Page 297 of Branded
Lake had warned me that Nate wasn’t a good guy. And they’d been playing on the same junior team, so he would know.
But Nate had been pretty and funny. And he was the one everyone wanted and…he’d wanted me.
No one had ever wanted me.
And Nate hadn’t really either—or not for long, anyway. He’d gotten what he wanted and moved on, and then when I’d turned up pregnant…
He’d made my life hell.
Of course, that had only been until my father had found out.
Upon which, my knowledge of hell had been expanded.
It had only been because of Lake that I’d survived, had made it this far.
I knew he wanted to do more—then and now—but…it was all too mixed up in my head: him and Nate, hockey players and what they meant for my heart, my life.
I’d needed to pull back.
Lake had let me.
“What happened?” Cas asked, making me realize that I’d been lost in the past, in the painful memories.
“I got pregnant,” I whispered.
His arms convulsed again.
Then grew even tighter when I whispered, “My dad kicked me out when he found out. I went to Nate and?—”
A jerk of his body and I realized I’d made a critical error. I didn’t like to think of Nate, to talk about him, let alone to even mention his name. I preferred to go full Voldemort.
But the critical error?
Cas played against the Sierra, would know the rosters.
“Nate Miller?” It was a growl.
Shit.
I tried to backpedal. “Things didn’t end well between us.”
The understatement of the year.
“What did he do?” Another growl.
More than I wanted to talk about right then. I’d already revealed way too much, but I gave him the rest, anyway. How Nate had shattered my heart and Lake had helped me get set up. How I’d felt stupid and alone and had sworn off hockey players.
Except, that Lake had kept checking in.
Except, that Smitty and Cas and the Breakers had taken me under their wings.
I bared my soul and didn’t know how the hell to feel about it and, as I was trying not to freak out about that fact, I yawned.
Not on purpose, but his reaction to it made me file that away for later. A card to play. An escape route that played on his need to take care of me.
Right then, though, he stood up, drawing me to my feet. “You should go to bed,” he murmured, pressing his lips to my forehead before nudging me toward the front door.
“Yeah.” I needed to be smart—at least for one moment that night. But after I’d taken a step toward the apartment, I stopped and turned around, remembering that he didn’t have a car. “How are you going to get home?”
