhing, groaning piece of shit ex…and saw him.

  Her expression fell.

  Concern swept in.

  Teeth found that bottom lip.

  “Babe,” he murmured. “You okay?”

  Tears filled her eyes and she nodded. “I didn’t—”

  “I know.” He gripped her shoulders. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m—” A tear leaked out, and he wiped it away, struggling to be gentle when the sight of that glistening drop meant that his control was a hairsbreadth away from losing his shit. She was hurt—physically, emotionally, he didn’t know which. Both were equally concerning, and both had him a heartbeat away from launching himself at the man on the ground.

  “You stupid bitch!” Trevor moaned, cupping his crotch and rolling on the porch.

  Hazel jumped and burrowed into Oliver, her hands gripping his shirt tightly. He sucked in a breath, released it slowly through his nose. “I’d advise you to get your ass off this porch and to never come within a hundred feet of Hazel again,” he said coldly.

  The urge to punch the asshole was intense.

  But Hazel didn’t need him to lose his cool.

  So, he sucked in another breath, released it just as slowly.

  Even when Trevor pushed up to his hands and knees, still grabbing at his groin, and said, “Back the fuck off, asshole.”

  Hazel tensed.

  Oliver tucked her behind him, cupped her cheek, trying to get her attention, but her eyes were on Trevor, worry marring the beautiful lines of her face. “No offense, babe,” he said, “but your ex is a dick.”

  That got her focus off the asshole and back on him. “I—”

  “It’s okay.” He brushed a kiss over her forehead. “Everything is okay. Go into the kitchen, babe,” Oliver said, nudging her in that direction.

  Chad nodded, tilted his head down the hall. “Go on, sweet pea.”

  Oliver focused forward again, saw that Trevor was sneering…until Hazel started to move away. Then panic slid through his expression, and he jumped up to his feet, tried to push by Oliver. “Hazel, no.”

  Oliver stepped to the side, blocking him.

  “Don’t go,” Trevor whined. “I made a mistake and—” He grunted as he tried to shove his way into the house again.

  Oliver slapped a hand to his chest. “Stop right there.”

  Trevor pushed him hard, rocking Oliver back a step, forcing him to focus on balancing and keeping his feet at the unexpected contact. “Don’t touch me, motherfucker,” Trevor snapped, shoving him again.

  “You need to leave,” Oliver said, keeping his feet, bracing himself, even as he felt Chad step up behind him.

  But Hazel’s dad didn’t say anything. Just stood there in support and was letting Oliver handle it. In his house. The trust blew Oliver away, and despite the fury that was gripping his insides, he had more than a little respect for Hazel’s father and was more than a little touched that he trusted Oliver to take care of this situation.

  That also bolstered his control.

  “I…need…to—” Trevor’s face clouded as he continued to struggle to force his way in. Finally seeming to realize Oliver wasn’t going to let that happen, he ceased, chest heaving, eyes wild. “Who the fuck are you, and why were you touching Hazel?”

  Oliver huffed out a laugh. “A little late for you to be worrying about who’s touching her when you left her.” He raised an eyebrow when Trevor rocked back on his feet as though he’d been gut-punched.

  But Trevor recovered quickly, jabbing a finger into Oliver’s chest. “Who. The. Fuck. Are. You?”

  “He’s mine.”

  The voice wasn’t his. Or Chad’s.

  It was Hazel’s, coming sharp and fierce right as she slipped under Oliver’s arm and moved in front of him.

  “I love him,” she announced.

  Trevor’s face paled. “I—”

  “We’re long done, Trev,” she said, though her voice softened slightly. Probably because the fucker looked like he’d been hit with a two-by-four upside the head. But what did Trevor expect? Hazel was an amazing woman. Did he just think that she’d sit on the sidelines and wait for him to decide he wanted her back? “You left,” she said. “You made it clear I wasn’t a priority—”

  “I made a mistake at the bachelor party.”

  Hazel leaned back against Oliver, her curls brushing his chin. “And afterward?”

  “I wasn’t think—”

  So on a roll, she didn’t let him continue. “And before?” she asked, reaching back and lacing her fingers through Oliver’s, holding tight, her body to his, her voice calm and composed. “Because even before, you didn’t treat me like I deserved.” A glance up at Oliver, her eyes warm, lips curved. “You didn’t give me flowers or candles or music.”

  Trevor sniffed, drawing both of their focus. “That’s bullshit society has made important because companies just want to make money, and you know it.”

  “Is it?” Hazel asked archly.

  “I gave you flowers.”

  A sigh. A shake of her head. “Once. In our three years together, you brought me flowers one time. But it’s not about the flowers, Trevor, not really.”

  “Then why bring them up?” he gritted.

  “Because they’re a symptom of why we would have never worked, not for me, anyway.” Another sigh. “And not for you, either. Because you left.”

