Page 306 of Branded
Yeah, not exactly.
But I had finally made some progress, and I wasn’t going to fucking backtrack. And I especially wasn’t going to backtrack on it because of these nosy, pushy fuckers who wanted to know every single detail of each other’s lives.
“Leave it alone, Smitty,” I warned.
My teammate just laughed. “You know we’re not going to leave it alone, so I don’t know why you’re bothering to try to issue orders.”
Fucking hell.
That was it.
I jumped up to my feet—well, to my skates—and marched across the room, jabbing a finger in Smitty’s face. “She’s been hurt, fuckhead, so don’t mess with her.”
Now, Smitty might be an annoying asshole half the time (although so loveable the rest of the time that everyone forgot about his annoying nature), but he also had a protective streak that was a mile wide. At my words, his expression immediately changed, and his voice became a growl. “Who hurt her?”
That wasn’t my information to share—but that wasn’t to say that I wouldn’t drop a few hints before the next time we played the Sierra, would make sure that Nate Miller got his due. And just to be clear, that due was ensuring that Nate Miller spent most of the game on the ice and slammed against the glass.
Smitty corralled (for the moment), I dropped my hand. “I’m taking care of it,” I muttered. “Same as I’m going to take care of Jules.”
“Does she know that?” Smitty—rightfully—pointed out.
I pressed my lips together, glared. “She knows enough.”
Laughter in that big, burly chest. Laughter that echoed across the room. “Good luck to you, man.”
“Right,” I muttered.
I didn’t need luck.
Jules was worth any amount of trouble or bad luck she’d dropped into my lap.
“It’ll be worth it,” Smitty said, like I was bestowing the most sacred of knowledge.
“I know that,” I snapped, striding back to my station. “I don’t need you to tell me that,” I grumbled, slumping onto the bench. “She’s fucking amaz—ow!”
I glared at Theo, who’d decided to launch a sock ball at my face.
“What, asshole?”
“You’re supposed to be less cranky when you finally get your picker on straight.”
That was just…really…
“If I never hear that word again,” I grumbled, scooping up the sock and launching it back at Theo, feeling a little better when it ricocheted off his forehead. Ha. Fucker. “It’ll be too soon. My picker isn’t broken or crooked. It’s perfectly—” I broke off, scrambling for a word that didn’t sound…well, sexual.
My teammates weren’t so concerned with that.
“Hard?” Smitty chimed in.
“Long?” Theo asked.
“Thick?” Raph.
“Steely?” Marcel.
“Girthy?” Walker.
The room froze, and then a collective groan filled the space.
