Chapter 20
Chapter Twenty
WADE
Fireworks? Explosions? More like a total mind blow?
Bree…kissed me. And it transcended anything I had ever imagined. Soft. Passionate. She fit in my arms as if she belonged there.
But why? Why did she kiss me?
Her gorgeous blue eyes bounce back and forth as she stares up at me like a scared rabbit. She looks as if she’s ready to bolt, too.
The wheels in my head spin, searching for a way to backtrack. Given how long I’ve wanted Bree, I shouldn’t be surprised by how hard it hit me. After years of fantasizing about kissing her—and pining after her like a lovesick idiot—restraint was never going to be my strong suit.
If only life had an undo button, which I seem to say a lot these days. I take a step back, rub my hand over my mouth, then stop. What if she thinks I did that to remove the feel of her lips on mine? Not possible, even if I tried. Her touch and taste have branded me now—sweet and unforgettable.
I need to say something before she leaves, and we wind up avoiding each other again. “Bree, I’m sorry. I—”
“No, it’s my fault. Really. Lousy day, bad timing. And we’re both upset about Nana, right? It’s fine. Really. Just. Fine.” Her voice gets higher as she backs up, turns to the right, then to the left, like a malfunctioning robot, only cuter.
“It just happened. It’s okay.” I want to hold her, reassure her that nothing’s changed between us, but that feels like a lie. I know what I want, and I want Bree. I always have.
Now that I’ve experienced that mind-blowing kiss, I don’t want to go back to being friends. But what does she want? Until she figures that out, it’s best if I back off and let her call the shots. What else can I do?
Her bottom lip trembles. “I’m exhausted. I think I’ll go home.” She grabs her purse and slings it over her shoulder, making a beeline for the door.
If she leaves, who knows how long it will take for her to talk to me again. Using my well-honed goalie reflexes, I bolt into action and make it to the front door before her, blocking her path like a shot on goal.
“You’re right. This thing with Nana has me all messed up.” I pull at the back of my neck as I search for the right things to say. “Let’s start the evening over. You just got here with your smelly pizza. I’ll grab some plates, and we’ll chill, eat pizza, and talk about whatever you want, okay?”
She nods and whispers. “Okay.”
Putting my hand on the small of her back, I lead her over to where we started—simply two friends about to have dinner together.
She slings her purse over the barstool again and lifts her pizza box. “You really think my pizza is stinky?”
A smile creeps onto her face, making us both laugh, and the tension straining between us breaks. However, the ache in my chest clicks into place where it’s always lived, only stronger.
At least she’s still here, talking to me.
“On a scale of one to ten, I’d say a seven,” I add a tilted grin for effect.
She lands a light swat on my abdomen. “You’re drooling for a slice, and you know it.”
Warmth mixed with relief spreads through me. We’re back to our usual banter. That’s a good sign, right? I can work with this, salvage our connection because the only thing worse than not being with Bree is not having her in my life at all.
“Take your odoriferous box and sit down on the couch. I’ll get plates and napkins.
“Odoriferous?” She eyes me. “Are you bringing out big words today?”
“Blame Nana.”
“Does she still forward the word of the day to you?”
“Yeah, she does.” The plates clink as I snatch two from the cabinet, grab the roll of paper towels—what Nana calls ‘Pierce napkins’—and sit next to Bree on the couch.
She puts a slice on her plate. I slide one onto mine. It’s as if that kiss never happened, but I know I’ll revisit it every chance I get.
Bree does a double-take. “Taking a walk on the dark side?”
Shifting the plate back and forth, I make a show of examining the chunks of olives, peppers, and onions intermingled with sausage, pepperoni, and cheese. “I can work with this.”
And with resuming our best-friends-only status.
But can I? Can I really?
“Pierce! Get your head in the game!” Coach Markelson rarely barks at us, but when he does, you better believe we listen.
The problem, though? It’s not the first time he’s said—or shouted—this at me today.
Remembering the manners my nana drilled into me, I give him a nod. “Yes, sir.”
