Page 316 of Branded
“Who’s this?” Marcel asked, the quiet captain smiling.
“Ethan!” Ethan filled him in before Jules or I could answer. “And you’re Marcel Aubert,” he went on, his voice filled with awe—and hell if I wasn’t a little jealous. “And you’re Connor Smith,” Ethan said, turning to Smitty. “And Raph Gomez and?—”
That was the point that Ethan short-circuited, going mute, his eyes wide and he seemed to lose his confidence.
I moved toward him, crouching down and wrapping an arm around his shoulders. “Did you know that Smitty once tripped over Raph’s stick on the ice and sprained his wrist?”
It was still one of the best days of my life, watching that sequence of events.
The big, bulky defensemen tap dancing on the ice before going down.
Once I knew that Smitty wasn’t badly hurt, anyway.
“Really, man?” Smitty boomed. “You’re gonna do me like that?”
Hell yeah, I was.
Payback for all the shit I had been on the receiving end of.
“Did it hurt?” Ethan asked, and—damn—my heart squeezed. There was real concern in the kid’s voice.
Nice. Really nice.
Just like his mama.
“Not too much, buddy,” Smitty said, smacking a meaty fist against his chest. “I’m big and tough.”
“And klutzy,” Raph said, only halfway under his breath.
Smitty glared as the rest of the guys busted up, but then he was coming over to Ethan, taking him on a tour of the rest of the room, showing him sticks and his helmet and generally showing his good (instead of evil) side. This was the side that had endeared him to each and every one of the members of this organization.
Smitty cared, and he did it big.
Even if he was annoying a lot of the time.
“What about you?”
“What’s that, gorgeous?” I asked, pushing to my feet with a grunt, biting back a wince when the movement made pain shoot through my ribs.
Yeah, my ribs were definitely not going to be my happy place for the next few days.
“What about you, honey?” she repeated, albeit with the addition of the endearment that sent my pulse skittering through my veins. And I was reeling from the honey when she came close, when she gently smoothed her fingertips over my side.
Over my ribs.
“What’s that?” I asked again.
“Are you big and tough?” Another smooth of her hand. “Big and tough enough that you’ll ignore and fight through whatever is making you wince?”
“I’m fine, gorgeous.” I shrugged, and newsflash, that was a mistake. I went on anyway. “Hockey is a contact sport and a lot of time that means it comes with bruises.”
A tilt of her head, concern in her deep chocolate eyes. “You’re hurting,” she said softly, fingers lightly brushing over my aching side again. “You should be resting, not showing us around.”
See?
Nice.
Just like her son.
