Boldly: Breakers Hockey #2

by Elise Faber

  “Oliver is doing great,” she murmured. “Truly.”

  “He is doing great,” Luc said, “but that great is going to end at some point. It’s all going to hit him, and then he’s going to really struggle. He’s happier now that he’s seeing you, that’s for sure. But he’s not going to be great forever.”

  “I’ve stopped seeing him as a patient.”

  Luc blinked then disappointment slid across his face. “Hazel,” he murmured.

  “I want you to remove that requirement from his contract.”

  “I can’t do that.” Luc shook his head. “I know what it’s like, know how it feels to have the career ripped away from you, how gutting that can be, how much it can fuck with his life. I got a job with the team right afterward, but my head was fucked for too long.” Another shake. “I don’t want Oliver to fuck around for a decade, struggling when he can talk to someone.”

  She squeezed his shoulder. “The part you’re missing is that talking to someone has to be a choice.”

  Luc frowned. “Has he been blocking you?”

  “No,” she said, “if anything, he’s been more honest and open than I ever could have expected. He doesn’t need me in that way. He’s in a good place, Luc, I promise you that.”

  “And what if he gets to a not good place?” Luc asked, worry on his face. “I don’t want him there.”

  “You care about him,” she said. “That’s a good thing. But all we can do is give him a referral to someone who specializes in this kind of trauma—which is not me, and I’m sorry I promised to take him on. This is over my pay grade, and I can’t help him.” She sighed and admitted the other thing that she needed to tell her boss.

  Because if he had an issue with it, she’d…

  Something.

  Figure out a way to deal, a way to make it work.

  Because Oliver was too damned important for it not to.

  “I can’t help him as a therapist,” she said and held Luc’s eyes, “because I’m seeing him. As a woman,” she added when Luc’s brows slid together.

  It took a second for him to process, probably because despite the naps she and Oliver had arranged for him and Lexi, her boss still had dark, dark circles under his eyes.

  “You’re seeing Oliver.” A beat. “As a woman.”

  “Yes.” She smiled. “According to him, we’ve been on eight dates.” Eight because the previous night she’d gone over to his place, watched a movie in his bed (with popcorn), they’d fooled around (and let her just say that the man seriously liked her oral skills—not that his were too shabby), and then he’d given her a toothbrush, plugged a charger in for her phone, and had held her all night while she slept.

  Glorious.

  And easier for him, since he had crutches at his place and a seat in his shower, which made navigating getting ready in the morning a lot smoother.

  Not super fun to have to put on a prosthesis for a middle-of-the-night bathroom trip.

  Or to skip a shower together because there wasn’t room for him to sit in hers.

  So his place. And it had been quiet and easy and it was nice to do nothing after she’d spent the night before dragging him around the aisles of Target, teasing him about boho chic, but really just adding some pops of color to make that gray on gray (and it must be said, gray) space look a little homier.

  Because he’d asked her to help him make it that way.

  He’d asked. Her.

  The trust made her heart full and filled her tummy with all the butterflies and just…God, was it possible to be this happy? She felt like she was constantly floating, always smiling, uncertain why Oliver had chosen her of all people to open up to, but damned glad he had.

  No.

  She knew why he’d picked her.

  The same reason she hadn’t been able to keep him as a client. She couldn’t separate herself from him in the way she needed to in order to keep things strictly professional. Quite simply, he called to her, and she had to answer.

  “Eight dates?” Luc asked, his brows so high she was surprised they didn’t disappear into his hairline.

  “Well, according to Oliver, we’ve had eight.” She smiled. “By my tally, we haven’t even had one yet. Mostly because he keeps promising me romance in the form of flowers, dinner, and candlelight, and then we end up doing things like going to Target, Rage, and cuddling in his bed watching penguin documentaries.”

  Luc grinned. “Sounds like he has his priorities straight.” He tugged a lock of her hair. “When are you doing romance?”

  “Tomorrow night. Supposedly.”

  His grin widened.

  “You’re not mad?” she asked. “Or disappointed? Or worried about coworkers co-mingling?”

  Humor on his pretty face. “Not mad. It’s your life, Haze. Definitely not disappointed that two people I care about have realized that they care about each other, and they’re each making the other smile in a way I haven’t seen either of them smile in far too long.” An arm around her shoulders, a squeeze. “And worried about coworkers co-mingling? That would be a bit hypocritical considering I married the Breakers’ general counsel.”

  That was a good point.

  She smiled at him. “Good.”

  He nudged her shoulder. “Good.”

  “And you’ll take off the therapy requirement for Oliver?”

  A nod. “I trust you. If that’s what you think is best, then I’ll take it off.” He dropped his arm as play resumed on the ice. “But I will be watching closely.”

  Of course, he would. Because he was a good guy.

  “I wouldn’t expect anything else.”

  She trailed him back to their seats.

  “Haze?” he asked, just as the puck dropped.

  “Yeah?”

  “I’m happy for you.” Another bump of his shoulder against hers. “Truly, I am.”

  She was happy. It was an effervescent feeling that bubbled through her tummy, through her veins, danced along her nerve endings and out her fingertips.

