Page 5 of Stick Break
I gulp. “Sorry. Your business is your business.”
Best to leave it there. He might not know who I am, but I definitely know who he is. I’m not exactly a hockey fan—too much violence, too many grown men slamming into things on purpose—but that doesn’t mean I haven’t caught a game or two. Maybe I fibbed earlier. Call it intuition, but I get the feeling he doesn’t want me recognizing him any more than I want him figuring me out.
“Yeah,” he says, leaning against the counter in that maddeningly effortless way that reminds me I’m still a red-blooded woman with functioning eyes. “If we’re going to cohabitate for a week, maybe we need some rules.”
“Rules, right.” I try to sound casual, but my heart skips. He seems decent—I mean, he didn’t poison me. Are those my standards now? Honestly… after what my ex put me through, they might be. But still, what kind of rules are we talking here?
“Dishes—we do them after we eat. And we clean up after ourselves.”
“Done.”
He pauses, his brow pinching slightly. “Um… there’s only one bed with thin walls, so… no sleepovers?”
A surprised laugh bursts from my throat before I can stop it. He cocks his head, assessing me with a look that’s way too observant for my comfort. Yeah, okay, weird reaction to that rule. But sleepovers? With a stranger? Not in this lifetime. I clear my throat. “No sleepovers,” I agree. “The bed’s yours. I don’t mind the couch.”
He makes a low, grumbly sound and rubs a hand over his scruffy jaw. No wonder they call him Bear. He’s big, broad, and just the right amount of adorably grouchy. Not that I’m going to say that out loud. As the Bucks’ infamously hard-hitting defenseman, I’m guessing “cute” isn’t his preferred descriptor.
“What?” I ask, when another grumble escapes like he’s wrestling with himself.
He shakes his head. “What kind of guy makes a girl sleep on the sofa? My mother would kill me.”
Something in me melts a little at the mention of his mom. They say you can tell a lot about a man by how he treats his mother. If only I’d paid attention to that the first time around. I don’t know much about hockey legend Rip Hart—aka Ripley Stripley to the puck bunnies—but hearing him talk about his mom softens some of that tough-guy armor. For a second, I get a glimpse of the man underneath the pads and the scowl.
And I like what I see.
I lift my mug and, hoping to ease his worries, offer a smile. “A guy who makes coffee for Goldilocks—even after she crashes his place and breaks all the rules? That’s a true gentleman move.” I tug at the hem of the oversized sweatshirt I borrowed. “I’ll change and do the dishes. It’s the least I can do.”
“Don’t worry about it,” he says, eyes flicking away—but not before he adds, a little too casually, “Maybe just, uh… put on some pants.”
Pants.
Oh. My. God.
In all the chaos, I somehow forgot that my legs are completely bare. When I bent over earlier… did I...?
I die a little inside.
Maybe that "stiff" comment really did hit the wrong way.
Nope. That’s crazy talk. Totally unrelated. Entirely coincidental.
“Pants. Yes. Of course.” I scramble to cover up, my dignity flailing somewhere in the distance.
“Um, maybe you should put on a shirt,” I say, equally as casual.
He grins, and I can feel my face flush.
Really Carly, you had to bring up the fact that he was half naked to.
Trying to spin a joke out of it, before he thinks I like what I see, which of course I do, I pluck at the sweatshirt. “Or am I wearing your only one.”
“No, I’ve got a shirt.” He heads to the fridge, not at all in a hurry to go find it. But then I catch it. His gait. It’s not just casual morning stiffness. There’s something off. A protective tightness in the way he moves, favoring one leg. Suddenly, it clicks. My brother Jason is a physiotherapist, and I teach yoga at his clinic. I’ve seen injuries like that a hundred times, an injury he’s hiding.
Not your business, Charly.
Do not get involved.
I’m halfway through convincing myself to shut up when my mouth betrays me. “Rip.”
