by Elise Faber
Fuck. Again.
Only this time because he was the one causing her pain. “Did you watch the game?”
“I—you know I’m not—” She broke off with a wince, and he just chuckled.
Because despite her job, she wasn’t much of a sports fan.
He tugged the end of her ponytail. “It was better that you didn’t see the slaughter.”
Her brows raised. “The score didn’t seem so bad.”
It pleased him that she’d checked the score, more than it probably should. Especially when she didn’t belong to him, when she wasn’t all that into hockey. “It was bad,” he said. “Trust me when I say the score cannot properly encompass the absolute horror that was my team on the ice.” He shook his head. “I don’t understand. We have the talent, and they were really beginning to gel at the start of the season.” He sighed and turned for the fridge. “I can’t pinpoint what it is that made it fall apart, and if I can’t do my job”—another sigh as he yanked out a beer—“how the hell can I expect them to do theirs?”
He spun for the drawer, dug through until he held the bottle opener, but Lexi’s soft voice stopped him before he could use it.
“Luc?”
He turned . . . and she walked into his arms.
Later, he would swear his heart stopped, skidded to halt when her arms wrapped tightly around him, when the scent of her filled his senses, but in that moment, all he could do was wrap himself around her in return and breathe deeply.
He wanted to hold on to her forever.
“I’m sorry things didn’t work out the way you wanted,” she murmured, squeezing him tight. “But you’re a good GM. You’ll figure out how to bring the team together.”
Luc slumped, his forehead resting against hers, and she gripped him tighter.
“I see you don’t believe me,” she said, staring into his eyes. “But you haven’t seen the way the guys look at you.” Her breath puffed against his lips, soft puffs of delicately scented air. “They respect you.”
He snorted, not in the mood to feel better.
She smiled, her fingers coming to his cheek. “I mean it.”
“Thank you,” he said, covering her hand with his. He forced a smile. “I mean it.”
A swat to his shoulder. “Snarky bastard.”
“You bring out the best in me.” He didn’t dare move, not when the hand that had smacked him still rested on his shoulder, when the other remained on his cheek.
Her mouth turned up.
Her fingers lightly kneaded, and their bodies drifted closer.
Her chest brushed against his, her breasts so fucking plump and lovely . . . and his cock went hard.
He tried to will it down, to ignore the lush feel of her.
He never wanted her to leave his arms.
But then she felt it, felt his cock stirring. He knew it the moment her eyes widened, her mouth parting in a tempting O that he was desperate to kiss.
Then she lurched out of his hold, face going pale.
And he was forced to make a joke. “Men,” he said with a laugh that sounded strangled. “Unfortunately, even men of my advanced age never seem to grow out of our proximity issues.”
Her color returned, pink flaring on her cheeks, her breathing elevating, but she searched his eyes then nodded as she turned back to the stove, stirring one of the pots.
Fuck. It seemed to be his perpetual thought around her, ever since his body had fought him on shoving down the urges, on understanding that just because Caleb was out of the picture, it didn’t mean she was available.
He opened his mouth to apologize, but she beat him to speaking.
“I was hoping you might be up for a movie marathon tonight,” she said lightly, and without seeing her face, he couldn’t tell if it was forced or real. “I bought that special mix for the popcorn and set up the projector in the back yard.”
Luc perked up. “The cinnamon sugar one?”
She glanced over her shoulder, nodded.
He fist-pumped, and she laughed, and it was genuine for sure this time. Then he froze and narrowed his eyes at her in mock suspicion. “What kind of movies for the marathon?”
The spoon hit the counter, and she drifted over again, squeezing his arm, close enough for him to smell roses in her hair, close enough that he didn’t miss the caution in her expression.
When he didn’t move, when her eyes flicked down, probably checking the state of his erection (now, thankfully, nonexistent . . . at least for the moment), the caution faded, as though she needed to prove to herself that she could touch him without it being weird . . . or without him pouncing on her like a horny, rabid beast.
“The only kind that matters,” she said, smiling wide enough to make his heart thump. “Anything with Farley or Sandler.”
He grinned. “And that’s why you’re my best friend.”
Something flashed across her expression—disappointment? despair? relief?—but then it was gone, and she was shoving the beer into his hand. “Go get started without me,” she ordered. “Swimsuit on. Beer down the hatch. Feet in the hot tub. I’ll be out with the food in a few minutes.”
He opened the beer, took a sip, but didn’t leave. “What can I do to help?” he asked instead.
Her brows lifted. “You can let me take care of my best friend.” The slightest emphasis on friend, and whether it was for him or her, he didn’t know, didn’t have time to process, anyway, because she was already nudging him toward the stairs. “Which means, following my orders.”
Luc’s heart thudded. “You’re the best, Lex.”
She smiled, but it was minus the majority of her usual playfulness, tinged instead with sadness. “I’m just thankful you see it.”
As opposed to the man who hadn’t.
He wanted to hug her again, but she turned her back on him once more, focused on the food on the stove, and he wanted to make her happy, to not drudge up the unhappiness all over again.
So, he took his beer and followed her orders.
