Chapter 9

Brit

Her shoulder hurt like a motherfucker.

Every motion as she pulled off her gear was a knife-prick of pain that had Brit gritting her teeth. It wasn’t as bad as when she’d dislocated the joint there, but it wasn’t comfortable by any means, and she’d have a hell of a hard time lifting her arm in the morning.

Just what she needed when Bernard had basically told her she needed to improve a hell of a lot if she wanted a chance at playing. Dammit. But this wasn’t helping so she allowed one more moment of fury before forcing herself to get it together. It wasn’t like she hadn’t dealt with this her whole life.

With the men it was always the same, always making her jump through a hundred hoops to feel welcome.

And, she remembered with a shudder, sometimes those hoops left scars.

Every women’s team she’d ever played on had been different. Still competitive as hell, but supportive . . . at least in terms of her teammates not peppering her with slap shots when her back was turned.

If she found out who’d taken that shot—

No. It didn’t matter.

“How’s the shoulder?” Frankie asked.

Brit hadn’t heard him come up, but that wasn’t exactly a surprise, considering how deep she’d been in her thoughts.

She needed to pull free of the anger and the past and focus.

“Fine,” she said. She was. Really. And her shoulder would be too—after a gallon of ibuprofen and a bottle of wine.

Frankie snorted. “Sure you are. PT after you shower. Then we’re going to talk.” When she opened her mouth to protest, he narrowed his eyes. “Hustle up, I don’t want to be here all day.”

Well, then.

She nodded and went back to work on her gear. Less than a minute later, she pulled the remaining pad off and set it down before crossing to the showers. It was tempting to stay and fuss with the buckles, straightening, checking her clasps.

But that was her version of a security blanket, and she knew she needed to respect the equipment staff’s ability to do their job.

So Brit shoved the nervous habit to the back of her mind and snagged a towel.

She peered inside, checked the showers. They were mostly clear. Or at least most of the guys were on one side—whether that was in deference to her or just chance, she didn’t know.

Or care.

Okay, care much. Her heart pounded, and a fine sheen of sweat coated her skin as she made herself step inside.

This part had become okay: the stepping inside and getting clean. So long as there were others showering, too. So long as she wasn’t alone.

And Blane was in the other room. Brit knew he’d have her back.

Suck it up.

With a few quick movements, she stripped down and dunked her face under the water.

A long slow whistle made her roll her eyes. “Damn, girl.”

Seriously?

She’d thought her not-so-sexy striptease would have done the job. She flicked a gaze over her shoulder, ready to loose a retort, and saw Max staring at her.

Or not?

Because his eyes were locked on her back, not her butt, not trying to sneak a peek at her breasts.

“What?” she asked.

Max flicked his gaze up to hers as he tucked the edges of a towel around his waist. When it was secure, he took a few steps closer, just near enough to make those old feelings inside of her well up. For the fear she normally kept locked tight to slither free.

This was why she changed with the team. Why she didn’t shower alone anymore.

Because there was strength in numbers.

Max stopped immediately, freezing a couple of feet away, and Brit felt a wave of shame wash over her. How much had shown on her face?

The honest truth was that she really should be over this by now, over the fear, over glancing around every corner for the monster to come out again.

But she wasn’t. No matter how much she tried to convince herself differently, she wasn’t.

“You okay?” Max asked, all teasing lost from his expression.

So he was sweet in addition to really good-looking.

Which really wasn’t what she should be thinking about. But it was a relief to grasp onto the inane thought, to get lost in something stupid and superficial.

Her heart slowed enough that she was able to shove the fear down.

So deep she could almost fake normal.

Max was tall, strong, and built, a steam engine on two legs. Yet that wasn’t what called to her. There was something soft about him, a kindness in his eyes, a teddy-bear-like quality that made her want to confide in him.

Brit wondered if she’d ever be able to open up to a man, especially one like Max.

He’d be protective, tough, and—

Crap. She didn’t have time for this, for imaginings that would get her nothing but trouble.

Plus, she didn’t need a man to protect her.

“That’s one hell of a bruise,” Max said when she didn’t respond, and if his voice was carefully light, Brit was ignoring it.

No need to come across as a total basket case. At least not on her first day.

“I’m fine,” she said, forcing her eyes away and stepping into the water. “It’s just swelling and blood under the surface of the skin. You know, capillaries were ruptured with the impact of the puck and the blood pools under the skin. It looks bad, purple and. . .”

She was rambling again, introducing all sorts of unnecessary details to the conversation.

“Well . . . I’m glad you’re okay,” Max said when she managed to clamp her mouth shut.

“I bruise easily,” she blurted. Or not. Word vomiting was her specialty.

Max paused. “Good to know. Hurt?”

He was throwing her a lifeline. Brit glanced back over her shoulder and grimaced as she poured shampoo into her hand. “Like hell.”

His eyes crinkled at the corners, his lips curved. “How about a beer tonight? Couple of the guys like to go to a place around the corner, Alberto’s.”

Her heart gave a little squeeze at the invitation, at the offer of inclusion. It felt good, but . . .

“Can’t. Frankie wants me to hit up PT,” she said, turning slightly so she didn’t have to crane her neck to look at him. “Thanks for the invite, though. I’d rather that than spend an hour with some kooky sports therapist.”

Max laughed. “I wouldn’t let Mandy hear you say that.”

A frown pulled down her brows. “Why?”

“You’ll see.” He started to walk out of the showers, paused, and called, “See you tomorrow.”

Social skills. She still had a long way to go.

With a stifled sigh, she quickly finished her shower and dried. Unfortunately, her thoughts weren’t so easy to stifle. Not about physical therapy, but about her inability to have a relationship. About walls and barriers and barbed wire strung tight around a person’s heart in order to keep it safe.

Maybe Brit didn’t need a man to protect her, but . . . sometimes she longed for one.