Boldly by Elise Faber

Chapter Nineteen

Oliver

I’m sorry I promised to take him on. This is over my pay grade, and I can’t help him.

Fuck.

Fuck.

He tried to breathe through that, breathe through the sharp stab of those words. They were part of a larger conversation, he knew that. He understood that. He heard that, heard Luc and Hazel continue talking about him, about her, about them.

It was just—

I’m sorry I promised to take him on.

This is over my pay grade, and I can’t help him.

I. Cant. Help. Him.

Leaning back against the wall, he gripped the flowers tightly, feeling the stems start to break under his hands. Flowers. Romance. Candles. Dinner.

That was the plan.

But all he could hear was, I’m sorry I promised to take him on. This is over my pay grade, and I can’t help him.

He’d asked her to help.

He was a fucking lot.

Maybe even over her pay grade lot, especially if he wasn’t a client and wanted to be a boyfriend.

“Breathe, O,” he muttered.

She and Luc had been having a conversation about the therapy sessions. She’d told him she was going to do that. She’d also said that she didn’t feel qualified to take on something like the trauma of losing a limb.

This wasn’t about him.

This was…not about him.

But what if he was too much in other ways? He hardly knew how to be vulnerable enough to connect with people. It wasn’t instinctual. It was a struggle, and he had to push through the urge to shore up his defenses, keep people at a distance, and to not only give a small sliver of himself.

Right now, it was easy with Hazel.

Because she made him feel something he never had before.

But what if he got used to that?

What if it stopped being new, and he started to close down again? What if he did that, and she decided he wasn’t worth the trouble and—

“Mr. James?”

Oliver blinked and glanced down, saw the tiny little girl standing in front of him. His heart was pounding, palms sweating. The flowers were all but mangled in his hands, and his good knee felt like it was about ready to give way.

Panic.

He was panicking.

But there was a little girl staring up at him, her expression filled with excitement and eagerness. So, he sucked in a breath, released it slowly.

“Yeah, kiddo?” he asked, dropping the flowers into the trash can and trying to moderate his tone, when it felt like he’d just swallowed a razor blade.

“I—” She broke off, nibbled at her bottom lip.

He crouched down, and at least he was getting better at that. It still hurt and put pressure on his stump, and he had to take most of his weight in his good leg, but at least he wasn’t at risk of falling over. “You good, kiddo?”

She glanced back at her parents, Oliver’s gaze following, watching as they nodded in encouragement.

A rise and fall of tiny shoulders.

A chin lifted.

Her hair was curly and brown, her skin creamy, her eyes brown, and her face…if he had a daughter with Hazel, this is what she could look like.

I’m sorry I promised to take him on. This is over my pay grade, and I can’t help him.

Fuck, that hurt.

Easy. Easy now.

He was at the arena; people were bound to recognize him. That was part of why he hadn’t been back until now.

But this little girl had worked up the courage to talk to him, and even though she was faltering now, he could at least make her night a little brighter. If he played this right, maybe he could even just make her night altogether.

So, he stood, held out a hand. “Come with me, and I’ll show you the coolest place in the arena.”

She unfroze, wrapped her tiny fingers in his, and said, “Really?”

“Really, really.”

He nodded at her parents as he started walking, indicating they follow him. The monitors around the concourse said there were two minutes left in the game, and the Breakers were up by three. There would be just enough time for them to get downstairs.

“Mr. James?”

“Yeah, honey?” he asked, her parents trailing.

“Did you lose your leg?”

He smiled gently. “Yes, I did.” He lifted his pant leg enough to show her the bottom of his prosthesis. “See?”

“Wow! You have a superhero leg!”

That made his smile turn genuine. “Pretty cool, huh?”

“Super cool!”

He nodded at security then hit the button for the elevator that would take them downstairs. “What’s your name?”

“Hannah St. Claire, Mr. James!”

So much enthusiasm.

“Call me Oliver,” he told her then glanced over at her parents. “I should have asked. Do you have a few minutes, Mr. and Mrs. St. Claire?”

The mom nodded and put her hand out for him to shake. “Aimie, please. And this is my husband, Chuck.” He shook Chuck’s hand. “We have plenty of time, but please, we weren’t trying to take too much of yours. You don’t have to go to any trouble for us.”

“It’s no trouble,” he assured them.

The elevator door opened, and they stepped on.

“You’re my favorite player!” Hannah declared, dancing around the elevator, jerking Oliver’s hand this way and that.

“Well, you’re my favorite Hannah,” he told her.

She beamed.

