Broken (Breakers Hockey Book 1)

by Elise Faber

  So strange, and yet, so typical. He was a gentleman, a nice guy, someone who cared enough about his friends to want to ensure their comfort.

  At least, that was what she’d always figured, and he’d told her that his shower was nicer. Maybe it was as simple as that.

  A thread of a conversation trickled through her brain. Had they’d talked about it the night before, about why she always ended up here while he took the guest room, even though she’d protested frequently? She rubbed her forehead, thinking maybe they had, that maybe he’d said . . . then sighed, frowning when it flitted away, the memory of coming to Luc’s house disappearing into a fog of flickering lights, vodka crans, music pulsing, and a hard body against her spine.

  Of Luc.

  She smiled, despite the pounding in her head, the desert in her throat. They’d had a good time, she thought. She couldn’t remember much of the conversation, much of anything after dinner, aside from feeling safe in his arms, her feet going numb as they’d danced, and . . . not puking in his car on the way home.

  Thank God for small miracles.

  And seriously, he was such a good friend to put up with her drunk ass, to take her to her favorite place and to dance and eat and drink, to celebrate one chapter ending and the next beginning without once making her feel ridiculous or like a burden. It was sad how until Caleb had done what he’d done, she’d never considered how her relationship with him hadn’t made her feel the same.

  There’d always been a hint of impatience, of testiness, of wanting her to make the decision he wanted her to make.

  Not in an obvious way.

  It was always a small redirection, a sigh, a joke that was maybe a bit too sharp, and she’d never realized it.

  How had she never recognized the manipulation?

  Well, then again, she hadn’t known he’d had three other women in his life, one of them who was pregnant, had she?

  And this was way too heavy of a conversation for the morning, as she was trying to summon her hungover ass out of bed.

  She was going to focus on positive things, not on the fact that she was single and without prospects, save a best friend who was kind and probably saw her as a pity case who was needy and didn’t have her own life anymore and—

  “Enough,” she murmured.

  Luc was the one person in her life who’d become indispensable, who she trusted not to leave, and she wasn’t going to do anything to fuck it up. Not by being a miserable pity partier—with or without party hats—nor by dwelling on the past. She’d used up a lot of their relationship energy the past six months, and now was the time to put that energy back in, to be as good of a friend to him as he’d been to her.

  End of story.

  Rolling to her side, she hesitated, waiting until her head steadied, until her blurry vision cleared, and what she saw on the nightstand made her heart squeeze tight. Ibuprofen and a glass of water.

  “Why in the hell is the man single?” she murmured, reaching for the bottle, downing three pills, and draining the glass.

  She moved gingerly into the bathroom, saw the towels he’d laid out for her, the hair products, and “girly shit” (her brand of “girly shit,” since the man paid attention and had bought stuff to match what she used during the weeks she’d stayed here after Caleb had revealed himself to be a complete and utter douche canoe), and knew that her quiet question from the bedroom was doubly true.

  She needed to find him a woman who appreciated him.

  Selfishly, she didn’t want to give up her friend, and she knew that anyone he dated probably wouldn’t be thrilled to have her and her single baggage tag along. But now, she knew that she had to let that self-centeredness go. He deserved better, and they wouldn’t ever be more than friends—not that she wanted anything more than friendship. For one, she’d just spent seven years in a relationship where she hadn’t even understood she’d been gaslit, manipulated. For another, and the most pertinent piece of information to her inner monologue, Luc wasn’t interested in her that way.

  She couldn’t deny she was attracted to him.

  Tall and broad-shouldered, along with great hair—dark locks that seemed to sweep in a perfect arc across his forehead with just the barest gray at his temples. Big hands, powerful thighs, an ass that filled out the slacks he wore regularly to the office.

  In a word, gorgeous.

  But never once—even despite those two erections—had he made a move.

  Maybe before, she wouldn’t have expected it, not with her being married and him being honorable. Of course, she was honorable, too. She hadn’t even once looked at him like that during her marriage. She hadn’t been single, so while she could appreciate his body for the fine specimen it was, he wasn’t ever on her radar as something sexual.

  Her friend. That was it.

  But even after Caleb, nothing had changed. On his part, that was.

  There was yearning in her, an underlying attraction that called to her, that pushed her to make the first move.

  Except, she was a coward.

  And not once during the last six months had he ever given her any indication that he wanted more than friendship. Not once had she ever thought that he might want her in that way.

  Was she sure about that? Because sometimes she thought—

  “Enough,” she whispered. Sure or not, this was the way it had to be.

  But what if it didn’t have to be?

  Another memory flickered on the heels of that thought.

  Flashing lights, strong arms, her ass brushing against his cock, him saying—

  Gone.

  Too much vodka.

  It should be a crime against humanity to make such a statement, but clearly, she had lost her college resistance to alcohol because it had been ages since she’d drank so much that she’d blacked out, that she couldn’t remember.

  Pathetic.

  Certainly.

  But, despite her throat and head and her teeth feeling like they’d grown fur, Lexi also felt better than she had in a long time.

  As though she’d excised some demon from her brain.

