Chapter 4
FOUR
BEAR
I want to roar in frustration.
The song.
God, I’m so sick of that fucking song.
Catchy as shit, but mean as fuck, and I really don’t like it when people are mean.
We’ve got enough dickheads in this world—case in point, the lead singer of the Shattered Chords, Perry Moore.
And paired with money, media, and macho assholes taking the anthem and making it chart week after week…
I’m not a fan.
That’s not even mentioning the rabid female fans who all want to cure Perry’s broken heart.
Now she’s talking about paying to clean my sweatshirt.
“I guess I know why you were doused in rum and Coke last night.”
She stills, throat working. “It doesn’t matter.”
“Of course it does.”
Her head jerks, eyes flying to mine, wide and unsure. I reach up, touch her cheek again, her skin like silk.
“No one deserves that shit.”
Glimmering gray eyes, like storm clouds hidden behind falling rain. “No,” she says. “They don’t.”
At least we’re in accordance on that. “So no,” I tell her, gently tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, “I don’t need you to pay for cleaning my old ass hoodie. But I wouldn’t be opposed to you sharing a pot of coffee and eating a piece of pie with me.”
Her eyes dart around the space like she’s a trapped animal.
I suppose that’s not a surprise considering the hell she’s survived. I want to find a way for her to relax—I chose Blue Roof because it’s a locals spot and the owner, Jerimiah doesn’t take any nonsense, so anyone who might think about fucking with Sierra would be kicked the fuck out.
But she doesn’t know that.
So, I ignore her staring alternating between shooting toward the door every time it opens and the bell above it rings (which it does a lot because Blue Roof is the shit) and scanning the tables dotting the space.
There are some curious looks, but no one throws a drink at her or calls her names or expresses their undying love for the idiots in Shattered Chords.
“Here you go, dears,” Kel—our waitress—says, plunking down a pot of coffee and two mugs. She smiles good-naturedly at me. “Your usual?”
I nod.
Because I’m a creature of habit, but especially on game days.
And also because their blueberry sour cream pie is the best.
“Got it,” she says and glances at Sierra. “And for you, hun?”
Sierra nibbles at the corner of her mouth. “Can I have a slice of lemon meringue?”
“Sure thing.” And with a nod, Kel is zipping toward the pie case.
“Lemon fan?” I ask, knowing it’s lame as shit, but now that I’m sitting across from her, sunlight clinging to the strands of her coppery hair, glinting across the bridge of her nose, the tops of her cheeks, the bow of her lips, I find it hard to think.
She’s beautiful.
And sad.
Her mouth curves up at the corners. “Just a pie fan.” She nods toward Kel who’s walking back toward us with huge slabs of our respective pies nearly overflowing plain white plastic plates. “Apparently, so are you if she knows your order.”
I grin. “I’m a hockey player. We like our routines.”
“Hockey player?” she asks. “For, like, fun?”
I chuckle. “No,” I say. “Well, yes, but it’s also my job. I play for the Sierra.”
Wide gray eyes on mine.
“That’s why I laughed at your name last night—Sierra, up in the Sierra Nevadas, while standing in front of a player for the Sierra.” I chuckle, knowing I probably sound like a dumbass.
“Oh,” she whispers.
Yup. Definitely a dumbass.
But I don’t get the chance to remedy that because Kel’s there, and the next moments are dealt with making room for those heaping plates of pie.
“Enjoy,” she says before flitting off to check on another table.
“You’re teammates,” Sierra says quietly, fingers wrapped around a fork that’s poised over a mound of pillowy meringue.
“What?”
A shake of her head as she dips the fork into the pie. “That’s why you were all having such a great time last night—you’re teammates.”
“Yeah,” I say, understanding now (and understanding the attention the group of us draw when we’re out—not because we’re famous necessarily, but because we’re big, rowdy, and boisterous). “We have a lot of good guys on the roster and it’s fun to hang out with them.”
She scoops up a bite. “That’s nice,” she whispers. The tines disappear between parted lips and, swear to Christ, but my dick twitches at the soft moan she makes as she chews and swallows.
“Good?” I rasp.
Another bite into her mouth. Another pleased hum.
Her eyes come back to mine, deep pools of gray.
I bet the taste of lemon and sweet on her tongue would be even better.
“I’m glad you have that.”
I blink, realize my bite of blueberry sour cream has plopped back onto my plate, and take a second to try and process what the fuck she’s talking about. “Have what?”
“The comradery with your teammates.”
The way she says that…
“Have you ever had that?”
That fork freezes an inch from her mouth, and I hate that she doesn’t eat it, that she instead sets it on her plate and pushes the plastic disc a few inches away from her.
Answer enough, I guess.
I search for something to say that will have the sadness disappearing, that brings back her smile.
But I don’t get the chance to employ any of those because she surprises me by saying, “My family.”
I set my fork down, brace.
Because I don’t think I’m going to like what she’s going to tell me.
“We had that,” she says. “My mom, my dad, and I. We were a little unit. The Three Musketeers. Until they died.”
Dammit.
“There was a car accident and then they were gone.” She shakes her head, storm clouds and rain in her eyes again.
“I’m…well, I was lucky to be okay but the recovery was long and it took a while for me to get out of the hospital.
Mostly everyone in my life had moved on by then, and… I was lost for a long time.”
Her hand’s shaking.
And I can’t take it.
I reach across the table, wrap my fingers around hers.
“I thought when I found Perry, when I fell for him and traveled with the guys…” A sigh. “I thought I found that again.” Her eyes slide closed. “Turns out, the family I thought we were building wasn’t a family at all.”