by K. A. Tucker
I give the door a push and it creaks open.
Brenna’s sitting cross-legged at the foot of Brett’s bed, watching a Superman cartoon on the flat-screen affixed to the wall. Meanwhile, Brett is lying in bed, his casted leg free of sheets and propped up on a pillow, his muscular thigh on display.
“Hey,” he says in a soft, throaty voice.
“Morning.” I do my best not to ogle his bare chest.
But fail miserably.
I’m not the only one staring, though. Brett’s eyes dart to my bare legs before meeting my face. “She asks a lot of questions first thing in the morning, doesn’t she?” He says it with a smile, but I can’t help but feel bad.
“Brenna, please tell me you didn’t wake up Brett.”
“I was already awake,” he assures me.
“Then why were your eyes closed?” Brenna’s attention is still glued to the TV.
“I’m trying to help you out here, kid. Work with me.” He chuckles. “She came in about fifteen minutes ago to ask me how to use the TV in the living room. It’s too complicated to explain, so I told her she could watch in here until my painkillers kick in and I can attempt to get up.”
A quick glance at his nightstand and I see the small bottle of pills.
He pats the spot next to him in bed. “We’re watching Superman.”
After a moment of hesitation, I settle down next to him, smoothing out the hem of his shirt. “How did you sleep?”
“Well. And not well.” His lips, looking as red and chapped as mine feel, curl with a smile.
“I know what you mean.” I lay in bed for another hour last night, staring at the ceiling.
He steals a glance Brenna’s way to make sure she’s zoned out on the TV in front of her, and then he nods, and mouths, “Come here.” With my own glance at Brenna, I finally lean in to give him a somewhat chaste but still decidedly intimate good morning kiss.
He grins. “What’s that look for?”
“Nothing.” This still doesn’t feel real.
I’m still waiting to wake up.
Or for Brett to wake up.
Brenna starts laughing and I automatically pull back. But she’s not watching us; her eyes are glued to the cartoon.
Still . . . we can’t do this right now. I distract myself by scanning Brett’s room, hoping to notice what I was too preoccupied to notice last night, to learn something about him that hasn’t already been covered by the news. “You like to read?”
He follows my gaze to the paperback sitting on the nightstand. “I go through phases, but yeah.”
“What is that . . .” I frown as I take in the cover. “A dragon?”
“Yeah.”
“Really?” I can’t keep the incredulity out of my voice.
He chuckles. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“No, I just can’t picture you into those kinds of books.” I’ve never actually read one, but I remember the socially awkward guys from high school sitting around a lunch table, planning out their weekend of Dungeons and Dragons role playing. That was more than enough for me to cast judgment at the time.
He drops his voice to a whisper, though I can guarantee Brenna isn’t listening. “If it makes you feel more at ease, I have a few Sports Illustrateds and Playboys in the nightstand.”
“For the articles, right?”
A wry smirk twists his lips. “Not even a little bit.”
“You’re supposed to lie about that.”
He reaches up to push the few wayward strands of hair off my forehead, a somber expression replacing his amusement. “I’m not going to lie to you.”
“Not even about looking at pictures of half-naked women?” Any of whom he could probably have in real life, given who he is.
“About anything.” He locks eyes with me, not wavering for a moment. I’ve never met a guy so determined to maintain honesty. It’s almost unnerving.
I’m the first to break away from that steady gaze. “So, what else do you do when you’re not on the ice or reading about dragons?”
A little frown curves his brow as he thinks about that question for a bit. “Well, I golf in the summers. Hang out with my friends, mostly, drinking beer and trying to beat each other at one video game or another. Fly down to see my family whenever I can, help teach kids how to skate. But hockey has pretty much been my life for . . . my life. I’d roll out of bed and throw on my skates before the sun was even up and be out on the rink in the backyard with my friends before school. After school, my dad would sit in the net for hours, letting me shoot pucks on him. We had this big asphalt pad—like a tennis court except specifically for me—so I could play ball hockey when it was too warm for ice. I’ve wanted to play professionally for as long as I can remember. It’s all I’ve ever wanted to do.”
