“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?”
“He takes his cooking seriously.”
“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.”