  Regret rippled through Trevor’s face. “I—”

  Hazel straightened her shoulders. “The problem was that I was the one giving. The only one. I was willing to bend over backwards to give you the world, just because you wanted it, because that’s the way it works in a relationship.” Her eyes came to Oliver’s again. “We give because we want to make our partner happy, to make them feel loved, feel whole.” Oliver brushed his knuckles over her cheek, and she squeezed his fingers again before she glanced forward at the man on the porch, the man she was eviscerating with her soft but firm words. “We wouldn’t have worked in the long run because you couldn’t give me that in return.”

  Trevor appeared devastated.

  Probably because there was no soft in her tone, no avenue to negotiate.

  Hazel was laying it out there matter-of-factly, baldly, not cruelly, but also in a way that the other man would know there was absolutely no chance of a future.

  “Oliver gives it to me,” she went on. “And I love him for it.”

  “Oliver”—Trevor’s expression went sharp, locking onto him—“Oliver fucking James. I knew I recognized your face. I knew it.” He glared at Hazel. “Are you fucking kidding me?” he snapped. “You’d rather date a fucking cripple than—”

  He didn’t even get to finish the insult before Hazel launched herself at him, fist raised and colliding with Trevor’s nose.

  There was a sickening crack.

  Trevor wailed as blood began pouring down his chin.

  But Hazel wasn’t done.

  She gripped his shoulders and lifted her knee, thrusting hard enough into Trevor’s crotch that even Oliver winced in solidarity. “Don’t you ever say that about Oliver,” she growled. “He is a million times the man you are.” She
stepped back when Trevor collapsed onto the porch, grabbing his balls for the second time that evening.

  Oddly, Oliver felt like laughing.

  Poor guy had thought that his evening was slated to go a lot differently.

  Hazel shook her hand and started toward Oliver but was gently brushed aside by Toni. “Excuse me, Cotton Candy Boo.” Her mom stepped forward and dumped a container of food on top of him—leftover pasta sauce, maybe? Though some salad was in there. Along with a pie crust. And half a piece of buttered bread.

  Ah.

  The scraps she’d been saving for composting.

  He should have known Toni wouldn’t waste food.

  Not on a man like Trevor.

  “Get off my porch,” Toni hissed, “before I turn the hose on you.”

  Trevor’s eyes went wide. He scrambled up to his feet, slipping on the sauce, leaving a wide streak of red on the wood. Toni was already making her way to the coiled up hose as Trevor shot down the stairs, ran across the lawn—

  “Get off my grass, asshole!” Chad shouted.

  Trevor veered, hit the driveway, and then was in his car, screeching down the driveway.

  Toni turned on the hose, started cleaning off the deck. “Fucker messed with my composting.” Chad moved to his wife, took the hose from her, and nudged her toward the house. Toni fought him, mouth opening, her expression one of protest, but that was all Oliver saw.

  Because Hazel turned to stare up at him with wide eyes. “Did I just punch someone?”

  He cupped her hand gently in his, saw that her knuckles were already bruising. But other than that, nothing looked seriously injured or swollen. “Come on, babe. Let’s get some ice for that.”

  “I punched him,” she whispered.

  “And kneed him in the junk twice.”

  More wide eyes.

  “You did good, babe,” he said. “Though you didn’t have to punch him for me.”

  Those wide eyes narrowed. “He called you a cripple. That’s—” A shake of her head. “Rage room aside, I’m not a violent person. I’ve never—” Another shake. “I never even played contact sports. I just…something inside me snapped when he said that.”

  “He’s an asshole and deserved to get punched, Banana Muffin Munchkin,” Toni said, having apparently lost the battle over who was going to hose off the porch. She stomped into the kitchen and put together a bag of ice, wrapping it in a towel and bringing it over to Hazel. Gentle hands placed it over the bruised digits. “Proud of you, Baby Cakes.”

  “For hitting someone?” Hazel asked, shock in every syllable.

  “No,” Toni said. “For standing up for what’s important.”

  Oliver felt his throat grow tight.

  But then Toni glanced at him. “Proud of you, too.”

  He blinked. Why? he thought. Hazel had said and done it all.

  A kiss to his cheek before he could voice the question, followed by a hug that was tight and long enough to remind him of Teresa and the way she’d once held him. “Because you didn’t lose your cool when Trevor kissed her. Because you calmly stepped in and protected her, made sure she was okay. And because, most importantly of all, you didn’t take over. You let her say her piece. You supported her. You loved her.” A sniff as she pulled back. “And then your first thought after that asshole insulted you was for her and to get her ice.”

  “Technically, you got her the ice.”

  Toni smiled, shook her head. “I hate to say it…” She trailed off.

  He frowned. “What?”

  “You’re stuck with us now.”

  Hazel giggled.

  Toni waggled her brows.

  Chad came in and slung an arm around his shoulder. “At least you’ll be fed well, son.”

  Son.

  Stuck with us.

  Family.

  What he hadn’t understood he’d been missing. Until Hazel.

  What he was so fucking grateful for now.

  “I love you,” he said, smiling at the woman who’d stolen his heart and who he never wanted to give it back.

  She smiled in response. A huge, gorgeous smile that made him feel whole, feel worthy, feel…like a man who loved a woman.

  Not a man with one leg.

  Nor one who’d lost everything several times over.

