Page 4 of Stick Break
“Gunther’s a hockey player.”
I nod and try to play it cool. “You a fan?”
“I don’t love hockey. Do you?”
“Yeah, I do. Play occasionally.” Okay, not a lie. But not enough for her to put two and two together right. “So, what do I call you?” I only know her stage name, and I’m not sure if she wants that to ring a bell with me either. I’m guessing not.
“I’m ah…” She hesitates, her teeth tugging on her bottom lip.
“Goldilocks is good,” I offer, turning my neck and wincing as pain shoots down my shoulder. Great not only is my groin fucked but my neck is too.
“Right. Um… but you can call me Charly.”
Charly. Not her stage name. Yeah, she really doesn’t want me to know who she is either.
“And you are?” she asks.
“Bear. Big Bear, actually.” Not a lie. Just not the full truth. She grins, amused.
“Not papa bear?”
“I’m no one’s papa, and you can call me Rip.”
“Rip. As in, Rip who allows women to break into his sanctuary, and doesn’t ask too many questions. That about right, Big Bear Rip?”
“Right.”
We lock eyes. The silent agreement hums between us like a live wire. The less we know about each other, the safer we both are.
She steps closer, sets her coffee on the table. Her eyes flick to mine. “So… we need to do something about your stiffness.”
2
Charly
“Um, what?” he asks, turning his back to me as he refills his already full mug.
“Sleeping on the sofa.” I nod toward the couch, even though he’s not looking. “You’re all twisted up.”
“I’m okay,” he practically growls without turning around.
I study him—his posture tight, shoulders stiff—and my stomach twists. I stand frozen for a moment, weighing this whole ridiculous, complicated situation. I glance at the door, sensing I’ve crossed some invisible line. Breaking in, taking his bed, wearing his clothes, eating his oatmeal—maybe forgivable. But mentioning his stiffness? That feels different. Like a sore spot. No pun intended.
Wait. Unless... he thought I meant something else. Some other kind of stiffness.
Oh God.
But there’s no way he could’ve thought I was implying he was attracted to me. And that I wanted to do something about it. That’s wishful thinking, right? Wait no. That’s not what I mean at all. I’m wishing my life wasn’t a total mess. That I didn’t have to break into a friend’s cottage and hide out like a fugitive. I swallow hard, fighting back a nearly painful sob.
How the hell did I even get here?
Oh, you know girl you know.
Your ex put you here out of spite and his own climb to fame and fortune.
I catch the way his eyes flick to me—curious, maybe a little guarded—and I suck in a quick breath. Does he know who I am. I instinctively lean forward to hide behind my hair. Shoot. Now that it’s cut short, there’s nowhere to hide. I steal a furtive glance his way. But no, he can’t know who I am.
With no makeup, my long dark hair chopped short and dyed blonde, and this oversized sweatshirt I’m barely recognizable to myself. I’m far from the glamorous woman who’s been singing her heart out onstage these last months.
