Benched

by Elise Faber

  She couldn’t think, couldn’t do more than process the electrifying sensations that Stefan invoked.

  “I don’t know why— Ugh! Come on!” Dan’s voice was disgusted and loud enough to snap her out of the haze of desire.

  Her eyes flew open on a gasp. She started to pull back, but Stefan caught her head and pressed one more soft kiss to her lips.

  “I think that went better than our last kiss,” he said with a wink before dropping his hand and turning to face her brother.

  Blane stood behind Dan, arms crossed, eyes narrowed at Stefan.

  “Go shower, if you want,” Stefan murmured. “I’ll take care of Dumb and Dumber.”

  Her brothers—because, really, Blane was as good as one—glared fiercely, but she’d seen Stefan on the ice, knew he could take care of himself.

  “Thanks.” In her skates and with Stefan in shoes, she didn’t have to stretch to kiss his cheek.

  Leaving the men to tend to themselves, Brit pushed into the locker room and found it crowded with equipment staff and a few players. There were enough people to make her feel comfortable, so she hit the showers and dressed.

  For the first time since management had thrown down the gauntlet, Brit felt confident in scooping it up.

  She could do this.

  Perhaps even make something real of this thing between her and Stefan.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Stefan

  “I don’t remember giving you permission to touch her,” Dan said the moment his sister was out of earshot.

  Stefan resisted the urge to roll his eyes even as he did his best to hold on to the post-kiss glow. Brit was fucking incredible and her mouth—

  “It’s not yours to give,” he told Dan, shifting discretely to hide any evidence of how much he’d enjoyed the kiss.

  “I’m her brother.”

  “And Brit is her own woman,” he countered.

  Blane stepped forward then, going shoulder to shoulder with Brit’s brother and forming a barrier of angry men between him and the exit.

  “What are you doing?” Blane asked. “Don’t you think that she’s going to have a hard enough time without fucking a member of the team? How do you think that will make her look in the media?” He thrust a hand through his short brown hair. “It’s already bad enough with the pictures.”

  “It’s not like that,” Stefan began.

  “Then what is it like?” Sharp words from Dan this time. “From what I’ve seen, you don’t stick around. After our parents, our dad—” He shook his head. “Brit doesn’t need another flakey asshole in her life.”

  The implication that he was taking advantage of Brit stung, mostly because it was a thought he’d had more than a few times. But he couldn’t seem to stay away from her.

  He didn’t want to.

  “You don’t know anything about me. This thing with Brit, it’s more. It’s—” God. How could he even begin to categorize what was happening between them? Yes, it was new and intense and he really liked her.

  But it was also way more than just a desire to get in her pants.

  And still . . . they had hardly even begun.

  Stefan blew out a breath. “I don’t want to hurt her.”

  “You’ve hurt her already,” Dan said. “She spent half the night crying after you left her room.”

  Fuck. He’d known that, of course, had heard how upset she’d been through the hotel room door and guilt sat heavily on his heart.

  “You’re a fucking asshole,” Blane spat.

  Yes. Yes, he was. But it was also—

  “All we did was talk.” Or close enough because he definitely wasn’t going to tell Blane and Dan about the kiss or the way Brit had sprawled on top of him, pressing every sweet curve and lithe muscle against him.

  Stefan shook his head, shoved the image to the side.

  “I needed to know—” He broke off, not wanting to divulge what little he knew of Brit’s secrets. “She was upset about something else, and tap dancing around the draw between us was only making things worse,” he said, ignoring the glowering expressions on the men’s faces. “I can’t guarantee Brit and I are going to end up with a white picket fence and two-point-four kids, but I do know she’s the first woman to ever make me want that.”

  Blane snorted. “It’d be better if you just left her alone.”