  Not even one who’d never had anything to start with.

  He just felt like Oliver James. And Oliver James was in love with Hazel Reid.

  Which was why he crossed to her, brushed his knuckles down her cheek (because she liked when he did that), and kissed her.

  And tucked all that love home.

  Then pulled back and said, “But we’ve got to teach you how to throw a punch.”

  Epilogue

  Hazel

  Game seven.

  The score was tied.

  The Breakers were on home ice, exhausted, and looking like they might not be able to squeak out the win. They’d spent much of the overtime period in their own end, barely fending off an assault from the Gold’s awesome offense.

  Scrambling.

  Desperate to stay in it.

  She was in the owner’s box, next to Oliver. Trying not to bite every single nail on her fingers down to the quick.

  She’d already ruined her manicure, just by picking away at the polish.

  But this shit was nerve-wracking. How did the wives and girlfriends do it? How did they stand the pressure of watching their guy on the ice fight for something they wanted so, so badly?

  At least they only had one player to worry about.

  Hazel had twenty.

  Was Marcel doing okay? What about Connor? His girlfriend had recently broken up with him, and he’d seemed down, like he’d really liked her, even though they hadn’t been dating long. What about Luca? He’d made a bad play that led to the Gold tying the game in the final minutes of regulation. Was he kicking himself and in a bad mental space? And Theo. He was battling injuries and—

  Oliver took her hand.

  He’d been so still this entire game, a virtual statue.

  As though if he breathed wrong, he’d sabotage the team.

  But even while dealing some pretty heavy demons—hello karma to swing its dick right in his face—Oliver was still aware of her.

  “Breathe, babe,” he said, not taking his eyes from the ice. “They have this.”

  “I—”

  But she didn’t get the rest of the sentence out because all of a sudden Marcel, Conner, and Theo were tearing up the ice, the Gold scrambling to catch up.

  Too late. In a complete defensive breakdown, their team had a three-on-none advantage in the Gold’s zone.

  Marcel fed the puck to Conner.

  Who tapped it to Theo.

  Who faked passing it to Marcel and instead fired it back to Conner.

  Who shot it on net.

  Brit, the Gold’s goalie, was scrambling, challenging them, cutting off angles and sliding from side to side in the net. She stacked her pads, dove, and…

  Saved the puck. It bounced off her into the corner.

  The crowd released a disappointed breath, Hazel right along with them.

  And the Gold defense flew into the zone, tangled up with Hazel’s guys, getting between them and the goal. But not between Marcel in the goal.

  Somehow in the scramble, they’d missed Marcel.

  Who suddenly had the puck on his stick and was firing it toward the goal.

  Brit slid.

  But she was too far out of position.

  The puck flew into the back of the net.

  Goal!

  Holy shit. Goal!

  The arena was quiet for a heartbeat and then absolutely exploded with noise. The bench cleared, guys flying onto the ice, everyone celebrating in a flurry of hugs and excited punches. Equipment was flung aside—gloves and sticks and helmets littered around the ice like a yard sale. The goal music came on. The crowd was roaring.

  And the Breakers were gathered in a mass on the ice, hugging and smilin
g.

  Hazel’s eyes stung.

  Hell, tears were sliding down her face. There was no point in hiding it. She was so freaking proud of them.

  But when they turned, almost as one, their eyes on the box, and pointed at Oliver.

  He pointed back at the guys.

  And…she lost it.

  Sobs wrenched through her, tears came in rapid succession, the scene on the ice going blurry.

  “Babe,” he murmured, cuddling her close, kissing her cheek, wiping the moisture away.

  Then Conner gestured, and at first, her watery eyes didn’t process it. She dashed the tears off her lashes, blinked a few times…then nearly lost it all over again.

  Because once Conner had started, the rest of the team followed.

  Pointing at Oliver.

  And then down at the ice.

  All of them.

  Making it clear where they wanted Oliver.

  She stood, tugging a now silent and still Oliver to his feet. Then to the door. Then to the elevator that led down to ice level. Then to the hall that led to the rink.

  Conner stood at the end.

  She smiled at him, having long given up on holding back her tears.

  They dripped down her cheeks, and she tugged Oliver toward his friend, toward the bright lights and the roar of the crowd.

  “Thanks, Haze,” Conner said, quieter and more serious than she’d ever heard him. He wiped his thumb over her cheeks, pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “You going to be good?”

  “Take care of him,” she whispered, glancing at her lovely, good man, who was stunned silent.

  A nod.

  Then Conner slung an arm over Oliver’s shoulders and drew him forward.

  The crowd hit another level of loud when they realized who was stepping onto the ice, thankfully cut up so much that it was rough enough to walk on with normal shoes, and a carpet currently being rolled out on the edges if it wasn’t.

  She trailed quietly behind them, having to dash more tears away when she saw Marcel approach with a jersey—with Oliver’s jersey.

  That was when her man unfroze.

  He took the jersey, tugged it over his head, and then hugged Conner and Marcel, their lips moving in rapid succession. The rest of the guys mobbed them, and she held her breath when it looked like Oliver might take a stumble.