Broken (Breakers Hockey Book 1)

by Elise Faber

  They were sitting in Luc’s office, downing salads.

  He froze with his fork halfway to his mouth. “Why?”

  Her brows came up at his tone. She’d never heard him use it with her before. “Because we’re dating, and I want to know everything about you?”

  “I took a bad hit in a game.”

  She waited for him to say the rest of it. Because surely there was more. She knew he’d been a promising young player, and she’d overheard enough conversations and interviews to understand that his knowledge of the sport wasn’t from merely studying the game. He’d been on the ice.

  “Then what happened?”

  “Surgery.”

  She waited until he’d taken a bite before asking again, “Then what happened?”

  “Rehab. A few games. More surgery,” he clipped out. “More rehab. And eventually . . . released from my contract.”

  “Luc,” she murmured, reaching over and taking his hand. “That must have been really hard.”

  “It was what it was.” A shrug. Another bite. “But it was a long time ago.”

  She scooped up salad on her fork. “You know, I really hate that saying.”

  He shrugged again, ate some more of his greens. “I don’t know what else to call it,” he said. “I was injured. I tried to come back, but my knee was never the same again. Thankfully, I was lucky enough to have been given the opportunity to take a position with the team.”

  “And how did it feel?” she asked. “I mean, your dream was taken away from you, that had to be really hard.”

  “It sucked. But I can’t change it, and”—he reached over and squeezed her hand—“I’m happy with where I am now.”

  He wanted to gloss over the past.

  She got that. Oh, how she understood that.

  She’d spent the past six months in misery, in second-guessing every action. But . . . she also knew enough now that she couldn’t just ignore everything and expect to move forward completely unscathed.

  It would creep back in.

  But maybe he was well over it. It was almost twenty years ago, wasn’t it? He’d had plenty of time to deal with the trauma of it. He wasn’t like her, a raw wound just scabbed over.

  Except . . . there was that sharp edge to his voice, the hint of darkness in his expression.

  “You made the most of that opportunity,” she said.

  He finally looked up from his food and smiled, and there he was again. The light was back. “Yup. Made it all the way up to GM. Not too shabby, huh?” He took a bite, eyes still on her, and when he finished chewing and swallowing, he asked, “Did you find a place to take your big furniture yet? Or do you want me to rent a truck and bring it over to the house?”

  She’d hardly spared a moment to think about the furniture, about her apartment, and certainly not since Luc got home. Not when he was there, and there were so many fun things to do with him.

  Hot tub. Check.

  Planting new flowers in his back yard. Check.

  Going to the cute farmer’s market downtown. Check.

  Cooking in his kitchen and eating meals while holding hands, showering together to conserve water (even though they ended up not saving much because showering together inevitably led to lots of sexy time). And all that conserving was usually followed up by cuddling on the couch or in bed, watching a movie.

  Check times three.

  Everything with Luc was easy and comfortable and so totally effortless.

  Unlike . . . her relationship with her father.

  That was a dumpster fire of epic proportions, her fury and frustration and hurt all tangled up. She still couldn’t believe the gall he’d had in just showing up at her apartment. Totally fucked up and unfair, and she knew Luc would be on her side about it. Which was probably why she found herself blurting, “My dad came to see me.”

  Surprise had his fork freezing again. “When?”

  “Last week.”

  He set down the fork. “And you’re just telling me now?”

  She matched him, placing her own fork on the lid of her Tupperware. “I . . . it’s . . .” What? “Strange,” she said. “You know, he called me that day a while back. We talked, sort of. It was mostly the normal stuff. An update on where he was, and then I mentioned my mom.”

  And her had dad sounded guilty.

  “What?” Luc asked.

  “He said some stuff, like about how he’d been a shit father since my mom died”—a shake of her head—“not those words exactly, but it seemed like he finally recognized that—” She broke off and stared at the floor.

  “That he’d been a shit father?” Luc asked dryly.

  She nodded. “Yeah, that.” She picked up her fork again. “So, he was outside my apartment, and I was surprised. I mean, I didn’t even think he had the address.” Her shoulders rose and fell on a sigh. “Maybe I emailed it to him? I don’t know. I guess I probably did, but it’s not like he ever replies back to me and then—”

  “He was there.”

  Her lips pressed flat. “Exactly.”

  “Did you guys talk?”

  “No.” Her voice sounded cold, even to her own ears. “And I don’t think I want to. I mean, it’s been seven years of once or twice monthly calls, and I stopped looking for anything from him a long time ago.”

  But had she really stopped looking?

  Or was there some small ache in her heart that had always remained, desperate for him to come soothe the hurt?

  She didn’t want to think about that right now.

  She wanted . . . to be done with this.

  She and Luc had been having a perfectly nice time talking to each other and ignoring the past, until she’d brought it up. They should keep doing that—the whole having a nice time chatting, not the languishing in the past. Luc didn’t want to talk about his injury, and Lexi found that, despite her blurt, she didn’t want to discuss her dad or the complicated things he made her feel. She’d had enough betrayal to last her a lifetime.

  For now, she wanted to focus on salads and the handsome man who might or might not be sporting a hickey below the collar of his button-down.