  As though the boulder weighing down her shoulders was gone.

  As though she could finally move forward with her life.

  She crossed the bathroom, turned on the shower, and got on with her day. With her life.

  She was going cross-eyed staring at the contract in front of her.

  It was Friday, three days after her drunken escapades. Three days since she’d found out that Luc had reached out to Todd for her, had called in sick for her before he’d gone to bed.

  But, despite the late night they’d had, he’d thought of her. And okay, maybe she did have some of her college-aged self still left in her, because she’d woken up at one-forty-five on Wednesday afternoon, the house empty, Luc long gone to work, and seriously, she couldn’t remember the last time she’d slept past eight.

  Usually, Lexi was an early riser.

  But vodka crans and letting go of a man who’d hurt her, who’d dragged her down into six months of despair, apparently had a girl feeling as light as a feather.

  Still, they’d received an offer on the house today.

  She and her ex-husband (God, it felt weird saying that) had received an all-cash offer on their house for a little above asking. As is. No inspection. No contingencies. A fifteen-day closing and . . . there was no reason not to accept it.

  Except . . . it was her house, with her garden.

  And, if she were being truthful, with her final tie to the past seven years.

  Her baby. Her yard and her flowers and the grass she’d spent years reseeding until it was plush and lovely and green.

  Sighing, she set the contract on her coffee table and rubbed her eyes, knowing there was nothing wrong with it, knowing that because she’d already read through it, and knowing that she was only resisting signing because it was the final link with her past.

  All those painful memories gone, huh?

  Purged by vodka, right?r />
  Ha.

  She was delusional. She was fucked up and—

  “No,” she hissed. “God, seriously, Lexi? This again?”

  A wave of annoyance welled up inside her, had her reaching for her cell, hitting a contact she would soon be able to permanently delete from her phone, waiting until Caleb picked up the call.

  He did. On the first ring.

  Probably because he’d been pushing her to make a decision since the contract had come in the day before.

  She spoke before he could, raising her voice so it was over the sound of the baby crying in the background and it was strange, but that noise settled in her heart, had her free hand unclenching, the grip on her past and regrets loosening. Perhaps, she thought, finally for the last time, a puff of air dispersing dandelion stalks.

  “Let’s accept the offer.”

  Relief in his voice, the fussing baby quieting in the background. “Thank—”

  “I’ll call the realtor, get a signing date as quickly as possible.”

  “Lex—”

  She was done. So done.

  Finally, done.

  The last strand between them pulled tight, strumming with tension, and then in stinging, painful relief, snapping free.

  “Bye, Caleb.”

  She hung up.

  Yeah, okay. Maybe, just maybe she wasn’t the worst kind of coward, after all.

  Maybe, she could find the strength to be brave.

  Maybe she could find the strength to go for what she wanted deep down.

  Chapter Twenty

  Luc

  His lungs were burning; sweat was dripping down his spine.

  Feet pounding on the sidewalk, reverberating up his legs, making his right knee ache, the old injury from his playing days reminding him of why his career was over, of how he’d obliterated the joint to the point of not ever being able to play again.

  Young and promising, to broken and washed up. Alone. Abandoned.

  Then slowly putting one foot in front of the other, getting an opportunity with the Breakers, and working his way up from scout to assistant coach to assistant GM and finally to GM.

  Until he’d spent more years in the front office than he’d spent playing in the league.

  And he’d seen one of his goals realized, albeit in a completely different form than he’d imagined—his team had won the Cup.

  Twice under his watch.

  So, broken had brought him full circle. By being shattered, he’d become whole again.

  The pain in his knee had become a blessing.

  It reminded him of how far he’d come.

  Of everything he’d lost and everything he’d avoided.

  Until golden-brown eyes flickered through his mind, reminding him of everything that was important.

  He had the professional success.

  But he hadn’t had a serious relationship since he was twenty-three.

  Not since—

  The horn blared just as he was about to step off the curb, and he skittered back, that old injury flaring as the car swerved around the corner, nearly clipping him.

  His knee gave way, his other leg collapsing under the sudden weight, his patella hitting the concrete lip hard. “Fuck,” he hissed, leaning forward, shifting his weight and putting his hands down so he was more stable before he got his feet back underneath him. Now both knees hurt like hell.

  And his palms were scraped.

  Awesome.

  He glared at the car that was tearing away from him, speeding down the residential street, and used that fury at the driver’s lack of safety to fuel his ascent to his feet.

  From big hits to fighting a curb.

  How far the hockey player had fallen.

  At least, he didn’t need to worry about getting back on the ice tonight. He could sit in his office, in the team’s box, and pop ibuprofen like it was candy.

  But fucking hell, his palms stung.

  Ridiculous.

  Sighing, he rolled his shoulders, shook out his stinging hands, and took that step off the curb—double-checking for careening cars this time. First, he just walked, but then he slowly started jogging, even though it hurt like hell. He was three miles from his house, walking wouldn’t be any less painful, and if he did, it would take fucking forever to get home . . . and to get to that ibuprofen.

  So, as soon as he could manage, he began to jog and then he made himself start to run.

  Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump.

  Feet pounding. Pain pulsing.

  But nothing came from being weak, from just giving in and shutting down, from quitting halfway through the battle. He was a man who saw things through to the end, even if the path was long and slow and brutal. So, he made himself push on, to finish his loop, although it meant adding another mile before taking the turn that would lead him back to his place.

  The pain had dulled to a thrumming beat in the back of his brain by the time he’d landed back in his front yard, and he thought he was good.

  Or would be good after a couple pain killers.

  But he must have underestimated how bad he looked because the moment he walked in the front door and Lexi saw him, she freaked the fuck out.

  He was smiling, because he’d seen her car in the driveway, and it was a really fucking nice surprise to have her in his kitchen. Because any time with Lexi was a good time. Not to mention the smell of whatever she was making on the stove had his stomach rumbling.

  “Hey,” he called.

  “Hey,” she called back, slowly turning toward him. “I hope you don’t mind, but I thought—” Her expression was bright, cheerful, but the moment she laid eyes on him, that happiness faded, the spatula she was holding dropping to the tile. “Oh, my God.” She rushed toward him, hands flapping up and down his body but not touching him anywhere. “You’re bleeding!”

  “I’m fine,” he said. “I just took a spill—”

  “You’re”—she knelt in front of him, lifting the hem of one leg of his shorts—“knee!”

  He glanced down, realized it was bleeding more than he’d thought. “It looks worse than—”

  “Don’t tell me it looks worse than it is!” she exploded, tugging him toward the kitchen table and shoving him into one of the chairs. “Sit down,” she ordered, moving to the sink and wetting a paper towel. Then she knelt in front of him, wiping the blood away with a gentle touch, clearing away the dirt and debris until the wound was revealed.

  “See?” he said, nodding toward the cut. “It’s nothing.”

  Her eyes shot to his, and there was such fury in the golden-brown depths that he immediately clamped his mouth shut and stifled any further words. He’d been married once, long ago, but he’d learned enough during those few years to understand when a woman gave him a look like that, the only smart recourse was to shut up.

  So, he shut up and let her fuss over the tiny scratch, told her where the antibiotic ointment and the bandages were. Then continued letting her fuss over his other knee with the even tinier scratch, and his palms that were hardly abraded.

  Okay, truthfully, his knee hurt like hell, along with his palms, and he knew he’d limped-run the last mile, had made it home solely because he hadn’t had any other choice. And, yeah, he was pretending that he didn’t like Lexi fussing over him, but he wasn’t going to lie, having her hands on him, having her worried and caring about him, felt nice. Lex was generous and sweet, but she’d been so . . . reduced since that twat-waffle, Caleb, had broken her heart. Seeing her filled with fire, snapping at him and ordering him around, made something burn within him.

  Because she was almost back to herself.

  And that made him want her even more.

  Seemingly impossible, but thus was the power of Lexi.

  “There,” she murmured, smoothing another Band-Aid on—the third, for those who were counting, and he certainly was. “You’re going to have a bruise.”

  He shrugged. “I’ll live.”

  She sat back on her heels, started to p
ick up the dirty paper towels, the wrappers from the bandages, the bottle of Neosporin. Luc stood, tugged her to her feet. “I’ve got it.”

  “But—”

  “Baby,” he said, tugging her flush against him.

  He didn’t know why he did that. Why the simple hug had turned into a full-body press. Why he’d held her close like she was a lover instead of a friend. Maybe it was the club. Perhaps, the dancing. Maybe it was that she was different today, something in her eyes calling to something deep inside his heart, some hope he’d been pushing down for so long.

  Or maybe it was just that he’d reached his limit, and his control had finally snapped and—

  Luc smoothed his hand up and down her back. “I said, I’ve got it, sweetheart.”

  Her breasts were against his chest.

  His cock was hard.

  Her smell, sweet and floral, roses with a dash of soil, was the most intoxicating perfume. He bent his head and inhaled deeply, wanting to singe the scent onto his lungs, to permanently bind it to his cells.

  Lexi shuddered, her weight resting heavier against him, her head tipping back.

  And . . .

  Something else snapped.

  His head lowered, the moment seeming to stretch, to last an eternity as he waited for insecurity to creep across her face. But it didn’t, even though he kept expecting it to. Then . . . their lips touched, just the barest brush of their mouths, and for a moment . . . nothing. Absolute stillness. She was frozen in his arms, her lips against his, their mouths closed, his mind spinning, curses beginning to fly through it, excuses on their heels.

  Until she moaned, the sound vibrating through her to him.

  And melted against him.

  Her lips parted. Her tongue darted out to trace the seam of his mouth. He opened in turn, tasted her, hands coming up to cup her cheeks, to angle her head and to kiss her with every bit of pent-up need he’d been harboring.

  She was with him, her hands sliding up his chest, clenching his shoulders, drawing him near, her tongue meeting his, stroke for stroke.

  It was just starting, and it was already the best kiss of his life.

  No hesitation after that first moment, just desire and sensation and the realization that this was the most right thing he’d ever experienced.