Bruiser (Seattle Sharks 7)

“Good,” I said, at least he was preparing her. “And I just…well, honey, I just don’t want you to be upset if…”

She shifted, her eyes narrowing in a way that was beyond her ten years. “If what?”

“If Porter decides…” I sighed. “If he needs to focus solely on his career and not the program anymore.” I couldn’t say you because it was too damn painful.

She tilted her head, those auburn waves looking like sheets of flame. “He’s not going to do that.”

“He may. And it wouldn’t be his fault. Hockey is time-consuming and hard and...” And honestly I didn’t know much about the sport other than they had a ton of games and most of them involved some sort of blood on the ice.

“He won’t leave,” she said, such determination in her voice that my heart cracked a little.

“The program was never meant to be forever,” I said, swallowing around the lump in my throat. Good gracious, he’d only been in our lives over a month and already I was aching with the pain my daughter would suffer when he inevitably left. Would it be like that with any Big or was it just because it was him?

Elliott crossed her arms over her chest, a hip popping out just slightly. I bit down on my lip to keep from laughing because damn me if that wasn’t my move when digging in for a fight.

“He won’t leave,” she said again. “I know he won’t.”

“He’s not obligated to stay, Elliott.”

She shrugged. “He wants to. He likes me.”

Another crack.

“Of course he likes you. You’re awesomesauce.”

“Mom,” she groaned, but my tease seemed to soften her. She unfolded her arms and walked the distance between us, looking up at me with those pale green eyes. “He’s not my father.”

My eyes flew wide. “No he isn’t, and you can’t see him as that either because—”

“No, ugh,” she said, rolling her eyes.

My heart slowed down a fraction of the breakneck speed it had raced off to. Liking Porter was one thing, but if she started to really attach herself to him and think of him as more than her Big?

“I meant,” she continued, ignoring my near heart attack. “He’s not my father. He won’t leave without talking to me about it first.”

I was so taken aback I had to blink a few times.

Then those old cracks in my heart, those old scars that had healed over but never really smoothed out, they twisted and stung.

Because I’d forced that on her. He may have left for California to explore job options, but I’d ran. So far and so fast. Before he could ever find us again. To protect us. Free us. I’d done that to my daughter. I’d put this knowledge into her mind, her heart—this certainty that there were men in the world who could hurt her, but she was certain Porter wasn’t one of them.

“You’re sure about that?” I asked, wanting to believe it but also not wanting her to get her heart crushed if it didn’t pan out the way she thought.

She nodded, no doubt in her eyes. “We’re friends, Mom. And he’s…good. Trust me, if he needs to bail for work, he’ll let me know. And I’ll let you know.”

I reached out and smoothed back some of her hair. “How old are you again?”

“Ten,” she said, so proud, so innocent and yet so damn mature.

“When did that happen?” I tucked her into my side.

“Somewhere between one case and the next,” she joked, and I chuckled.

“I love you,” I said, squeezing her.

“Love you, too, Mom.” She let me hug her for a few seconds longer than normal, like she knew I needed the confirmation that she was here, safe, cared for, happy—despite the lack of a good father, or the knowledge that hers was never good enough to fight for her, for me.

And as I let her go, let her carelessly race off to her room like only a ten-year-old could, I felt that ice reinforce all those walls and old scars around my heart. I’d constructed them for a reason all those years ago, to protect Elliott, to protect me.

One good month and a mind-blowing kiss from Hudson Porter couldn’t change that.

I sighed and started cutting the brownies, counting down the seconds until Grace would arrive with some much-needed wine.

Chapter 7

Hudson

“Holy shit, Porter,” Kennedy—one of our trainers—commented, his eyebrows raised as he leaned in closer to the scale. “You gained fifteen pounds since last season.”

“You what?” Lukas turned from his own scale. “Too many brownies?”

I flipped the middle finger at him.

“No, he’s good,” Kennedy said, shaking his head as he wrote down my stats. “It’s all muscle. He’s down to eight percent body fat.”

“Well then, fuck you.” Lukas looked over Max’s shoulder—another of our trainers. “Mine is all muscle, too.”

Max chuckled. “You only gained a pound, and still staying at seven percent body fat.”

Lukas smirked. “Lean, mean, and ready to be seen.”

I shook my head. “That is not how that goes.”

“Whatever,” he shrugged.

“Okay, you two are done. Head over to the bike station. VO2 Max test is next,” Kennedy told us, crooking his finger at Noble and Connor, who had just finished being taped.

Fitness day was anything but fun, but I wasn’t sweating it like some of the older players were. Being taped, weighed, measured, tested, and generally evaluated for our comparative physical fitness levels from last season was taxing, but I never altered my workout from the season. Sure, I had days where I maxed out my calories and ate a few things I shouldn’t, but that only happened when I was with Elliott.

Or Shea.

The taste of brownies filled my mouth as if I’d just licked her fingers clean. Damn, it had been two weeks since I’d kissed her, and I was jonesing for another hit of Shea. We’d seen each other a few times when I picked up Elliott, and she’d even joined us when we hit up the Museum of Pop Culture.

She’d narrowed her eyes at me when I’d suggested she let Elliott join the mini-Sharks, a local, developmental junior hockey league. I’d backed out of her apartment with my hands raised.

“Did you see the new crop of rookies?” Lukas asked as we walked through the training facility’s rehab room to the row of bikes that lined up to way more machinery than cycling should require.

“Something like thirty-four tryouts, right?” I asked, already knowing the answer.

“Yep. The three we drafted, and then more than a few hopefuls.” He rolled his neck, stretching the muscles.

“You’re not nervous, are you? Last time I checked you’re our leading scorer as of last season.” I watched Zbrowski and Haversham finish

their ride, both ripping off their masks as their time trial expired.

Those were two guys who should be worried.

“No, of course not. You?” His eyes flickered sideways at me.

“Nope. They wanted me for a reason, and I won’t let them down.” I was a damn good defenseman, and they’d fought hard in the trade to bring me here. I wasn’t stupid.

“Right. Then two of those twenty jerseys are ours.”

“Damn straight.”

There were twenty-three players allowed on an NHL playing roster, but only twenty would dress for games. Eighteen skaters, two goalies. Everyone else the Sharks would decide to sign would go on one of the reserve lists, whether they were injured, or sent down to the minors to skate their game up until they were ready to play.

I sure as fuck wasn’t being sent anywhere besides the Sharks’ locker room. Period.

Our turn came, and we both strapped into the bikes, dealing with the obnoxiousness of being hooked up to the machines.

Chloe placed masks that would measure out oxygen output over our noses and mouth, and adjusted the resistance.

“Damn, I wouldn’t want to be you,” Lukas said, his voice distorted by the mask as he watched her increase mine. It was meant to sit at nine percent of your body’s mass.

I eyed his skinny legs. “Yeah, I wouldn’t want to be you, either.”

“Hey, lean is good.”

“If you say so.”

Chloe clucked her tongue at us. “Boys, boys. Shut it and get ready to bike. Pedal as hard as you possibly can for the next thirty seconds, and yes, I do reserve the right to mock you after the results.”

Oh, it was on.

The fact that Chloe-- our physical trainer—was married to Bently Rogers only made her that much more prone to give us shit. We all loved her for it.

By mid-afternoon, I was smoked. Exhausted. Ready for bed, which was pretty much geriatric.

As I walked out to my car, my phone rang.

I cringed as I slipped it out of my back pocket, praying it wasn’t another plea from Nat to talk to her. I would have thought that seven months of radio silence would have given her the fucking hint, but nope.