Boldly: Breakers Hockey #2 Read online

He felt like he’d been existing in a vacuum since the injury—and maybe that was something he should be telling her, something he should disclose. But that vacuum, that sense of suspension, had disappeared the moment he’d walked into her office. It had cleared in the hospital room, too. Just for a moment before she ran. And even before that, upon their first meeting.

  Because while he would like to say that his vacuum existence had begun after he’d been hurt, that would be a lie.

  Separate.

  Always separate. Always with careful walls. Always carefully curated.

  He would bleed for the team—and had. He would give them everything—and nearly had.

  But he didn’t take.

  Because accepting meant gratitude, meant owing something back, meant…being vulnerable in a way he despised.

  It was so much easier to be the one giving. He got to be the hero without any of the strings.

  But you took the job, didn’t you?

  He had.

  Because…he needed it.

  And taking the job, even the required sessions with Hazel. He’d needed them both, needed to feel alive and out of that fucking vacuum and—

  “My ex is an ex because he fucked around during his bachelor party”—she met his gaze, her eyes steely—“and by fucked around I mean, literally, fucked around. He banged three girls in the club they went to and then got a blowy from another. Four times in one night”—a shake of her head, her lips turning up, trying to force a smile, trying to make it all a joke—“I never got that kind of stamina.”

  But the hurt was there, and he found himself sitting up straighter, wanting to reach for her, but not wanting to break the spell.

  Because he wanted to know everything about Hazel Reid.

  Even the bad.

  A deep inhale. A shaky exhale. But her eyes remained dry. Over it enough for it to still hurt but not enough to make her break down.

  “He told me himself.”

  Oliver felt his eyes go wide.

  “Walked straight into our condo the following morning, sat on the edge of the bed and told me what he’d done. And then—” Another shaking exhale. “He told me he’d decided he wasn’t a one-woman man and that he didn’t actually believe in marriage.”

  Silence.

  On his front because he was trying to hold back his temper. He didn’t think it would be particularly helpful to tell Hazel that her ex was a fucking douche canoe. On her front, she seemed to be lost in thoughts that he wouldn’t be able to delve into.

  A shrug, her voice markedly lighter.

  “He still wanted to be together, wanted an open relationship. Yeah, like that was going to happen.” She laughed quietly, though it wasn’t in true humor. “It was good he told me before we got married, though. An easier…end.” She cleared her throat. “I gave him his ring back, left while he packed his bags, and then…that was it. Three years, and one night, and we were done.”

  His heart pulsed. “It hurt.”

  She blinked, as though coming out of a trance, and nodded. “Yeah. It hurt. I felt betrayed in any number of ways, not the least of which was the cheating. But there was no going back, and luckily I didn’t have to deal with trying to get a divorce if he hadn’t learned of his preferences that night.”

  If he hadn’t learned of his preferences?

  The man was an asshole.

  He knew. He just didn’t care.

  But bringing that up wouldn’t help anyone. “You dodged a bullet.”

  She grinned. “I like to think of it as having dodged a grenade.”

  The joke surprised him, and he was caught off-guard by his laugh, not because anything about Hazel’s situation was particularly joke-worthy, but because she was laying it out there so straight.

  Calm. Her pain banked, her eyes looking forward.

  Since that was Oliver’s motto, he respected it a whole lot. Respected her a whole lot.

  “There,” she said, “now you know about my ex. Which is something I’d appreciate not circling the locker room if it hasn’t. It’s not like I’m trying to hide anything. I just…”

  “Don’t want everyone up in your business?”

  She nodded.

  He chuckled. “That might be hard for this crew.”

  Her eyes warmed. “Isn’t that great?”

  It was. It was fucking incredible, especially considering the dysfunction they’d begun with the previous season—mostly due to He Who Should Not Be Named—okay, due to Mark Shelby.

  Shelby had been a talented player, but he was a cancer in the locker room, eating away at the good things, returning it as bad shit. He’d fucked Marcel’s girlfriend, intentionally tried to injure people on the ice (even before his intentional hit on Oliver that had gotten everyone to this point), and he constantly undermined anything positive.

  Someone commented on a good play. Shelby commented with something snide.

  Someone had a date. Shelby tried to get in there first.

  Someone needed time with the trainers. All of a sudden, Shelby’s “injuries” took top priority.

  And that didn’t even include the fucked up shit he’d said about Conner (“Smithy” for his last name of, unoriginally, Smith), Luca (“Cas” for Castillo, also another unoriginal nickname from his last name), and Raph (short for Raphael, perhaps the most uninteresting nickname of all).

  Those guys were professionals, able to let it roll off their backs, a la water off a duck’s feathery spine, but taken all at once?

  The spirit in the locker room had been grim.

  Luckily, Luc had stepped in, and though Oliver knew he’d made a mistake not going to the GM with the issues and instead trying to handle them himself, Luc had guided him forward. Luc should have taken the captaincy from him because Oliver hadn’t handled the situation correctly. At the first sign of big trouble, Oliver should have gone to the coaching staff, to Luc, should have worked out something with the assistant captains, Smithy and Cas. But he hadn’t. He thought he had to handle it all himself, and the team had suffered. Despite all that, Luc had stuck with him.