  Yeah, she didn’t think she’d ever been happier.

  Not with Trevor.

  Not before.

  This was all Oliver.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Oliver

  I’m sorry I promised to take him on. This is over my pay grade, and I can’t help him.

  Fuck.

  Fuck.

  He tried to breathe through that, breathe through the sharp stab of those words. They were part of a larger conversation, he knew that. He understood that. He heard that, heard Luc and Hazel continue talking about him, about her, about them.

  It was just—

  I’m sorry I promised to take him on.

  This is over my pay grade, and I can’t help him.

  I. Cant. Help. Him.

  Leaning back against the wall, he gripped the flowers tightly, feeling the stems start to break under his hands. Flowers. Romance. Candles. Dinner.

  That was the plan.

  But all he could hear was, I’m sorry I promised to take him on. This is over my pay grade, and I can’t help him.

  He’d asked her to help.

  He was a fucking lot.

  Maybe even over her pay grade lot, especially if he wasn’t a client and wanted to be a boyfriend.

  “Breathe, O,” he muttered.

  She and Luc had been having a conversation about the therapy sessions. She’d told him she was going to do that. She’d also said that she didn’t feel qualified to take on something like the trauma of losing a limb.

  This wasn’t about him.

  This was…not about him.

  But what if he was too much in other ways? He hardly knew how to be vulnerable enough to connect with people. It wasn’t instinctual. It was a struggle, and he had to push through the urge to shore up his defenses, keep people at a distance, and to not only give a small sliver of himself.

  Right now, it was easy with Hazel.

  Because she made him feel something he never had before.

 
But what if he got used to that?

  What if it stopped being new, and he started to close down again? What if he did that, and she decided he wasn’t worth the trouble and—

  “Mr. James?”

  Oliver blinked and glanced down, saw the tiny little girl standing in front of him. His heart was pounding, palms sweating. The flowers were all but mangled in his hands, and his good knee felt like it was about ready to give way.

  Panic.

  He was panicking.

  But there was a little girl staring up at him, her expression filled with excitement and eagerness. So, he sucked in a breath, released it slowly.

  “Yeah, kiddo?” he asked, dropping the flowers into the trash can and trying to moderate his tone, when it felt like he’d just swallowed a razor blade.

  “I—” She broke off, nibbled at her bottom lip.

  He crouched down, and at least he was getting better at that. It still hurt and put pressure on his stump, and he had to take most of his weight in his good leg, but at least he wasn’t at risk of falling over. “You good, kiddo?”

  She glanced back at her parents, Oliver’s gaze following, watching as they nodded in encouragement.

  A rise and fall of tiny shoulders.

  A chin lifted.

  Her hair was curly and brown, her skin creamy, her eyes brown, and her face…if he had a daughter with Hazel, this is what she could look like.

  I’m sorry I promised to take him on. This is over my pay grade, and I can’t help him.

  Fuck, that hurt.

  Easy. Easy now.

  He was at the arena; people were bound to recognize him. That was part of why he hadn’t been back until now.

  But this little girl had worked up the courage to talk to him, and even though she was faltering now, he could at least make her night a little brighter. If he played this right, maybe he could even just make her night altogether.

  So, he stood, held out a hand. “Come with me, and I’ll show you the coolest place in the arena.”

  She unfroze, wrapped her tiny fingers in his, and said, “Really?”

  “Really, really.”

  He nodded at her parents as he started walking, indicating they follow him. The monitors around the concourse said there were two minutes left in the game, and the Breakers were up by three. There would be just enough time for them to get downstairs.

  “Mr. James?”

  “Yeah, honey?” he asked, her parents trailing.

  “Did you lose your leg?”

  He smiled gently. “Yes, I did.” He lifted his pant leg enough to show her the bottom of his prosthesis. “See?”

  “Wow! You have a superhero leg!”

  That made his smile turn genuine. “Pretty cool, huh?”

  “Super cool!”

  He nodded at security then hit the button for the elevator that would take them downstairs. “What’s your name?”

  “Hannah St. Claire, Mr. James!”

  So much enthusiasm.

  “Call me Oliver,” he told her then glanced over at her parents. “I should have asked. Do you have a few minutes, Mr. and Mrs. St. Claire?”

  The mom nodded and put her hand out for him to shake. “Aimie, please. And this is my husband, Chuck.” He shook Chuck’s hand. “We have plenty of time, but please, we weren’t trying to take too much of yours. You don’t have to go to any trouble for us.”

  “It’s no trouble,” he assured them.

  The elevator door opened, and they stepped on.

  “You’re my favorite player!” Hannah declared, dancing around the elevator, jerking Oliver’s hand this way and that.

  “Well, you’re my favorite Hannah,” he told her.

  She beamed.

  And he felt like the sun could rise and fall by that smile, it was so bright and beautiful and innocent.

  It would only take a few moments to reach the lower level of the arena, the concrete halls where the guys would come off the ice. Normally, he would never take someone here. After a game, the guys just wanted to get through whatever Tommy wanted to talk to them about, the required press, and their cool-down routines.

  But he knew the guys would love Hannah.

