Page 358 of Branded
“Woman,” he snapped. “Look at them, at us, at him.”
Chelsea’s eyes flashed, and she opened her mouth, no doubt to spit some vitriol.
“Look,” my dad said again. “And get a fucking clue. You never had this and you never will.”
Her body rocked back as though those words were a physical blow.
“Luca?” she whispered.
“Cas,” I corrected, sending a prayer up to the hockey gods that she would get it this time. “And my dad is right. You know that. I’ve made that clear. Repeatedly. And I’ll continue making it clear. Because you’ll never be my family, Chelsea,” I said, and my tone wasn’t gentle, not in the least. “Never.” I held up my cell. “Now, I can call the cops and have you arrested for trespassing and violating the restraining order and you’ll be dealing with more charges”—besides the assault ones from the incident at CeCe’s—“or you can stop fucking around, leave, and live your life, getting a clue and understanding that what I have with Jules is far more than I ever had with you.”
“Cas,” Chelsea whispered, and I almost snapped at her, ordered her to leave again. But my name was paired with a trembling hand dragged over her face, her feet moving, taking her back down the steps and onto the walkway.
“Now I see that you’re finally looking at them,” my father said.
Another rock back onto her heels, more words that were a physical blow.
A jerky nod.
“I—” she whispered. Then she glanced at me, at Jules. “I’m sorry.”
Chelsea didn’t get to see my reaction to that statement—and it was definitely shock, albeit with a dash of pity thrown in, because she did seem to be looking, did seem to be finally seeing.
She didn’t get any of that.
Because she’d spun on her heel and run.
“Then she disappeared, man,” I told Smitty. “I reported her to the detective in charge of the restraining order, but she’d already reported herself, said she wouldn’t do it again.”
The ref blew the whistle, and both teams began getting ready for the pregame festivities.
“And you think she’ll get a clue and finally leave you the fuck alone?” Smitty asked.
I wasn’t sure of anything when it came to my psycho ex.
Which was why I just shrugged. “Fuck if I know.” I chugged some water. “All I do know is that it’s been two weeks and I haven’t heard a peep from her. She hasn’t come to my place or CeCe’s or the arena or the practice rink or anywhere that she used to show up before.” I chucked the bottle back into the holder. “And all I can do is hope that she’s finally gotten that clue.”
“Damn,” Smitty muttered. “And I thought my girl had it bad.” He tossed his own bottle back into the rack. “At least she never had to deal with any psycho exes.”
Unfortunately, my teammate had a point.
Unfortunately, that point did little to distract me from the fact that we were playing the Sierra.
Lake Jordan was the captain and apparently also the only person who’d been nice to Jules growing up. He was also a pain in the ass on the ice and had left Jules to work her ass off in Baltimore, her rebuffing his help or not, so he had a hit—or a plethora of them—coming.
But it was Nate Miller who was going to get his ass handed to him.
H.A.N.D.E.D.
“Asshole,” I muttered.
“You love me,” Smitty said with a smirk, wrongly assuming I was talking about him.
Not that I hadn’t uttered the moniker at him enough times before for Smitty to make that assumption. Clearly. So I didn’t bother to correct him.
“You sure about that love?” I asked dryly, watching as the guy who’d sung the national anthem left the ice and they rolled out the red carpet for a ceremonial puck drop.
“Pretty sure you’re going to love”—Smitty waggled his brows—“that I gave your woman and her kid tickets to the game so they could watch you?—”
