Page 311 of Branded
“I don’t think you’re going to get good service at CeCe’s for like…an eternity.”
“Shut up,” I muttered, shoving my teammate away and at least going through the motions of warming up.
It was hard, even though I’d been doing it for so many years that it should be pure instinct at this point.
But aside from ignoring the shit-giving that Smitty was no doubt going to continue to toss in my direction, most of my focus wasn’t on the puck or my skates or stick. It was on Jules and Ethan, on the latter’s smile and how I wanted to keep that in place forever, and on the former’s frown and how I was quite desperate to kiss it off her face, to turn it into that gentle upturn of her lips that she’d given me when I’d filled her plate with pancakes and when I’d made that snack of apples and peanut butter and cinnamon.
Small things.
Small ways to take care of a woman I cared about.
But she’d reacted to those small things like she’d never had a bit of kindness before—and I supposed, based on what she’d told me, she hadn’t had them.
Ethan had, though.
One look and it was easy to see that her kid was comfortable in the fact that he was loved and cared for. Not selfish or spoiled, but at ease with the fact that he had a mom who loved him and did everything she could to make his life great.
So, yeah, it wouldn’t be hard to find the effort to make him smile, to make that great life even better.
For him…and his mom.
And I would bet that Jules wouldn’t be able to hold on to her mad for long, especially if I spent my time trying to make Ethan happy.
I’d already watched her expression soften in the face of Ethan’s excitement.
Yeah, she was Ethan’s mom so her heart belonged to her kiddo, but in truth, a person would have to be dead to not be swept up in Ethan’s excitement. It was pure and filled with joy and, yeah, I had only spent an hour over pancakes with Ethan that morning, but hell if the kid hadn’t already sewn his way into my heart. Ethan was only five years old, but he was funny and smart and kind, and I loved his mom.
The truth was that I was falling for them both.
Especially when Ethan had shown me a picture he’d drawn for Sparky. Yup for Sparky. Not a drawing of my pooch to put on Julie’s fridge, but a drawing for Sparky for my fridge.
Christ, that had killed.
And I hadn’t even cared that Ethan had dominated the conversation by talking about school and friends and hockey, hadn’t cared that Ethan had asked a million questions or that he’d reminded me of my promise to take him to skate and shoot (and promises were made for keeping—to which I had assured Ethan that I’d talk to Jules about days and times). Then, just as quickly, he’d pivoted back to questions and had asked me how a stove worked.
And then the fridge.
And how shoes were made.
Switching between topics in almost dizzying fashion. Peppering me with questions, most of which I didn’t have the answers to. Expending so much energy even though he’d practically been a zombie before I had gotten him to wake up enough to get dressed and brush his teeth. But once Ethan was up, he’d been going eight million miles an hour.
I had been raised in a busy house—lots of noise and activity and people talking over each other.
That was just inevitable when a person had three siblings and parents who were together and friends who came over all the time and family that visited and generally were just part of a big, busy group of people who loved each other and did that noisily and without compunction and with no little amount of chaos.
So the questions and conversation didn’t bother me in the least.
I just needed to start doing some YouTube research if I was going to keep up with the kid’s inquiries.
My knowledge of how things worked was sorely lacking.
“Cas!”
I blinked.
Normally, the crowd noise was just that. Just noise that I couldn’t distinguish, a low rumble to a loud roar that fueled me, that sent me skating faster, hitting harder. But I heard my name like Ethan was right next to me, talking to me over pancakes in Jules’s kitchen.
Turning toward the crowd, I felt the emotion pound into me harder than that fucker Lake Jordan, who played for the league’s newest team, the Sierra, and could check like a fucking Mack truck.