  Yes, a hickey.

  Because they were apparently trying to act like teenagers again.

  And she was loving absolutely every minute of it.

  “Let’s talk about something else,” she said, and he nodded, his eyes soft, telling her that he was going to let her off the hook of continuing to talk about the past. “I think the front yard needs another tree. I was thinking of a maple, but I don’t know if it can withstand the cold. I’ll have to research—”

  “Doesn’t syrup come from maple trees?”

  She blinked at the left turn in conversation. “Um, yes?” she said, more question that statement.

  “So . . . doesn’t most maple syrup come from Canada?”

  Her brows drew into a frown. “Among other places, yes?” Another statement that sounded like a question.

  “Okay . . . isn’t it cold in Canada?”

  Ah. Now she saw where he was going, the pain in her ass.

  And speaking of . . . she wondered if he was into anal. She’d tried it a few times and had liked it. Maybe they could . . .

  “What just went through your brain?” he asked.

  She smirked. “Nothing,” she said. “So, you’re saying that because it’s cold in Canada, we can plant a maple tree here in Maryland.”

  He dumped his salad in the trash, pushed up to his feet, and rounded the desk, heat in his eyes. “Never let it be said I can’t use logic.” He sat on the edge of the desk, those strong thighs on either side of hers. “Now,” he murmured, his voice like silk, stroking across her nape, sliding down her spine, curling between her thighs, “what were you just thinking?”

  How much she’d like that monster cock of his in other places. Her mouth. Her ass. No big deal.

  Her cheeks were hot. She knew it.

  She wasn’t normally a sex machine. She liked to have sex, don’t get her wro
ng. She’d slept with more than a handful of people and wasn’t shy when it came to asking for what she wanted between the sheets. She even liked her body. Yes, it had lumps and marks that weren’t perfect. Yes, she maybe wished her stomach was flatter, her thighs less jiggly. But she liked tacos, okay?

  And nothing was going to stop her from eating udon.

  “Nothing,” she said again.

  He trailed the backs of his knuckles over her cheek, down her throat. “What?” he pressed.

  She shook her head.

  “Lexi.”

  “Luc.”

  He bent until she could feel his breath on her lips. “Should I kiss you until you tell me?”

  “You think that’ll work?” Big words, big talk.

  Except that her voice was husky, and the desire in it was palpable.

  Because she knew it would work.

  A soft groan. “I know it will.” His mouth brushed hers as he spoke. “Now, tell me, honey. What made all that heat trail across your face?”

  She shuddered when his knuckles drifted lower, trailing down the V of her shirt. Her nipples beaded against her bra. Heat and need and desire made her thighs tremble, her skin feel too tight for her body.

  But she wasn’t going to give in and just tell him.

  Even if she felt like her spine was going to melt out of her body and into a puddle right in the middle of his office floor.

  A raspy growl. “Lexi baby.”

  Her heart thudded against her ribs. “I’ll tell you later.” A beat. “If you’re good.”

  “Hmm.” His knuckles shifted to one side, brushed lightly across her nipple, and she had to bite back a gasp. Then he did it again. “How can I be good?”

  Closer now, her body drifting closer, until his hand was trapped between them.

  His cock was hard, and she was desperate to rub against it. No. She was desperate for it to be inside her, especially when his emerald eyes were so bright, so molten, so filled with the desire she knew was mirrored in her own gaze. She swallowed several times, trying to get her throat to unstick.

  “If you tell me,” he murmured, his mouth coming to her ear. “I promise that I’ll be good. I’ll be very, very good.”

  She shuddered.

  Fuck this power trip she was on. She was going to tell him.

  “I was thinking about your cock—”

  He started to smile, pleasure drifting into his face.

  There was a knock at the door.

  She jumped back.

  He cursed.

  And speaking of cocks, her eyes caught on the erection that was tenting his slacks.

  “Ignore it,” he muttered, reaching for her.

  “The cock or the knock?” she asked.

  “Either. Both.”

  She giggled, but then whoever was on the other side of the door rapped a fist against the wood again, and Luc sighed, stepped back.

  “Sorry,” he murmured.

  “No apologies,” she said and waved a hand at his chair. “Sit. Hide that.” Then she moved to the door.

  “And you say I give orders.”

  Her lips curved, laughter in her chest as she turned the handle and tugged open the door.

  Oliver James, captain of the Breakers, stood on the other side of that wooden panel.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Luc

  He watched Lexi leave, hating that he had to do real fucking work . . . instead of real fucking work.

  But . . . Oliver was in his office, seriousness in his expression. Luc understood better now that his captain was a quiet man who liked to keep things on the ice and in the locker room. So, despite the interruption, the delay in his delving into Lexi’s brain, his discovery of whatever had sent that red flaring across her cheeks, the trace of wicked in her eyes, Luc was glad Oliver had come to talk to him.

  They’d spoken after Shelby’s trade had gone through, and Luc had made it clear the captain needed to talk to someone—whether it be him, a coach, or the newly hired team psychologist, Hazel Reid—when shit got serious enough that Oliver couldn’t handle it on his own. Luc knew that wasn’t easy for him.

