Page 90 of Branded
Not that they were stopped up in the back of my throat like when my anxiety was gripping me and it felt like I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, couldn’t move or speak or even exist sometimes.
But the words didn’t come because I was so fucking touched that he’d react like that.
That he’d stop and check in with me.
Not push on and tell me to power through because we were doing this.
Not caring that the effort he’d put into planning this would be for naught if I couldn’t do it, and?—
He shifted minutely, the worry creasing his face, and I realized that he didn’t know the reason for my silence and was probably thinking that it was for the worst possible reason, that I was falling apart inside, unable to interact and?—
Still, there was patience in his demeanor.
Worry, yes, but he’d wait. Wait all fucking day if he had to.
And that unstuck me.
I moved closer, rising on tiptoe and pressing my mouth to his. I hugged him tightly, wanting to impart everything I was feeling onto him, wanting him to know, to understand exactly how much him reacting that way meant to me.
“Smitty,” I whispered, and his eyes locked with mine. All the words swirled within me, stuck and not, pressing against me, desperate to get out. And eventually they did. “I love you,” I said, my hand on the warm skin of his cheek, the soft bristles of his beard tickling my palm. “I love you, and it’s not too much. I don’t need to stop. Not with you. Not ever with you.”
He sucked in a breath, spine going ramrod stiff. “Little bird,” he croaked, his hand covering mine. “Little bird, I love you so fucking much.”
Now it was my turn to hold still, to inhale sharply. Those words.
They were as good as his arms wrapping around me.
And under the rustling leaves of the trees overhead, the faint glimmer of the stars in the sky, the creepy as hell dark trail behind us, he held me tightly, those words between us, I felt light and fresh and new and unbroken.
I felt whole.
Myself.
Then I shivered, and Smitty seemed to unstick, one arm shifting, wrapping around my shoulders, the other dropping to his side.
He started walking, but instead of guiding me toward the dark and creepy trail, he turned us, towing me to the parking lot.
“What about your trail?” I asked, heels digging in again.
“It’s a trail with a kickass view,” he said, “but it’s a trail that’s not going anywhere, little bird.”
“But”—I glanced back—“we’re here already and?—”
A flex of movement, his body bending and straightening as he scooped me up against his chest. “You just told me you love me.” His eyes blazed into mine. “I’m not taking you on a serial killer trail. I’m taking you home.”
Home.
That was absolutely perfect.
Twenty-Five
Smitty
I was sitting on her little blue couch—so little it was almost comical trying to fit my big body on it, even without Kailey beside me—a beer in my hand, a Gold game on TV.
Watching Brit Plantain in net was incredible, especially since rumor had it that she’d be retiring when her contract was up in two years.
Having played against her many times in both of our long tenures in the league, I knew that she was legit one of the toughest goalies I’d ever played against. This was mostly because she was extremely agile and a hard worker. If there was a weakness in her game, she didn’t rest until it was remedied.