  “Be real. I’ve seen the way you stare at her,” Stefan snapped. “If Brit had chosen you”—he glared at Blane, the idea of Brit in the other man’s arms, of kissing the tall, good-looking forward made Stefan angry on a bone-deep level—“you wouldn’t turn her away. You’d grasp the chance and hold on until your fucking fingers fell off. Don’t piss on me because I feel the same damn way.”

  “I—”

  Dan put his hand on Blane’s shoulder and squeezed, cutting off the other man’s words.

  They stared at each other, a standoff in which none of them were willing to budge.

  Stefan had decided to go for it with Brit, regardless of the secrets and complications, and he just didn’t have it in him to kowtow to anyone. Brother or old friend aside.

  Brit was different. He wanted her, would do whatever it took to keep her.

  “It goes without saying,” Dan began before pausing and shaking his head. “Fuck it, I’m going to say it anyway.”

  He stepped into Stefan’s space, crowding him, not stopping until they were nose to nose. “You’ve hurt her once already, so there goes your free pass. Know that if you do anything to hurt her again—or to hurt her chances of playing in this league—I will break every bone in your body and then dump your ass in a military prison so secret you will never, ever see the light of day again.”

  Stefan felt the blood drain out of his face but didn’t look away.

  He was sincere in his intentions, didn’t want to cause Brit pain. He liked her—probably way too much, given the circumstances.

  “Noted. I won’t hurt her. And”—he hesitated, wanting to choose his words carefully—“if there is any sign that my presence would do something to jeopardize what she’s worked for, I will walk away, immediately and without a fight.”

  Stefan would. He knew that in the very fiber of his being. It would be hard as hell, considering how strongly he felt for her in just the short time they’d been dancing around each other. If and when he felt more, it would be agonizing.

  But it would be a hell of a lot worse if he were the reason she didn’t achieve her goals.

  That was completely unacceptable.

  Dan stuck out his hand, and they shook. The cool approval in the other man’s eyes made Stefan relax slightly, until he turned to Blane, whose expression could have sliced clear down to the bone.

  Well, tough. He was just going to have to deal.

  Stefan stuck his hand out. “We cool?”

  Blane was silent for so long that Stefan didn’t know if he was thinking of punching him in the face or considering putting the tension between them aside.

  Probably punching.

  “We’re cool,” Blane finally said and took Stefan’s hand, “as long as you stick to your word.”

  Stefan fixed the other man with a look. “When have I ever not stuck to my word?”

  A grudging nod. “Fine.”

  Brit breezed out of the locker room just then, her hair wet and slicked back into a ponytail. She wore a fitted blazer and slacks with a white button-down, her messenger bag over one shoulder.

  He crossed over to her, took the bag, and slung it over his own shoulder. “You stretch?”

  “Yup.” She nodded. “I’ll do some more after dinner. But for now, I’m too hungry to do anything else. Let’s get some food.”

  He glanced at Dan, who was watching them with silent, assessing eyes, waiting for him to step out of line, probably, then Blane, whose expression had softened when Brit came out. When he saw Stefan looking, it turned to granite.

  This was going to be a bla
st.

  “Come on,” Stefan told them. “I know just the place.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  After Stefan stepped out to make a quick call to check on his mom, he joined the others, and they took Blane’s SUV to the restaurant. It was south of San Francisco, a small hole-in-the-wall burger joint in the town of Belmont.

  The decorations were the weirdest, campiest around. Blood-red velvet curtains ran floor to ceiling, and the light ranged from dim to sketchy.

  Headshots of celebrities, politicians, athletes, and gangsters flitted across the flat screen mounted on one wall in an odd slideshow of young and old, popular and infamous.

  Thirty people at most could fit inside, but this was closing time and the chef had never failed to make room for him.

  Tonight was no exception.

  They crammed themselves into a booth in the corner, three athletes, plus Brit’s brother, imitating sardines in a can.

  Maybe the booth would have been fine for normal people, but he, Blane, Brit, and Dan weren’t normal.

