Bruiser (Seattle Sharks 7)

“Maybe we should work on that whole skating thing, first,” I suggested dryly.

She stuck her tongue out at me and got back up. Something told me she would always do that when knocked down—get right back up. There was some fight in that girl, the same as her mom.

Hudson: I bet you already know from her device, but we’re at the Shark Arena. Come to the players’ entrance on the south side and tell the security guard I told you to. He knows I’m here with Elliott.

Shea: On my way.

She’s just Elliott’s mom. Just Elliott’s mom.

I repeated my mantra as I worked with Elliott. “It’s all about trusting your own body,” I reminded her. “You have to commit. How are your feet?”

“They hurt a little, but it’s not too bad,” she told me.

I tapped her helmet. “Skates can be a bi—...pain to break in,” I barely caught the swearing slip. “It takes some hours to get them comfortable. We can bake them for you the next time we meet, and that will shave some of the hours off.”

“Cool! Hey, Mom!” She waved her hands over her head, throwing her body off balance. I caught her around the waist before she bit it.

“Way to show her how awesome you are,” I teased.

She rolled her eyes at me.

“Go show off,” I urged her, making sure she was steady on her skates before releasing her.

She nodded with an excited grin and took off down the ice. “Look at me, Mom!”

“I see!” Shea called from the bench.

“Watch the wall!” I instructed.

“Got it!” Elliott answered, and she did. She shifted her body weight, throwing it at the inside edge of her right skate and outside edge of her left, and skidded to a stop.

“Not bad!” I told her before skating over to the bench.

“Whoa,” Shea said, backing up as I stepped inside.

“What?” I asked, looking down at her. Damn, the woman was tiny when I was in shoes, but in skates, I had even more than my usual twelve inches on her.

“You’re fast,” she admitted.

“You haven’t even seen me try yet,” I told her with a smirk. This was my house, the one place in life I excelled, and I knew it. I’d never had to show off for a woman—they’d always come pretty easily to me, what with the star college player status and then the NHL contract and the millions that followed, but man, I wanted to show off for Shea.

“Show me,” she challenged.

Oh, I planned to.

“How much bigger are your feet than Elliott’s?” I eyed her heels.

“My Hobbit-like daughter?” she followed my line of sight to the row of skates lined up along the boards. “They’re not much bigger, actually. Not sure if you’ve noticed, but I’m kind of small.”

“Good things come in small packages,” I answered automatically.

“Then you must be pretty bad,” she fired back quickly before her cheeks tinged pink like she was embarrassed that she’d accidentally flirted with me.

“What? Never had a thing for a bad boy?” I fished out a pair of skates that looked like they might fit her feet.

“You have no idea,” she whispered.

I knelt at her feet and looked up at her. There was zero teasing in her eyes. Zero flirtation.

As certain as if she’d been wrapped in yellow caution tape, I knew I had to tread lightly here. She was haunted, and not in the way that I was—where my ghost was long dead and exorcised. No, her fear was real. Palpable.

“You didn’t just buy that tracker because I had Elliott today, did you?” I asked quietly.

She shook her head. “She’s had it ever since she started school.”

I tucked that bit of knowledge away and nodded. “Sorry. If I’d known that, I wouldn’t have teased you earlier.”

“It’s okay, I needed it. I don’t...trust easily.”

That was an understatement. She was locked up tighter than the crown jewels.

“I get it. Do you need help with the skates?”

She shook her head. “I’ve got it.”

“Let me know if you change your mind. There are socks in this pocket of my bag.” I pointed to pocket, then rose and joined Elliott back on the ice, giving her the space I somehow sensed she needed at that moment.

Maybe it was because I was the same way. Not with the trust issues—I was a pretty good judge of character with one exception. But when I divulged too much of my past to someone, I tended to withdrawal. It always left me raw, like a wound that never quite healed because you kept picking at the scab.

In those moments it didn’t matter that I was twenty-nine years old.

I was trapped in the body of a much-smaller boy, facing the beast that alcohol turned him into, listening for footsteps on our porch. The turn of a key. The sound of my mother crying.

I shook the memories free and concentrated on the feel of the ice beneath my feet, letting the rink take it all away.

“I haven’t done this in years,” Shea admitted as she came out from the box.

“Need some help?” I asked across the blue line where I was helping Elliott.

“No,” she assured me, gripping the wall like a lifeline.

“You’d better help her,” Elliott whispered.

“She said, no.”

“She didn’t mean it,” Elliott assured me as Shea shuffled along the boards.

“One thing they teach boys is that when a girl says no, you believe her.” I kept my voice low as we both watched Shea struggle. My muscles involuntarily clenched as she slipped once. Twice.

Nearly landed on her ass.

“No exceptions?” Elliott cringed as Shea barely caught herself on the wall.

“No. Exceptions.”

“What if like...someone is drowning but swears they’re okay and tells you not to save them?” She shot a pleading look at me.

“She’s not drowning.”

“She’s...something,” Elliott muttered.

Yeah, this was pretty damn painful to watch.

“So, uh, are you sure you don’t want a little help?” I asked as she rounded the curve.

“I’m fi—ahhhh!” she shrieked as her left leg slipped forward and her right leg fell back, sending her sliding into some splits that she definitely hadn’t consented to. “Okay, help!”

I flew across the ice, skating faster than I ever did at drills. Hell, maybe even during a game. My heart and lungs pumped with the rhythm of my arms, and I came to a quick stop just behind her, careful that the snow I shredded didn’t hit her in the face.

“Gotcha,” I said, lifting her under her arms until she stood, wobbling, in front of me.

“Whoa,” she threw over her shoulder.

“Yeah, you’re pretty whoa. How are you feeling? Was that as painful for you as it was for me to watch?”

She scoffed. “I’ll have you know that I’m perfectly okay—Crap!” Her skates flew out from beneath her, and I barely caught her in time, turning her in my arms and hauling her up against my body for sheer stability.

I gripped her hands and placed them on either side of my waist. “Hold.”

“Uh-huh,” she said into my chest as her fingers dug into my obliques.

Elliott skated over and came to a perfect stop. Damn, that kid had some talent.

“See how awesome I am?” she asked her mom.

“Yep,” Shea said with the side of her face resting against my chest.

I didn’t need to see her face to know she was ten shades of red right now. Not when she was practically burning through my Henley.

“Does this mean I can go out for hockey? Please? Pretty please? I’ll do a month of dishes!”

“Can we talk about this once we’re back on land?” Shea begged.

“You do kind of suck at this, Mom,” Elliott whispered like there was anyone else around to hear her.

“Yeah, that point has not been lost on me,” Shea retorted.

“Hey, Porter! You and your girls about done

?” Devin called out from the doors that led to the Zamboni.

Your girls. My. Girls.

Hearing that didn’t freak me out as much as I’d expected.

I gently used my fingers to tilt Shea’s chin so she was looking at me. “Are we done?”

“Out here?” she clarified.

Only out here, my instinct answered. I tossed that shit back in the Neanderthal cave and nodded instead.

“Yes. Please, God, yes.”