But like a dog with its tail between its legs, I skate over to the crease. Today’s our last practice for tomorrow night’s game. I have twenty-four hours to get my head straight and get back on track.
But all I can think about is Bree and the kiss I keep reliving in my thoughts and my dreams. In seconds, she confirmed what I had suspected for years—we could be good together. Very good. If only she could see that—see me that way.
The clink of the puck hitting the pipes jars me back to the present. Luke comes to a stop in front of the crease, snowing me—his warning shot.
He grunts. “We need to talk.”
“I’m fine,” I growl.
“No, you’re not. After practice. Not an option.” He stares me down like a bull positioning to charge.
He’s not letting this go. I drop my gaze to the blue paint beneath my skates—the place I used to feel centered and connected. “Whatever.”
Jammer skates off, joining the rest of the Big Guns, who keep casting concerned looks my way.
I rip my helmet off, tossing it on the net, then grab my water and douse my face and head.
The cold liquid is bracing but doesn’t help clear the tangled thoughts cluttering my brain.
I don’t know how to compartmentalize Bree.
And this situation with Nana. I still need to call and talk to her about it and discuss other options.
There has to be another solution than selling the ranch.
My salary is decent, enough to live on, but I can’t afford to make her current foreman a full-time employee with benefits. He manages two ranches, so I know what the cost would be. The ranch doesn’t bring in enough to cover it either.
Unless we sell some of the horses and cattle, or maybe part of the back property, but that would be a temporary solution.
An unexpected relief washes over me when practice ends. Usually, I’m happier in the rink than in the weight room, but after my performance today, I can’t get off the ice fast enough.
I shed my gear and head off to work with my goalie coach on some new reaction drills for eye-hand coordination—a valid reason to avoid their questioning stares and scrutiny.
But procrastination only takes me until the end of the day.
Then it’s back to the locker room to shower and clean up.
And judging by the unusual silence of my guys, they’re dreading this discussion as much as I am.
As we leave, Coach gives me a wary look, then lifts his chin at Luke, silently communicating who knows what.
If Coach is in on this, it can’t be good. This feels more like an intervention at this point.
When I head to my car, Luke grabs me by the shoulders. “You’re riding with me, Cowboy.”
“What, are you worried I’m a flight risk?” I say with a joking tone, but I can see myself pulling a deke and going home to hide. But they’d follow me and break down my front door.
Luke grunts, then shrugs. “Figured a beer or two might help loosen your tongue.”
I stop. “But we play tomorrow.”
“One beer, then. I’ll drive you back to pick up your car.”
Gritting my jaw, I grind out, “Fine.”
Normally, we hang out at the Turtle Tide, grab drinks and baskets of their hushpuppies, but not the night before a game. So, I’m guessing we’re heading to Steamers, a new place that opened last year that has a full bar, pool tables, and darts.
Luke and I arrive at the same time as the others. Ethan stops at the bar and puts in an order for a pitcher of beer while the rest of us claim a dart room. More like enclosed alcoves than rooms. Kind of like those ax-throwing places with partitioned walls, which give us some privacy.
I stand with my back to the dartboard while the rest make a J-shape formation like we do on the ranch when we’re herding and sorting cattle. Guess that makes me a cow tonight, but I’m not liking it. At all.
Ethan grabs a set of darts and hands them to me as he joins the ranks. “Shoot and start talking, Pierce.”
Heat bristles up my neck. I assess the situation, parsing out any potential escape routes, but they’re like an impenetrable wall. That’s hockey players for you. But with the headspace I’m in right now, I’d rather throw punches than darts.
Resigned to my fate, I spin around and throw the first dart, hitting a bullseye with a loud thump. The next two darts land dead center, too, smacking just as hard.
Payton lets out a soft whistle. “Impressive hat trick, Cowboy. Now talk.”
The fight seeps out of me as I turn, meeting their eyes one after another. Do I give them details or just the highlights?
Here goes nothing.
“Bree kissed me.”