Page 58 of Pucking Revenge

I step closer and tug on his lapels, forcing him to look at me. “If you want to wear a suit, that’s okay.”

His eyes fall shut, and he grimaces like he’s in pain. “It’s like I’m unlearning everything I was ever taught. I’ve been doing it forever. Putting on this suit, walking into that diner. Fuck, we were like gods. But we treated everyone with respect. Or at least I thought I did. Maybe?—”

I lift on my toes and press a finger to his lips. “You’ve always been the best person in every room. He didn’t make you that way.” I tug on the fabric again. “But neither did this suit. Choice is yours. You get to choose who you want to be now. And I won’t judge your decision. Swear it.”

He lowers his forehead to mine. For a long moment, we stay like that, me holding on to his suit jacket, his head resting against mine, like he’s literally leaning on me for support. “I think I’m going to change.”

“Okay.”

He presses a kiss to my nose, and my heart trips over itself.

“What other pregame superstitions do you have?”

We’re sitting in the back, mostly out of view of other diners. When we walked in, every person we encountered greeted him warmly. The waitress’s smile faltered for only a moment when she caught sight of me. She recovered quickly and was nothing but pleasant when she waved us back to Brooks’s usual spot. On our way there, customer after customer said hello, shook his hand, and wished him good luck tonight. One or two even hollered you bringing us the Cup again this year?

As we sat, me facing Brooks and him facing the restaurant, he was at ease, like this was an everyday occurrence. I, on the other hand, itched and fidgeted, certain that every person in the place would be watching us through the entire meal.

Is this how his life is all the time? Normally, we hang out in one of our apartments or at the Bolts’ bar, where regular fans can’t congregate. It didn’t hit me until this moment that I’ve never really witnessed his day-to-day life.

“I’ll go for a jog when we get home. When it gets too cold, I hit up the gym so I can run on the treadmill. Just to loosen my legs up a bit. Nothing strenuous. Plus, running helps clear my head. I take a nap in the afternoon, followed by sitting in my apartment in the quiet, visualizing the game.” He peels back the paper ring holding the napkin and silverware together. “The plays I’ll make. I walk through every scenario and consider the ways I’ll block the puck. Then music an hour before the game.”

My chest aches with affection at his sincerity. “Do you have a playlist?”

One side of his mouth ticks up, and he pulls his phone from his pocket. He knows me so well. He knows how nosy I am and that I’m itching to see the songs he’s put together. Without a word, without a single instruction or warning about what I can or can’t look at, he slides the device across the table to me.

God, he’s such a good guy. One day some woman is going to be incredibly lucky to have him.

And for just a moment, I’d like to practice Brooks’s visualization tactics and imagine scratching her eyes out.

The waitress appears beside us, and I order pumpkin pancakes with candied walnuts and extra whipped cream. When she slides her pad into her apron without taking Brooks’s order, I frown at her, then at him.

“Don’t you have to order?”

The woman hovering at the end of the table shakes her head. “Six egg-white omelet with sautéed veggies. A side of turkey bacon and whole wheat toast. And a glass of orange juice and black coffee.”

My face sours. “That’s?—”

Brooks laughs and splays one hand on the sticky table in front of him. “You know what? She’s right. Make it a bacon and cheddar omelet, breakfast potatoes, and rye toast.”

The waitress blinks a couple of times, but she nods quickly and yanks her order pad from her apron again. “Of course, Brooks. I’ll put that right in.”

I bite my lip to contain my glee. Because Robotic Brooks is breaking down. He doesn’t need to change. He’s the most incredible man. But he should be living his life for himself. Not for Seb.

He deserves to make choices based on what he wants, not who his uncle molded him to be. The important parts of Brooks won’t change, regardless of what he eats or how he dresses.

The good, kind human he is, the funny guy who makes me smile even when I’m feeling down, has nothing to do with his uncle. He didn’t create the man who snuggles me whether I’m naked and in bed or in sweats and eating sweets on the couch.

“Pretty proud of yourself right now, aren’t you?” he teases, his green eyes warm and the skin at his temples crinkling with happiness. He’s dressed in a gray Henley now. The way it stretches across his chest is doing funny things to my insides. Especially now that I know what it’s like to sleep on the expanse of it. Even though he’s covered in muscles—literally ripped in a way I didn’t think was humanly possible—he’s soft too.

All of North America knows what Brooks looks like in nothing but his underwear, since he’s modeled quite a few varieties on billboards and in magazines. But to be pressed up against his warm, smooth skin, to hear the steady heartbeat beneath those muscles—that’s a whole other level of hotness.

“Just like seeing my best friend relaxed, is all. Speaking of rituals…I need you to do me a favor.”

He arches his brow and tips forward.

“Pull off a shutout tonight.”

With a snort, he falls back against the booth’s cushion. “Sure, no problem.”

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