  Because Luc didn’t punish people for making mistakes.

  Because he was a good GM and Luc understood that Oliver had been trying his best (even though it was a fucked-up best). They’d sat down together and figured out a way forward.

  First step of that? Trading Shelby.

  Next? Team building activities, including a plant growing contest that Lexi had begun them on. One he’d won, by the way, considering his plant, KiKi was still alive. Though he couldn’t reasonably take credit for the last after his injury, since Lexi had used her green thumb (hell, the woman had two green hands) to keep it alive while he was recovering.

  Not that it mattered.

  His plant had survived the rest of the season.

  No one else’s had.

  Come to think of that, he’d never gotten his spoils for winning the contest. He’d have to find Lexi and get her to give up the goods.

  “It is great,” he said. “In fact, the entire team is great.”

  They were.

  They’d been there for him over the last months, the front office and support staff, too.

  Food stocked in his fridge. His laundry done. His house cleaned. Company on his couch. A ride to doctors’ appointments. A plethora of dumbasses taking up every bit of floor space in his living room so they could all play Call of Duty.

  He hadn’t been alone.

  And that was why he was fine and moving on and focused on the future. No sense in looking back; that shit did no one any good, least of all him.

  It didn’t help to wish his parents hadn’t OD’d.

  To wish he hadn’t ended up in foster care because his biological family wasn’t willing to take him in.

  To mourn his adoptive parents and wish he’d had them longer.

  He was alone, but not by himself, if that made one fucking bit of sense.

  To his brain, it did.

  But maybe not to anyone else.
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  Because he was used to being on the periphery. Even as a player, as a captain, he’d been part of the team, but also had held a slice of himself back. That innermost piece he had to protect because if he gave that away and people left, if the rug was pulled out from beneath him again, as it had many times before, he wouldn’t have anything left.

  Being captain made that slightly easier.

  The leadership meant that he had to be aware of the example he was setting.

  And it was easier to protect that little piece.

  “You got quiet,” she murmured.

  Not a question.

  But still one anyway.

  He met her gaze. “I think everyone keeps expecting me to lose it.”

  She set her pen down. He’d been watching her twirling it, spinning it between her fingers, not clicking it, but pulling up on the little tab at the top then letting it go. Then repeating the process again. The only time she wasn’t playing with her pen was when she was spinning the glittering flower in her earlobe—around and around and around.

  Not once had she actually written on the pad.

  Which, perhaps, was why he said that.

  Why he admitted it.

  Hazel sat up a little straighter, held his eyes. “Why do you think that?”

  He fell silent.

  She waited.

  So eventually, he continued admitting. “Everyone walks around me on eggshells. Everyone keeps asking me how I am and when I tell the truth, when I say I’m fine, they look at me in disbelief.”

  More quiet.

  Then, “You had something very traumatic happen to you. It would be completely understandable if you were not fine.”

  Nine months of this shit.

  Nine fucking months of people expecting him to react a certain way.

  Nine fucking months of people tiptoeing around.

  Even Luc, the person who’d been most straight with him, hadn’t pressed when he wanted to call Oliver out on something. He just let it go. Everyone let it go. And maybe that should make him and his sliver of armored, protected self feel safe. Secure. But instead, it just kept pissing him off. Because fuck, why couldn’t they see that he was doing fine?

  The circumstances were shit.

  But he was moving forward.

  “I am fine.”

  Brown eyes on his. Pretty with a breadth of colors he’d never seen before. Gorgeous, like some beautiful work of blown glass.

  Except they held pity.

  And sadness.

  And were looking at him with the distinct impression that she thought he wasn’t fine.

  It was as though someone had flipped a switch.

  One second, he was fine. The next he was furious.

  He burst to his feet, and the words just flew from him, bullets flying out of a gun, clipped before he could smother them.

  “I am more than a fucking leg!” he roared.

  Probably loud enough for the entire building to hear, but fury had his hands clenched into fists, his teeth grinding together, red hazing his vision and making it so that he could hardly see those beautiful eyes, that gorgeous face.

  Red. Red.

  He leaned down, not so far gone as to not notice the way fear crept into her face, how her eyes went wide, hating himself for being the cause of it and yet, unable to stop.

  He wanted to shake her, to make her understand.

  But he’d never laid hands on a woman like that.

  And he wouldn’t start today.

  Sucking in a breath, he turned, strode to the door, yanked it open, and got the fuck out of there.

  Before he did something he might regret.

  Like instead of shaking some sense into her…

  Deciding he needed to kiss that sense into her.

  Chapter Six

  Hazel

  She was still shaking.

  It had been ten freaking hours.

  And she still felt like a shit bag.

  She needed to refer him to a therapist who wasn’t her. She wasn’t qualified for this. She helped athletes visualize getting on the scoreboard or perfecting the ideal slap shot.

  Dealing with the trauma of losing a limb wasn’t in her wheelhouse.

  I am more than a fucking leg!

  He was.

  And she and everyone else had reduced him to that.

  “Fuck,” she breathed.