“Wow, that’s . . . dedication.”
He smiles, but it’s tinged with sadness. “It’s a ton of sacrifice. People don’t realize how hard I’ve worked to get to this level. Weekends driving to arenas hours away from home for tournaments. Six A.M. weekday practices. Planning vacations around my game schedule.” He chuckles softly. “Man, my sister would get so pissed off when we couldn’t go somewhere because I had hockey.”
I remember Jack spending a lot of time playing road hockey down the street, and my dad leaving with him for hours on weekends to go to games somewhere. But they weren’t nearly as dedicated as Brett and his dad were. Maybe that’s because my dad didn’t have the luxury of not working and our yard wasn’t big enough for a rink. We certainly didn’t plan family vacations around a hockey schedule. We barely took family vacations to begin with.
From the sounds of it, Brett has lived, breathed, and slept this sport his entire life.
Which makes his injury all the more devastating. My heart aches for him. I settle a soft kiss against his collarbone but say nothing.
He smiles, though, maybe seeing the sympathy in my eyes. “You know what you said last night? That my dad would rather sit on the couch and watch a game with me than not have me around at all . . . you’re right. And you risked your life for me. I owe it to you to focus on the bigger picture here.”
“You don’t owe me anything. Just focus on getting better.” I smooth the pad of my thumb over his shoulder soothingly, my fingers itching to touch his chest. “We’re going to stay optimistic.”
“I’m trying.” He turns to study me, vulnerability and fear in his eyes. “I’ve never given much thought to life after hockey. Does that make me an idiot?”
“No, it makes you passionate about your dreams and living in the moment.”
He grunts. “Or just a privileged asshole who’s never had to worry about my future.”
“Or maybe that,” I tease, but soften it with another stolen kiss against his collarbone, my lips lingering a moment longer this time. “You’ve never thought about retirement?” Even the greatest players have to hang up their skates eventually.
“Not really. Well, I figured I’d be coaching. And teaching my own kids how to play, of course. But beyond that . . .”
My stomach flutters at the thought of Brett with kids of his own. Of him being a father. I’m betting he’ll make a great father one day.
I realize he’s smiling at me.
“What?”
“You’re really easy to talk to.”
The sound of pots and pans clanging finally pulls Brenna’s attention from the cartoon. She inhales. “What’s that smell? Are those waffles?”
“Not just waffles. The best waffles in the world.”
“Better than Leroy’s?” Brenna’s eyes widen as she stands on the bed.
“Oh, yeah. Definitely better than Leroy’s.” Brett nods, his face serious.
She hops off and skips out the door toward the kitchen.
“Who’s Leroy?”
I chuckle. “The cook at Diamonds, and when she tells him you said that, you’re going to be blacklisted from the diner.”
“Before I’ve even been?”
“Huh.” Brett wastes no time sliding his arm beneath me to drag me over and onto his warm, bare chest. His fingers weave through my hair to get a grip on my head, and then he’s kissing me. Not in the chaste way, like earlier. He kisses me as if he’s two seconds from pulling my T-shirt off my body, his free hand balling the cotton in a fist until it’s sliding up to settle around my waist and my panties are pressed against his hip.
Soft footfalls running down the hardwood are the only warning we get, but we manage to break the kiss just before Brenna’s in the doorway. “He’s making whipped cream, too!” She announces with an excited shriek.
“He’ll let you lick the beaters if you help him. But you better go, quick!” Brett’s heart is hammering against my chest.
Brenna narrows her gaze at us, me draped over him. “What are you doing?”
“Your mom was helping me take my medicine.”
“You had to take more?”
“Yup.”
“Oh.” She opens her mouth to ask something else, but the sound of whirling beaters distracts her and she trots away.
