Page 57 of Stick Break
“Because casseroles are comforting,” he says with faux sincerity, “And no one in this crowd will questions a casserole emergency.”
I chuckle. “It has to be subtle.” I grin and give him a playful poke in the chest. “Just so we’re clear—a safe word…” I rise on my toes, brushing my lips against the shell of his ear, letting my voice drop, “…is for sex. The rough kind. What you mean to say is a code word, or an escape signal.”
His breath catches, and then he laughs, a little sheepish, a little flustered. “Yeah, right. We, uh, probably don’t need the first one.”
I tilt my head, letting my smile linger. “Was that a question, Rip?”
His expression shifts, his smile falters for a beat, and I can’t help but wonder if he saw the video. If he had, he wouldn’t even question my need for a safe word. He’d know I’d need one.
“There are just some things,” I say, more quietly, “That I’m not into.”
He pauses, and then his voice softens. “Not a thing wrong with any of it…if it’s between two people who want it. But yeah. I’m not into it either.”
Something unspoken passes between us—mutual understanding in a conversation laced with innuendo, but rooted in truth.
“Okay,” he says, switching gears. “So... a code word that’s not casserole, because that apparently is a safe word.’”
I grin. “We need something no one else will question, but we’ll know.” I glance sideways at him. “Goldilocks? Or Big Bear?”
He stills. Just for a second. Like he’s weighing something heavier than a nickname. I know his teammates call him Big Bear. It’s part teasing, part respect. But maybe he doesn’t want to invite that version of himself into this quiet corner of his life. I let him off the hook. “What about something simple like window? ‘Honey did we leave the window open?’ Like, domestic panic, but low-stakes.”
“That works.” He brightens again, the shadows retreating.
“And if we can’t talk, if things get loud, I’ll strum the guitar and play…” I pause for a beat to think about it. “California Girls. That seems appropriate and that’ll be your cue.”
He smirks. “Bold choice. Surf rock as my warning siren. I like it. And if I want out, I’ll… I’ll just strum. No real tune. Because, in case you forgot, I have zero musical talent.”
“Perfect. We're a disaster team with style. Ready?” I ask.
He gives a firm nod, tugging his ballcap just a little lower on his head, and together we walk the gravel path toward Mrs. Callahan’s place. As we round the corner into the yard, I greet a few smiling strangers, and clock the way Rip subtly dips his chin, shadowing his face further. The hat. The laid-back clothes. The avoidance of eye contact. He really doesn’t want anyone here knowing he’s Rip Hart, hockey royalty.
I get it now. He’s not just hiding. He’s protecting something. His peace, maybe even his heart. So much for the glamor of fame. It turns out even the big, charming guy who can light up a room needs his version of quiet. Just like me.
“There you are,” Mrs. Callahan beams, bustling toward us like a summer storm in florals.
I shoot Rip a wink and whisper out of the side of my mouth, “Did we leave that window open?”
“Too soon, babe,” he replies, grinning.
“I brought a salad,” I announce brightly, handing her the bowl.
Her eyes practically sparkle as she takes it. But when she notices the guitar in Rip’s hands, something in her expression shifts, softens. There’s a flicker of emotion there, a shadow of memory.
“Oh, wonderful,” she murmurs, her voice going a little wistful. Her gaze drifts past us, toward the fire pit and the gathering crowd. “It’s been a long time since we’ve had music around the fire…”
The way she trails off tells me everything. Whoever used to play here isn’t around anymore. I don’t ask. But I feel it—the grief, gently worn, like river stone.
Rip adjusts his grip on the guitar. He’s watching her, quiet, thoughtful. And something tells me he’s not going to let her miss the music tonight.
“Do you have any special requests?” I ask Mrs. Callahan, hoping I can give something back for the way her eyes just gutted me with that quiet kind of longing—the kind that lingers in empty chairs and unplayed songs.
Her gaze floats back to mine, soft and watery, and then her hand lifts, cradling my cheek in a gesture so maternal, so achingly tender, it knocks the breath out of me. Her skin is warm and weathered, and I feel the sting behind my eyes before I can blink it away.
God, I’m not sure my mother ever looked at me with anything but disappointment.
“Whatever you like, darling,” she says gently.
Then her attention swings to Rip. “You’re sunburnt,” she scolds, like she’s about to call his parents.