  Well, the first step to making it right was being here tonight. Luc had invited her to dinner at his home, and the first step was telling him that she was going to give Oliver a referral to another therapist, but that it should be up to him if he wanted to use it.

  Ultimately, it needed to be up to Oliver if he wanted to unpack this all with someone.

  But—more—ultimately, that person shouldn’t be Hazel.

  Not when she was practically salivating over the man and off her game…and then making him feel like crap because she’d been so fucking reductive.

  I am more than a fucking leg!

  Guilt washed over her again—her best friend for the last ten hours—as she knocked on the door.

  Footsteps on the other side.

  The wooden panel opening…

  To reveal Oliver.

  Um…

  His eyes widened, and he started to speak, but then Lexi was there, holding her baby, a gorgeous green-eyed little boy with wavy brown hair. Oliver stepped back to let her into the hall.

  “Ah!” Hazel squealed, moving forward to squish the little baby’s cheeks. The infant pushing her beyond her guilt and firmly into cuddle mode. “How’s my little Noah?”

  Lexi smiled, despite the black circles beneath her eyes. “Not sleeping like he’s going for a gold medal in the event.”

  “Oh no.” She plucked him from Lexi’s arms, cuddling him close. “Why aren’t you sleeping, baby boy?” A kiss to his forehead, those wide green eyes on her. “Are you trying to torture your mommy and daddy?”

  Lexi yawned.

  Noah smiled and giggled.

  The scamp.

  “All right,” Hazel ordered, tucking him onto her hip. “You go run yourself a bath. I’ve got Noah for an hour.”

  Lexi’s brows furrowed. “But I’ve got to order dinner.”

  “Funny, I didn’t realize I had a phone that could order Udon off DoorDash.”

  “I know I should have cooked—”

  “No, you shouldn’t have,” Oliver murmured, closing the door behind them and ushering them down the hall. “We’ll order the food. You take your bath.”

  Lexi’s expression went chagrined. “You don’t know what I want.”

  Hazel recited her order.

  Lexi bit her bottom lip, glanced between Hazel, Oliver, and Noah. “What if he cries?”

  “Honey, your house is nice,” Hazel said gently, “but it’s not a mansion. If he cries, I’ll take care of it. If I can’t soothe him, I’ll just walk up the stairs and knock on your bathroom door. Okay?”

  “I—” More lip biting. “A bath does sound nice.”

  “Go,” Hazel ordered.

  Lexi smiled, hugged her around Noah. “You’re the best, Hazel.” A beat. “And Oliver, I didn’t mean to imply that you’re not—”

  “Go,” he ordered.

  Another moment of hesitation. Then she was gone, and Hazel was standing in the hall next to Oliver and cradling an adorable baby.

  “Where’s Luc?” she asked as the silence stretched.

  Oliver chuckled. “Passed out in his office. His dark circles had circles, so I suggested he close his eyes for a few minutes. It took approximately two seconds for him to pass out.”

  She grinned.

  Then remembered why she’d needed to speak to her boss and sobered. “Oliver,” she began, “I need to apologize to you.” Again. It seemed she was always apologizing to him, always messing up.

  His brows drew together. “Why?”

  “I…um…” She bit the inside of her cheek, sucked in a breath through her nose and released it, finding her
voice, finding the words she owed him. “I upset you this morning. You are more than your leg, and what I said is unforgivable, and—”

  “Haze.”

  She blinked.

  “It’s fine.”

  “It’s not fine,” she told him. “I shouldn’t have agreed to see you.” His face clouded, and she hurried to add, “Not because of you. It’s just…I’m a sports psychologist, and I’m not qualified to conduct therapy like I was trying to give you. I thought because we’d worked together before, it would be okay, but it’s not. I’m not a good fit for what you need.” Her words came fast as furious. “So, I’m going to get you a referral for someone who is qualified for that kind of therapy, and I’m going to talk to Luc and tell him that he needs to take the sessions off as a condition of your contract because that should be your choice and not something you’re forced into, and then—”

  “Hazel.”

  “—I’m going to give you my referral’s contact information, and then you’ll only reach out to them if you believe that you want to talk to them and—”

  He stepped forward, closed the distance between them as much as he was able, considering she was still holding Noah.

  “Um…” she whispered before soldiering on. “And then I’m going to stick with counseling players about staying calm during a game or getting on the scoreboard and leave any coaxing out of trauma to the professionals.”

  That was the point she ran out of steam.

  “You done?” he asked.

  She nodded.

  “Good.” He shifted, put his hand on her back, and coaxed her forward, leading her into the kitchen almost as if it were his house instead of Lexi and Luc’s. “First, thank you for apologizing. That was unnecessary but appreciated. Second, I’m the one who should be asking for your forgiveness. I shouldn’t have yelled, and I certainly shouldn’t have walked out like that. I—”

  He hesitated long enough that she found herself filling in that blank.

  “It’s a big change, what happened to you,” she whispered. “But it’s not my change. It happened to you, and you’re allowed to feel the way you feel. But more than that, what happened to you doesn’t define your life. You’re not Oliver James because you overcame something. You’re not Oliver James despite something. You’re just Oliver James, and that’s enough, and it should be enough for everyone around you.”