“Good recovery,” I tell him.
“I’m impressed with myself, actually.”
“She’ll be back in about thirty seconds.”
He groans, his arms relaxing their grip on me. “I guess it’s time to get up, then.”
With great reluctance, I peel myself off Brett and out of bed, readying his crutches for him.
He eases himself up slowly and with a pinched face, then adjusts his boxer briefs at the groin where they cling and show enough to get my blood racing.
He grins playfully. “I can’t believe you left me like that last night.”
“It could have been a lot worse.” I could have been almost all the way through . . . My lips part at the thought of Brett orgasming.
He curses softly, following my train of thought. A mischievous twinkle sparks in his eyes as they rove over me. “Can I have my shirt back?” He grasps the hem and begins lifting it.
“Hey!” I step out of his reach, giggling as I playfully swat his hand away, earning his soft chuckle.
“I’m gonna grab a quick shower. Could you bring me down one from upstairs and leave it on the bed? I’m out of clean clothes.”
“Of course.” I marvel at the way the muscles in his back and shoulders strain with each step toward the adjoining bathroom, unable to imagine what it would feel like to have that body crash into me on an ice rink, pads or not. “Do you need my help in there?”
He stalls and, after a moment, begins to laugh, low and soft and full of meaning. Turning around, he gives me a full length of him—the hard lines of his stomach, the way his hips cut into a V, the way his briefs stretch with a full erection inside them. “It’s probably better that you stay out here.”
I imagine a naked Brett standing in the shower, and I feel myself blush furiously.
His laughter follows me out the door as I rush up the stairs, shaking my head the entire way. Maybe one of these days, Brett won’t be able to fluster me so easily.
I sip my orange juice and quietly watch Richard putter around the kitchen, preparing breakfast. I tried helping earlier but he shooed me out.
“So, I heard you were a stagehand when you met Meryl?”
“That’s right.” Richard dries his hands on the tea towel and then shifts his attention back to the waffle iron. “Started out working on small sets. You know, for TV commercials, ad campaigns, things like that. Not exactly exciting, but it was a foot in the door. And then a friend of a friend hooked me up with a production company, and that was it. I was in. For almost three years.” He smiles fondly. “Loved it.”
“But you left it behind for Meryl.”
“And the kids. Yeah.” He sighs, testing the edges of the cooking batter with a fork, frowning slightly. “I thought I’d go back at some point. But Meryl’s roles kept getting bigger, we kept getting busier. I figured one parent in the movie industry was enough.” His gaze flickers over to the living room, where Brenna sits quietly on the couch, her eyes glued to a cartoon, a beater in her hand. “How’s that coming over there, Brenna?”
“Not finished yet.”
He chuckles. “Michelle was like that. I always joked that she’d lick the chrome plating right off.”
I study a fleck of orange pulp sitting on the rim of my glass for a moment, deciding how to ask my bigger question. “How did you learn to handle the crazy parts? You know, the cameras and the newspapers, the gossip.”
He doesn’t answer right away. “I wouldn’t say I ever learned how to deal with them. More like I learned how to ignore them. I knew that if I let them get to me, Meryl and I wouldn’t last.” For just a moment, his gray eyes flicker over to me, where I sit perched on a barstool, and then he’s stooping to place the waffle onto the oven plate with the others. “You having a hard time with things?”
I feel like he already knows the answer to that, but he’s asking in that way fathers do, pretending to be clueless to get their kids to open up. “It’s been nice and quiet lately, but, yeah. It was overwhelming for me right after the accident.”
“That was in the height of the story. It’ll get better.”
Will it, once they find out that Brett and I are together? I push that worry aside. “Were they ever cruel to you?”
“We had our share of it, more so when Meryl was younger. Mostly rumors of affairs. A handsome costar that Meryl was filming a movie in Thailand with, a bodyguard . . . But if there is one thing that I can count on with my wife, it’s her unwavering belief in always being honest. I knew that if she even thought something might happen, she’d sit down and have a frank talk with me about it. It’s one of the things I love most about her. It’s one of the things that has kept us sane. We’ve really pushed the importance of honesty with our kids, too.”
