Hot Shot (Hot as Puck Book 2)

7. Blake

Night steals over the surrounding forest, cloaking us in darkness while we talk, and in spite of the outdoor heaters, the cold wraps around us too. We’ve been out here an hour or so, talking mainly about the new Rogues facility, the practice rink that’s already up and running as of yesterday, the gym and change rooms that were due to be cleared for use today.

“Do you like living there? The heat?” Bran asks.

“It’s not too bad. Although I am looking forward to spending a lot more time inside the training facility and arena. Both are at temps more to my liking.”

“I remember you voting against the trip to Hawaii the year your brothers and I graduated high school and they got to pick the family holiday destination.”

“I remember someone else being just as vocal about their choice.” I glance around. “And it’s not like you found yourself a tropical island to hide out on.”

“Who said I’m hiding?”

I bring my gaze back to Bran. Stare at him with disbelief and disappointment because we never used to lie or twist the truth with each other. “Lie to yourself if you have to but we both know you’re in hiding.”

He has the grace to blush and drop his gaze. “Sorry. I’ve gotten used to deflecting—lying—to those closest to me. Not that there are many people left in my inner circle.”

“No one but yourself to blame for that. You shoved us all out of it, Bran.”

“I did. I know I did.” He looks away, out into the darkness and says, “But I had to. I couldn’t lie to you all every damn day and if we’d stayed close, if I had let you all stay in my life, I would have had to.”

“Why? Why would you have to lie to anyone?”

His gaze moves back to lock with mine, his eyes blazing with anger and resentment—regret. “Because it was all a lie.”

“What was?”

“My marriage.” He spits the second word out like it burns his tongue. “A marriage that should never have happened!”

He shoves his chair back, toppling it over when he surges to his feet. I don’t have time to get a word out or rise from my own seat before he’s storming into the house. I’m sure if the door to inside was a normal one, he would have slammed it behind him, but the glass slider is too heavy, and it slips quietly into the frame.

I don’t know what the hell he’s talking about. He married Celeste because of the baby—his child.

My gaze stays glued to the spot I last saw him, my mind spinning with questions.

“Because it was all a lie.”

Out of everything he said, those six words run on repeat in my head and the only conclusion I can come to after his outburst is Celeste lied about being pregnant…but the baby was born seven months after the news of their marriage…unless the baby wasn’t his.

Oh my god.

Could she have lied about the baby being Bran’s?

Why did he stay if that was the case?

And who was the father if not Bran?

Celeste had a reputation for jumping from player to player. It was one of the shocking parts of Bran marrying her. She wasn’t his type. At all. He wasn’t hers either. She went for the cocky players, the ones who used their celebrity status and partied all the time.

I still don’t understand how they got together in the first place. I hadn’t been aware of them dating. They hadn’t been spotted together before the photo of a stern looking Bran and a grinning Celeste was splashed on the Puck Bunny Productions blog, every media outlet in the country picking the story up within hours.

I’m getting ahead of myself. I don’t know what he means. It could be Celeste lied about being pregnant then got pregnant after they were married. It could be any number of possibilities.

Shaking my head, I slowly stand and gather our dishes. There’s no point trying to figure it out when I don’t have all the facts. And I’m not about to go find Bran and ask all the questions burning a path from my brain to my tongue.

Instead I’ll clean up after our meal, then call it a night even though it’s early. I should check in with Oakley and Nat. Although, if I speak to either of them, they’ll know something is bothering me and I don’t want to answer their questions right now just as I know Bran doesn’t want to answer mine.

Not yet anyway.

Earlier I thought I wasn’t prepared for the emotions being around Bran delivered. Now I don’t think I’m ready for the revelations he’s going to reveal.

He seemed so angry and hurt and all I wanted to do was soothe him the way I did when his mother died.

Everyone thought I was upset and angry at Bran, that he’d betrayed me, but the biggest sorrow I have is that I couldn’t be there for him in his darkest days. That I couldn’t help him navigate the turmoil of losing his wife and child.

A wife he seems to hate.

A daughter he hasn’t mentioned.

A family there is no evidence ever existed in his life.