  Well, Dan was, he supposed. But Brit’s brother was still huge, an inch taller than even Blane and broader across the shoulders and chest. And at six-four and two-hundred-twenty pounds, Blane was no slouch himself.

  Stefan was slightly more petite, as the boys liked to tease him—only six-one and two-hundred-and-five pounds.

  Brit was—

  Hell. He didn’t know. A couple inches shorter than he was. Maybe about the size of Blue Robertson, the Gold’s rookie this season. So probably, five-ten or eleven and a hundred-seventy-five, maybe even a hundred-eighty pounds. She was toned and well-muscled, but goalies got away without the bulk a skater needed to make a presence on the ice.

  As they squeezed in together—he and Brit on one side, Blane and Dan on the other—Stefan was thankful that Brit was next to him, not just because her thigh pressed against his felt really fucking good or because the delicate floral scent of her shampoo was teasing his nose . . . but also because Blane and Dan looked like two adults sitting at the kids’ table.

  He had to bite back a grin when Dan shoved Blane over. “My ass is halfway in the aisle.”

  Brit snorted. “Dramatic much?”

  Blane joined Dan in glaring at them. “Why did we let you pick this place again?” he asked Stefan.

  “Because this place has the best bacon-and-bleu-cheese burger on the planet,” he said. “And because milkshakes. ‘Kay? Enough said?”

  “We shouldn’t be drinking milkshakes,” Blane grumbled.

  “Seriously,” Brit said. “We’ve got two days off. I, for one, am having a burger and a milkshake. Mint chocolate-chip. Or maybe cookie dough. Or maybe—”

  Laughter swept through Stefan. “Like ice cream, do you?”

  She shifted in the booth, turned to smile at him. “Maybe just a little.”

  “Are you kidding?” Dan asked. “Ice cream is your crack.”

  “For real,” Blane said. “Once she stole my skates and wouldn’t tell anyone where they were for a week because I ate her Cherry Garcia.” A martyred expression crossed his face. “I had to wear rental skates.”

  “It was Chubby Hubby,” Brit said with a chuckle. “And that was the third time you’d eaten the entire pint. After I’d bought it.”

  “We lived as a family. We shared everything.”

  Stefan’s brows pulled down. He’d known Brit and Blane were close, that they’d played on the same team in juniors. But living together? That he hadn’t known, and as much as he tried to ignore the pang of jealousy in his gut, it was still there, caustic and burning.

  “Now children,” Dan began, “I know you had your differences—”

  “Oh geez, Blane,” Brit cut in. “We lived together for three years, and you ate more of my food than Dan did during my entire childhood.”

  “I was a growing boy.”

  Brit threw her head back and laughed. Hard.

  The sound was electric, and Stefan felt every nerve in his body stand up and take notice. He wasn’t the only one.

  Though the restaurant was almost cleared out, there were a few patrons still nursing beers . . . or the occasional milkshake. At Brit’s laugh, their eyes turned her way. The dim lights made her hair shine like spun gold and her skin look like a bowl of peaches and cream he wanted to lick up.

  Or maybe that was just him.

  Because the sound of Brit’s joy unknotted something within Stefan, made him hope.

  Made him want.

  God, how he wanted.

  The server came over then and took their order. It was nearly impossible to take his eyes off Brit, to focus on the words.

  Thankfully, he only had to nod when asked if he would be ordering his usual.

  “I love you, you know that, right?”

  For a second, Stefan thought that Brit was talking to him. Then he realized that she was looking at Blane.

  Christ.

  The feeling that swept through him wasn’t jealousy.

  It wasn’t.

  Nor was it liquid rage as he studied Blane’s face and saw the intense longing there.

  Because he should be feeling relief—relief it wasn’t him that Brit was in love with, relief she was referring to the brotherly, platonic love she felt for Blane.

  It made no sense for him to want to hear those same words. They’d barely stumbled into the start of something, and there damn-well shouldn’t be any desire on his part to plant his flag—rhetorically speaking—and claim Brit as his.