And he felt like the sun could rise and fall by that smile, it was so bright and beautiful and innocent.

It would only take a few moments to reach the lower level of the arena, the concrete halls where the guys would come off the ice. Normally, he would never take someone here. After a game, the guys just wanted to get through whatever Tommy wanted to talk to them about, the required press, and their cool-down routines.

But he knew the guys would love Hannah.

And…it was the best way to get a game-worn jersey.

I’m sorry I promised to take him on. This is over my pay grade, and I can’t help him.

He shoved down the words. Again.

But they still rattled around in his brain.

Enough.

Enough.

E—

The elevator doors opened, and they stepped out.

“Stand over here with me,” he told them, tugging Hannah toward the corner where she would be able to see the guys come off the ice. The crowd noise rose. The buzzer went.

Everything went quiet. But only for a few moments.

Because then the guys came down the hall.

Sticks hit the racks.

They headed for the locker room. The corner he’d chosen meant that they could bypass Oliver’s little group, but he knew that most of the guys would stop. Because they were awesome.

And the first one to notice them?

To stop?

Smithy.

Of course, he was.

Who did what Smithy always did—charmed the shit out of everyone around him, including one Hannah St. Claire and her parents. He swept Hannah up into a giant bear hug, lifted her so she could reach the tall ceiling overhead, revealing the not-so-secret secret (at least to anyone who worked down in the bowels of the arena) that he always jumped up and tapped the ceiling for good luck before and after a game.

“Now I’ll have all the good luck,” he said, setting her down.

He reached behind him to undo the tag that kept players’ jerseys in place then whipped it over his head.

A tug and it was dwarfing Hannah.

Who looked like she’d just won the lottery.

At least, until she glanced back at Oliver, her eyes sad. “You’re still my favorite.”

Fuck. This girl was trying to steal his heart. I’m sorry I promised to take him on. This is over my pay grade, and I can’t help him. A breath, eyes stinging, but he managed to smile, to keep his voice light. “I know. But Smithy’s jersey is bigger, so more of the guys can sign it. Then you can take it home and hang it on your wall.”

“I can have it?” she asked with wide eyes, glancing from him to Smithy.

They both nodded.

“Will you sign it extra big, since you’re my favorite?”

I’m sorry I promised to take him on. This is over my pay grade, and I can’t help him.

Deep breath. Let it go.

“Of course, Hannah.” He started to glance around. Usually there was a bucket of Sharpies for just this reason, but before he could really look hard, Smithy was tossing him a pen, and he was crouching to scrawl his name across the back of the jersey. Smithy went next.

To which Hannah slanted a glance at Oliver and whispered, “You’re my favorite, too.”

Smithy’s bright white grin slashed through his thick black beard. “I won’t tell him,” he whispered back.

Marcel came up and signed, ruffling Hannah’s hair, also getting a, “You’re my favorite, too.”

Then Raph and Luca, Martin and Theo. Almost the entire team signed her jersey.

And got “You’re my favorite.”

In the end, the only two players she didn’t get signatures from that night were the ones who were stuck in the PT suite, getting some treatment for injuries.

Theydidn’t get “You’re my favorite.”

Ha.

“Thanks,” he murmured to Smithy, who’d hung around to watch the cuteness.

“Any time.” A pause. “Beers next week?”

I’m sorry I promised to take him on. This is over my pay grade, and I can’t help him.

He closed his eyes, wanting to grab steel plates, to rivet them in place. To block off this feeling.

“Oliver?”

Hannah’s little voice penetrated, and he opened his eyes, saw the happiness and joy on her face. He’d given that to her.

He could give that to Hazel.

To his friends.

“Just a second, honey,” Aimie said, “he’s talking.”

Hannah went quiet.

I’m sorry I promised—

E-fucking-nough.

“Beers,” he said to Smithy, shaking his hand. “I’m in.”

A nod. Relief in his friend’s eyes. “I’ll text you.” Oliver nodded. Then Smithy disappeared into the locker room.

I’m sorry—

No.

No more of that, of that voice and those thoughts.

If he’d stayed in his head, if he’d braced and built those walls back up, if he soldered those heavy steel plates back in place, reinforced them with rebar and concrete, protected them with barbed wire, he would have missed the significance of what happened next.

Namely, his bending down to hear her. “What’s up, Hannah girl?” he asked.

I’m—

She smiled, that huge, the-sun-rose-and-fell-by-her smile, and said, “You’re my favorite-ist.”

And the last of the voice in his head quieted.

Gone.

Done.

Moving forward.