  And…it was the best way to get a game-worn jersey.

  I’m sorry I promised to take him on. This is over my pay grade, and I can’t help him.

  He shoved down the words. Again.

  But they still rattled around in his brain.

  Enough.

  Enough.

  E—

  The elevator doors opened, and they stepped out.

  “Stand over here with me,” he told them, tugging Hannah toward the corner where she would be able to see the guys come off the ice. The crowd noise rose. The buzzer went.

  Everything went quiet. But only for a few moments.

  Because then the guys came down the hall.

  Sticks hit the racks.

  They headed for the locker room. The corner he’d chosen meant that they could bypass Oliver’s little group, but he knew that most of the guys would stop. Because they were awesome.

  And the first one to notice them?

  To stop?

  Smithy.

  Of course, he was.

  Who did what Smithy always did—charmed the shit out of everyone around him, including one Hannah St. Claire and her parents. He swept Hannah up into a giant bear hug, lifted her so she could reach the tall ceiling overhead, revealing the not-so-secret secret (at least to anyone who worked down in the bowels of the arena) that he always jumped up and tapped the ceiling for good luck before and after a game.

  “Now I’ll have all the good luck,” he said, setting her down.

  He reached behind him to undo the tag that kept players’ jerseys in place then whipped it over his head.

  A tug and it was dwarfing Hannah.

  Who looked like she’d just won the lottery.

  At least, until she glanced back at Oliver, her eyes sad. “You’re still my favorite.”

  Fuck. This girl was trying to steal his heart. I’m sorry I promised to take him on. This is over my pay grade, and I can’t help him. A breath, eyes stinging, but he managed to smile, to keep his voice light. “I know. But Smithy’s jersey is bigger, so more of the guys can sign it. Then you can take it home and hang it on your wall.”

  “I can have it?” she asked with wide eyes, glancing from him to Smithy.

  They both nodded.

  “Will you sign it extra big, since you’re my favorite?”

  I’m sorry I promised to take him on. This is over my pay grade, and I can’t help him.

  Deep breath. Let it go.

  “Of course, Hannah.” He started to glance around. Usually there was a bucket of Sharpies for just this reason, but before he could really look hard, Smithy was tossing him a pen, and he was crouching to scrawl his name across the back of the jersey. Smithy went next.

  To which Hannah slanted a glance at Oliver and whispered, “You’re my favorite, too.”

  Smithy’s bright white grin slashed through his thick black beard. “I won’t tell him,” he whispered back.

  Marcel came up and signed, ruffling Hannah’s hair, also getting a, “You’re my favorite, too.”

  Then Raph and Luca, Martin and Theo. Almost the entire team signed her jersey.

  And got “You’re my favorite.”

  In the end, the only two players she didn’t get signatures from that night were the ones who were stuck in the PT suite, getting some treatment for injuries.

  They didn’t get “You’re my favorite.”

  Ha.

  “Thanks,” he murmured to Smithy, who’d hung around to watch the cuteness.

  “Any time.” A pause. “Beers next week?”

  I’m sorry I promised to take him on. This is over my pay grade, and I can’t help him.

  He closed his eyes, wanting to grab steel plates, to rivet them in place. To block off this feeling.

  “Oliver?”

  Hannah’s little
voice penetrated, and he opened his eyes, saw the happiness and joy on her face. He’d given that to her.

  He could give that to Hazel.

  To his friends.

  “Just a second, honey,” Aimie said, “he’s talking.”

  Hannah went quiet.

  I’m sorry I promised—

  E-fucking-nough.

  “Beers,” he said to Smithy, shaking his hand. “I’m in.”

  A nod. Relief in his friend’s eyes. “I’ll text you.” Oliver nodded. Then Smithy disappeared into the locker room.

  I’m sorry—

  No.

  No more of that, of that voice and those thoughts.

  If he’d stayed in his head, if he’d braced and built those walls back up, if he soldered those heavy steel plates back in place, reinforced them with rebar and concrete, protected them with barbed wire, he would have missed the significance of what happened next.

  Namely, his bending down to hear her. “What’s up, Hannah girl?” he asked.

  I’m—

  She smiled, that huge, the-sun-rose-and-fell-by-her smile, and said, “You’re my favorite-ist.”

  And the last of the voice in his head quieted.

  Gone.

  Done.

  Moving forward.

  Chapter Twenty

  Hazel

  He was sitting on her front porch when she pulled into her garage.

  She’d texted.

  She’d called.

  But they hadn’t connected after the game, and she assumed he’d gone home.

  Instead, he was here, waiting for her. Smiling, she grabbed her purse and phone and jumped out of the car. Oliver was already there, striding into the garage. “Hey,” she said, “I tried to call you—” She caught sight of his drawn face in the lights of the opener. “What’s wrong?”

  He took her hand, drew her toward the door to the house.

  “Honey, what’s wrong?” she asked again.

  A nod to the knob, a glance that told her he was waiting for her to unlock it.

  “Oliver—”

  His hand was still in hers, and he held it tightly as he led her to the living room, pulled her down onto the couch.

  “You’re scaring me,” she whispered.

  “I heard you.”