Chapter Nine
Lexi
Luc took one look at her face and pushed his way into her apartment, the paper bag of food in his hand crinkling, the door clicking closed behind him.
It had been a month.
She should be done with crying.
God, Caleb hadn’t even reached out to her again since that day at the house when she’d grabbed anything she could think off, ending up with a random mishmash of belongings.
Winter sweaters and summer pajamas.
Heels and one half a pair of sneakers.
Thick wool hiking socks, but not her boots.
Luc had been at her side a week after that, Caleb in London for business—or perhaps to make another family—when she’d collected the rest of her things, and then had helped her make one final trip, just this morning, to oversee the movers picking up the furniture she’d brought into her marriage.
A small love seat, the kitchen table, the bed that had resided in the guest bedroom, and her plants.
Every single one of the potted plants she’d spent so long tending.
They were already looking worse for wear, though Luc had gone with her a few times to water and feed them—like pets, he’d teased. But her green pets were safe in her apartment now, and although she’d insisted he go home, that he stop worrying about her, he was here.
“You’re supposed to be living your own life, Luc Masterson,” she said. “Not coddling me and worrying about mine.”
He tugged a strand of her hair, one that always seemed to escape her ponytail, no matter how hard she worked to contain it. “You’re my best friend. It’s my job to worry about you.”
Then he pushed by her, strode into the kitchen, and began unpacking the bag. “Where did you put the plates?” he asked, not waiting for her to answer as he turned and began opening cupboards. “Ah.” He pulled down two, started dishing up Chinese food.
She could smell the spicy tang of orange chicken, her favorite. The one that Caleb
had never ordered because he couldn’t stand the scent of citrus.
But then again, Caleb hadn’t done anything he didn’t want to, had he?
He’d just been really good at making her think she hadn’t wanted to do it in the first place, that it had actually been her idea not to do it.
The memories made her eyes burn.
Because, dammit, she hadn’t been smart enough to understand the manipulation, or worse, she hadn’t been strong enough to leave because of it. And she was supposed to be both of those things, and yet with Caleb . . . she would have given him everything. Stayed forever.
And that made her—
She didn’t want to think the word, because she was damned tired of feeling pathetic.
“Hey.” Calloused palms cupping her cheeks. “This, Caleb, none of it was your fault. I didn’t see it either. Neither did Todd.” He tilted her head up, until she was forced to meet his intense emerald eyes. “You have to stop beating yourself up,” he ordered. “If he couldn’t see what a fucking gem you are, then he doesn’t deserve to have you in his life.”
The words . . . they unlocked something inside her, something that she shouldn’t be feeling, and yet a truth, perhaps, she’d always held deep inside.
Oh, why couldn’t she have met Luc before Caleb?
Why couldn’t she call this man more than a friend?
She jerked.
She’d never thought that. Never ever even considered it. She couldn’t consider it, not when she was married, not if she’d wanted to keep Luc in her life. Because she wasn’t a cheater, and because she’d respected her marriage, had loved Caleb with every part of her.
But . . . Caleb hadn’t loved her back, hadn’t respected her or their marriage, and he certainly hadn’t loved her as he should have.
Another certainty? Caleb wasn’t like Luc.
For a moment, she considered what it would be like to cross over to Luc, to wrap her arms around his waist, and feel his strong, hard body against hers. To taste him. Every single inch of him.
Desire, heady and viscous, slid down her spine, trailed down between her thighs.
She wanted that, was desperate for it.
She felt so much for him, admired him so much, held so much affection for him in her heart. He was the one person she’d let in—all in—to her heart, perhaps even more deeply than she’d let in Caleb.
He glanced up from dishing out the food and smiled.
So much warmth.
And that was the moment she realized the perhaps part in the letting him into her heart more deeply than anyone else was extraneous. There was no perhaps about it. He was stitched into the organ, into her soul.
And . . . he would eviscerate her if she lost him like she’d lost Caleb.
She couldn’t walk into his embrace, couldn’t kiss him, couldn’t be anything more than his friend.
Because . . . she wouldn’t be able to walk away when he left.
And if the story of her life played true, he would walk away.
So, she stayed where she was, shoved down that urge to be more than friends, and when it was tucked safely away, when her heart was carefully surrounded in barbed wire and reinforced with concrete, she walked over to the tiny kitchen and accepted the plate.
From her best friend.
Only her best friend.
Chapter Ten
Luc
He was shit at skating.
But he managed, sort of, to not make a fool of himself.
It hadn’t used to be that way, not during his playing days. He’d been one of the faster players on the ice, able to dodge and weave with the best of them. But to be truly skilled at skating, two good knees were critical. Especially, for the sort of navigation that the sport of hockey required.
And Luc didn’t have that any longer.
Instead, he had one good, one bad. Well, one good, one shit.
The only positive of the entire situation was that he at least still had decent hands.
Decent enough that he managed to dance around a few of the other old bastards currently on the ice before passing the puck over to his teammate and former Breaker retiree, Mico Storm, who easily slammed it home in the net. Because of that goal, his team in this charity hockey tournament had now pulled ahead in the game, and even though they were playing solely for the Breakers’ charity—the Lil Wavemasters—Luc wouldn’t be Luc if he didn’t want to win the whole thing.