  There was a reason Oliver had been chosen captain, despite being a man of very few words. He was dedicated, one of the hardest-working players, a natural-born leader without ego.

  And that was a rare thing in this league.

  But he wasn’t exactly open. He liked to clutch his cards to his chest, and while there was a rapport with his teammates, there had always been a very clear line between Luc, Tommy and the rest of the coaching staff, and Oliver.

  One side was the players.

  The other was management.

  Luc had thought that made everyone more comfortable on the work front, especially when there didn’t seem to be any of that distance when it came to the team events.

  Hell, he didn’t have family, so he considered everyone in the organization to be part of his.

  But in keeping that distance in the organization, he’d allowed Shelby’s bullshit to fester, to have a place, and make it so that no matter how much rebuilding he did, no matter how many talented players he’d brought to the roster, the Breakers would never rise from the surf again.

  So, Oliver being here was important, something that would inch the team out of those pounding waves, and something Luc wouldn’t jeopardize.

  Period.

  Later, he’d ferret out the secrets in Lexi’s mind.

  “I’m sorry to interrupt,” Oliver said, and Luc tore his gaze from the door that had just clicked closed.

  “Don’t apologize,” Luc told him, focusing on his captain. “Everything okay?”

  “It’s about Shelby.”

  Of course, it was.

  “What can I do?”

  Oliver’s gaze skated to the side, quiet descending for long moments.

  Having the sense that his captain was gathering his thoughts, Luc didn’t push. Just waited until his eyes met Luc’s. But he wasn’t nearly prepared for the shock that Oliver’s words delivered.

  “I think you should pick someone else to be captain.”

  Oliver had been in the position for barely more than a year—just last season and the half of this one. He was a solid player. He was good at leading the team. That he was wanting to step down when the team was just rebounding after weathering some serious shit—they’d gone five and one over their last games—was concerning, to say the least.

  “What did he do to you?”

  Silence.

  Heavy, dread-filled quiet.

  “It doesn’t matter,” Oliver finally said. “He’s gone now, and the team is all the better for it.”

  “I agree the team is better.” Not that whatever had happened didn’t matter. “So, tell me why it would be better without you wearing that C.”

  Shame in his pale blue eyes. “I couldn’t shut that shit with Shelby down, couldn’t bring us together. The team needs someone who’s able to do that.”

  “Yes, they do.”

  Oliver nodded. “So, you’ll pick a different captain?”

  “No.”

  Also, no hesitation in Luc’s mind or in his answer. Because Oliver coming here, Oliver being concerned more about the team than his own ego was the most important thing. He wasn’t perfect.

  But the Breakers didn’t need a perfect captain at the helm.

  They needed someone who would continue moving forward despite the bumps in the road, the mistakes that were made.

  They needed his stability, his constant calm, his perseverance.

  Luc knew that if he told Oliver that, he wouldn’t absorb the compliment, wouldn’t understand that what made him a good man inside was what the team needed. Luc didn’t even think Oliver would consider himself a good man, not when it came to hockey, at least.

  Not with the struggles the team had been through these last few seasons.

  Ever since Shelby had joined the roster.

  “I made the choice to bring Shelby to the team,” Luc said qu
ietly. “I signed him because I was looking at stats and skating ability and the fucker’s golden hands. But I ignored the fact that he had a reputation for starting shit. I wanted to get us back to the Cup as quickly as possible.” He tapped his fingers on the edge of the desk. “I wanted that big win again. But I forgot that there’s no easy fix. That’s on me. Not on anyone else, ultimately, except for me.”

  “I should have handled it,” Oliver muttered. “And barring that, I should have gone to Tommy or you. Certainly before the GM of the whole fucking organization had to come into our locker room, dress us down, and then keep us inside like a bunch of children.”

  There was that.

  “Why didn’t you?” Luc asked. “When it wasn’t going well, why didn’t you go to Coach, to me?”

  “I was trying to fix it. I thought I could help Marcel get over his girlfriend,” Oliver said. “I thought I could deal with . . .”

  Luc’s eyes narrowed. “Deal with what?” he asked, when Oliver trailed off.

  A long pause. “All of it.”

  “Did you feel like you didn’t have a safe space to come here, to talk to Tommy?”

  “No,” he said. “I just thought the team should be taking care of itself.” He shook his head. “I understand now that was a mistake.”

  More of that separation.

  More of Luc understanding that it was what made this situation escalate. If it wasn’t there, then perhaps Oliver would have felt more comfortable coming to him before things had gotten so bad.

  He needed to fix this, bridge the gulf.

  He needed Oliver to continue to reach out, especially with the big, deep shit that required more help than he might be able to handle. The guys needed someone who could handle the team and liaison with management.

  And as far as Luc was concerned, he didn’t think Oliver had been given a fair chance to do that.

  He was still getting his feet underneath him.

  And the team had already been in a bad place when he’d jumped in.

  He couldn’t work miracles, and Luc didn’t expect him to.

  “I think you should pick Smitty,” Oliver said.

  Conner Smith—solid defenseman, six years in the league. He was already an assistant captain, so it wouldn’t be that much of a stretch to ask him to step up.