  Good God. It hadn’t even been a month since he’d first seen her in the arena’s parking lot, struggling to pull her bag from the trunk of her crappy car.

  There would be no flag planting, at least not in the whole put-a-ring-on-it, cave-man-style claiming.

  Things were tentative, new. Light and easy.

  For now.

  Blane blinked, and the longing was gone, replaced with a mock-frown. “I still won’t ever forgive you for the rental skates.”

  “Good Lord,” Brit said, exasperated, but her lips were twitching. “A woman does one thing—”

  “It was a huge thing.”

  “Not Ben-and-Jerry’s huge.”

  Dan caught Stefan’s gaze and rolled his eyes, throwing a sigh of frustration in for good measure. “Children, can we forget about something that happened almost ten years ago?”

  Brit put up her hands. “I can. Don’t know about Hulk over there, though.”

  Blane’s lips twitched. “I seem to remember buying you a fresh carton of ice cream.”

  “Oh! That’s right.” She released a little breath and smiled broadly at Blane. “You did! That was really sweet.” Her eyes narrowed. “Still not going to apologize.”

  Stefan snorted. He couldn’t help it. This side of Brit was new. Relaxed and . . . just really, really cute.

  “What?” She turned, brushing against him in the tight confines of the booth.

  Not that he minded.

  Nope. In fact, he wanted her closer and, figuring she wouldn’t make a big deal about it since they were in a public place, he stretched out an arm across the back of the booth and closed the few inches between their upper bodies.

  She fit perfectly. Having her against him was right.

  Utterly right.

  “What?” she asked again.

  “Nothing,” he replied. “I just didn’t know you were so . . .”

  “Weird? Is that what you were going to say?” She frowned, tried to put some distance between them. Stefan didn’t let her. Instead, he wove his fingers through the ends of her ponytail and tugged the slightly damp tresses gently.

  “No.” He glanced across the table, saw that Blane and Dan had moved on and were talking about something else, then bent so he could whisper in her ear. “So damned cute. So sweet I want to lick you up and see if you taste as good as you sound.”

  “I’m not—” Her cheeks heated. “That doesn’t even make sen
se.”

  He shrugged. “Doesn’t make it any less true.”

  “Oh—”

  The server returned with their drinks then. An Oreo milkshake for Brit and beer for him, Blane, and Dan.

  Brit took a sip of hers, and a look of such pleasure suffused her face that Stefan’s cock twitched.

  Shit. Between the flag planting, the talk of licking, and now the soft moan of pleasure as Brit took another sip . . . he’d be lucky if his brain had any blood left in it.

  Fortunately for him, he didn’t need to speak. Blane, Brit, and Dan dominated the conversation.

  Stefan was happy to listen as they teased each other about things that had happened during their respective childhoods.

  It was nice to know they’d had so many good times together, that laughter and memories had come easily.

  His own childhood had been good, of course.

  But it had also been a little lonely.

  Without a father, without siblings and his mother working so damned hard, the house had been quiet far too often.

  The guys on the team had been his family. But it was a fluid one.

  Rosters shifted continuously as players aged out, moved, or were cut from the team.

  There hadn’t been too many constants.

  Funny how he’d never recognized that before.

  Their food arrived, and the four of them dug in, polishing off the half-pounders with ease. It was always amazing to him how much food hockey players could put away.

  Even Brit finished her burger, though she took off all the produce before she ate it.

  “No veggies?”

  She grimaced. “Not by choice. I eat the damn things because Rebecca requires it, but on a cheat day? Hell no, I’m not choking down some lettuce.”

  “I can throw some quinoa on there for you.”

  Rebecca was the team’s dietician, and she was notorious for her nutritious, but not-very-tasty food plans. Not that the diet didn’t work.

  Stefan had never been more in shape, never felt so strong on the ice, and that wasn’t just the extra workouts. It was Rebecca’s food and Mandy’s physical therapy.