He was a competitive bastard, and that wouldn’t ever change.
“Fucker,” Frankie Bullard, another former player who was on defense for the other team, called as they all skated to the bench for a much-needed line change.
“Hey,” Luc said, slashing him—somewhere between light and hard . . . okay, more hard than light, if he were being honest. “I used to sign your paychecks!”
“Liar,” Frankie said, lips tipping up into a smirk as he batted Luc’s stick away. “The finance department arranged the direct deposits.”
Considering that Frankie was now in charge of that exact department, Luc supposed he would know. Not that Luc would admit such a thing, especially not when he was on the ice, surrounded by shit-talking former players and friends, all of whom—including him—were out of shape and too fucking old to be fun to watch.
But, for some reason, the stands were still full in the small practice arena they were playing in, the tickets completely sold out, and though the crowd was still cheering, it was a cheap imitation of the roar of the fans at The Crest—the home arena for the Breakers. When the team was playing well, when they were winning, Luc would swear it was the loudest rink in the league.
But it had been a while since they’d truly been winning.
Sighing, he climbed over the bench, sucked down some water, and concentrated on catching his breath.
Fuck, he was getting too old for this.
There was a tap on the glass behind him as he set down his water bottle, and he turned to see that Lexi was there, smiling. She mouthed, “Nice pass.”
He shrugged.
She rolled her eyes, and he imagined her saying, more than was able to read the words on her lips, “Accept the compliment.”
He nodded.
Her smile widened, and then she tilted her head in the direction of the exit, and he knew she was taking off to the library where she volunteered every Thursday.
See? Even the charity tournament’s big game didn’t merit a weekend game.
They were small time.
“Have fun,” he mouthed.
Smiling, she mouthed back, “I will.” Then with a wave, she disappeared back around the rink, heading for an exit.
Mico nudged him. “GM’s got a girlfriend?”
“GM—if I’m talking in this weird pseudo-third person—has got a best friend and that’s all,” Luc told him.
“Damn,” Mico said. “She’s gorgeous.” A smirk. “I didn’t realize you’d lost your touch. Getting old, are you?”
Luc rolled his eyes but didn’t engage.
Mico’s gaze drifted across the rink to where Lexi was pushing out the rinks’ double doors. “Isn’t she from legal?”
“You know she is,” Luc said, scooting down the bench when another line jumped on the ice. “You’ve had meetings with her.”
“That why’s she not your girlfriend? It’s not like you’d be dating an underling. Legal is a completely different department from the team.”
Luc tore his eyes from the game—okay, from where Lexi had disappeared—and glanced at the nosy little fucker. “She’s my friend,” he said simply.
Brows lifting, questions in Mico’s brown eyes.
And Luc knew Mico wouldn’t let it go, would just keep pestering him with questions until he spilled, so he added, “Plus, she’s married.”
Those brows and the knowing in his gaze went higher. “I heard she was getting divorced.”
The fucker.
He knew.
Luc inhaled. “You’re a prick.”
“Dam
n right.”
“Asshole,” he muttered.
“And that’s my wife’s pet name for me,” Mico quipped. “How did you know?”
Luc snorted, shook his head.
“Just saying, she’s into you as much as you’re into her.” The whistle blew, and they stood to hop back onto the ice. “And if all that was stopping you for going after her before was her husband, that’s out of the way now.”
Mico was right about that. Or at least, that part.
Caleb was out of the picture, and Luc would hurl him back out if he attempted to return.
But even without the bastard around, time didn’t magically heal hurts, and though it had been three months since her separation, the damage was still there, and more extensive than just from a divorce and a cheating husband.
Because she also had deep wounds from her father, who hadn’t been much of one after her mom had died. Luc didn’t know everything, but he knew enough, knew that that bastard had pretty much disappeared the moment her mom was in the ground, that he seemed to assuage his conscience for doing so solely with monthly phone calls.
Lexi hadn’t had much of men sticking around, and certainly not enough of them doing right by her.
So, he wouldn’t push, wouldn’t take their relationship somewhere she didn’t want.
Even if he wanted, so fucking much.
“You should go for it,” Mico said. “Unless you want someone else”—he coughed—“me”—another cough—“to go for it.”
“You’re married,” Luc muttered. “And Tiffany would slice your dick off if you go for it.”
“True,” Mico countered. “Though, even if I’m out of the picture, someone else might not be.”
That was Luc’s most intense fear.
That he’d lose his chance with her, miss his opportunity.
Luc shot him a death glare. “You should mind your own fucking business.” His death glare got even deathlier. “And tell all those other fuckers to keep their fucking hands to themselves.”
Mico smirked. “Touchy.”
“She’s not ready.”
Mico’s expression evened out, understanding in his gaze.
The whistle blew before he could say anything else, and Luc blinked, lining up at the hash mark and focusing on not embarrassing himself for the final few minutes of the game.