Why are there no pictures around? If he was grieving their loss, wouldn’t he have something to look at? He did when he lost his mother. Had pictures of her everywhere in his apartment because he was afraid he might forget what she looked like.

There’s none of that here.

Dumping our dishes in the sink, I head back outside to work out how to turn off the heaters and lock up the house. It feels a little cold inside; I’ll have to find the house’s heat source and turn that up. Then again, the coolness might be from us coming in and out.

I find a set of switches labeled deck heaters and turn the ones on off. Securing the sliding glass door, I consider drawing the curtains across it to help warm things up but then I spot the thermostat and see Bran has got it set low.

I have to laugh at myself.

A few years ago, twenty degrees Celsius wouldn’t have made me blink but living in the south seems to have thinned my blood.

My brothers and father would have a field day with that. Mom would understand completely though. She was born and raised in Arizona and still complains about the cold of Canada and she’s lived here for over thirty years now.

I’ve got warm clothes and I brought the snuggly flannel pjs Mom got me last Christmas after listening to me complain one too many times about how cold it is getting out of bed in the mornings when I’m home.

I grin when I think about her matching pair and how Dad just rolled his eyes at us while my brothers groaned.

I never go home without them which is why I have them now. I can slip them on and go straight to bed after I clean up from dinner. I still alter the temp on the furnace, turning it up a few degrees.

Five to be exact.

Twenty-five seems far more comfortable than twenty.

When I finish loading the dishwasher and put away the loaf of bread Bran left out, I hunt around to see if I can find the fixings for hot chocolate. I’m not a tea drinker and the last thing I need is coffee right before bed.

I’m not surprised to find what I’m looking for. One of my most cherished memories of Bran’s mom is her hot chocolate and the nights she’d made it for us. We’d sit up late and talk, a hot cup, loaded with marshmallows, cradled in our hands.

His mother refused to make it any other way than with real chocolate. She’d buy blocks of it and shave it before stirring it into a pan of warming milk. I found a quicker way that doesn’t taste quite as good but it’s better than going without.

It seems Bran likes to make it the way his mother did because I find a container of shaved chocolate in the pantry right beside a packet of open marshmallows.

I know I shouldn’t, but I head toward the bedrooms. Tap lightly on Bran’s door.

I don’t expect an answer. I certainly don’t expect him to open the door in his underwear.

But one second I’m standing contemplating knocking again and the next I’m staring at a bare chest.

“I’m sorry.”

“Ah.” The sound hasn’t even finished leaving my lips when he’s talking again.

“I shouldn’t have yelled. Shouldn’t have stormed away. Shouldn’t have waited until you knocked to apologize.”

“Um…” I drag my gaze up to his. “That’s a lot of shouldn’ts.”

He scrubs a hand over his head and grips the back of his neck. “I keep making mistakes with you. With my life.”

“You can’t help the way you feel?—”

“But I can help the way I treat people no matter how I’m feeling.”

I don’t want to get into a bash-Bran session so I ask the question I knocked on his door for. “I’m making hot chocolate. Want a cup?”

The smile he gives me is bittersweet and the longing in his eyes has my heart lurching. “Yeah, I’d like that. Want me to light a fire?”

I don’t know if we should sit together like we used to. Maybe we should try something different, something that won’t bring up the past or have us falling into the discussion I know is inevitable, so I lie. “I was going to take mine to bed. I’ve got some emails to return.”

“Oh. Okay.” He looks at his wrist, the one without a watch, and says, “You’re right. It is late. And now that I think about it, I’ll pass. Do you need anything before I crash?”

“No. I’m good.”

“Come get me if you’re not.”

“Will do.” I don’t wait for him to close the door in my face. I turn on my heel and head back to the kitchen. I’m no longer in the mood for hot chocolate. I’m not in the mood for anything. Turning off the lights, I grab my bag from near the front door and make my way to the spare bedroom.

Closing the door behind me I take a deep breath and wonder about the unknown wounds Bran has suffered.

Wonder how I’m going to make it through a week of this.

If I’m strong enough to face my wounds where Bran is concerned.

If I’m strong enough to face his.