I’ve noticed.
Richard is pulling bowls out of the fridge, getting last-minute preparations ready. “You have to remember, Brett has grown up knowing that world. Sure, we sheltered him from much of it, but the idea of a security detail and people being interested in our lives isn’t out of the ordinary for him. I’ve had to remind him that it is for you. Plus, the way you two met was bound to stir up a commotion from day one. At least Meryl and I could date in relative peace. You two have it harder.”
I try to hide my smile. What has Brett told him? I know they’re close, but the thought of him having a conversation with his father about us dating makes me feel warm inside.
Richard opens his mouth, but stalls for a moment, his eyes flashing to the hallway. “Just remember that you’re not alone in any of this. You have a lot of people who care about you. Including your family. And you’ll find that you can deal with a lot more than you realize.” He pauses. “If you decide that it’s worth it.”
There’s no doubt in my mind that Brett is worth it.
But will I always be worth it to him?
“Did you ever wonder why you? I mean . . . I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with you or anything, but . . .” I stumble over my words.
His knowing smile calms me. “I was dumbstruck the first time Meryl asked me out for coffee. I was sure the guys at work had coaxed her into playing a practical joke on me.”
“But you went anyway?”
“Heck, yeah. She was Meryl Price! I wasn’t going to pass up that chance, even if it ended in me tied naked to a pole in the middle of downtown Toronto.” He chuckles softly. “I still catch myself wondering if she’s going to finally wake up and reconsider, even twenty-eight years later.”
I watch quietly as Richard pours batter onto the waffle iron, admiring that easy, relaxed way about him. “Meryl’s not like a lot of the people we know in her industry, though. She loves her job and she plays the game well, but she’ll never choose fame and wealth over family. I think our kids have a good handle on that, too. Brett, especially. Of course, he’s put all of his focus on his career up
until now. But that’s changing, quickly.”
“Do you think he’ll play again?”
Richard’s mouth curves in a thoughtful frown. “Yes, I do. As well as before? That remains to be seen. But he’s a fighter and he doesn’t give up easily.” With a casual toss of the dirty ladle into the sink, he adds, “And I’m not just talking about hockey.”
“Is breafkast ready, yet?” Brenna skips into the kitchen, a spit-polished beater dangling from her fingertips, interrupting our conversation.
“Breakfast,” I correct her.
“That’s what I said. I’m starving.”
“Well, you have been waiting awhile. And so patiently.” Richard pulls a waffle from the oven and sets it on a plate.
“Can I have extra whip cream?”
Richard’s eyes flash to me and I give a nod.
“Well . . . maybe just this once.” He winks at her.
Brett hobbles down the hall toward us, freshly showered and dressed in the T-shirt and track pants I set out for him.
I wish I’d showered, too, or at least had a change of outfit. I did my best to freshen up, wiping smears of eye shadow and liner with my thumb and finger-combing my hair.
He stops beside me, his hand settling on the small of my back as he leans in. “Thanks for the clothes,” he murmurs, laying a soft kiss on my mouth.
“You’re welcome.” Yes, this moment right here would be worth all the chaos out there.
When he pulls away, I find Brenna staring up at us, a wide, curious look in her eyes.
She’s never seen a guy kiss me on the lips before.
I’m saved from any awkward questions when Richard holds a plate out for her that I doubt even Brett could finish.
“So? How was it?”
“Not as good as Leroy’s but good.” Brenna skips off to the couch.
I give Richard an apologetic smile, but he’s smiling as he reaches for her plate.
“Here, let me clean up.” I move to climb out of my chair but he ushers me back.
“Finish eating! I don’t mind. I don’t get to cook for anyone anymore, now that my kids are out of the house and Meryl hired a chef.”
