Page 58 of Lucky Puck

“Then if the right girl comes along and you fall in love, you might just fall madly enough to get married.”

“Maybe I’m already in love—with hockey.”

My heart lurches up to my throat for a moment at his declaration, before he clarifies. Because I’m silly enough to think—never mind. I gulp down the stupid fluttering and return to our reasonable, logical discussion. “Romantic love is nothing like hockey love.”

“No. Unlike hockey, when you lose in romantic love, you learn from your mistakes and don’t rush back out the next day to play again. You learn that the price of losing is too high to ever play the game again.”

As he says this, a deep sense of sadness overwhelms me. I’m not sure if I’m sad for him, or if I’m feeling his sadness.

Either way, I get what he’s saying. I’ve been there.

I put my hand over his where it still rests on my thigh. “I had a difficult romantic experience when I was young too.”

His eyebrows lift again in surprise, but he tamps down on his expression right away. “Sorry to hear that, honey—Bianca.” He pauses like he’s not sure—a rarity—if he should say more.

I hold my breath until he does.

“What makes you think I had a difficult romantic experience?”

I shrug, realizing it would be a leap. After all, he was the class heartbreaker. “You’re right. You were on the giving end of the broken hearts, not the receiving end. My mistake.”

I turn away, wishing I could think of a graceful way to change the subject suddenly, but the only thing that leaps to mind is talking about contracts, and I can’t think of a segue between broken hearts and negotiating for a fifteen percent increase on the underwear deal. Or maybe⁠—

“Maybe you weren’t mistaken,” he says gruffly. He lets out a long breath.

“What?” I pause a beat, and he gives me a speculative look. My heart speeds up for no good reason, and I blurt, “Hey, about that underwear deal. You should get more for posing practically naked. I’m going to negotiate for⁠—”

“I don’t mind posing nearly naked. It’s my brand.”

“It was your brand. Now⁠—”

“Shit. That’s right. You’re my so-called wife, and you aren’t supposed to be cool with me showing off my⁠—”

“Right. What were you saying about me not being mistaken?”

He laughs. “Leave it to you to follow up on the details.” He pauses like he’s gathering himself, and I wait, feeling like he’s sharing something he doesn’t normally share, which gives me an inordinate bubble of giddiness. I remind myself this is something sad he’s sharing, and the pinch of guilt and compassion sobers me.

“I did have a difficult romantic experience—a fucking crushed heart when I was fifteen if you want to know the truth. You happy?” He smiles like he’s happy, as if telling me was an accomplishment.

In spite of his smile and the fact that it happened years ago, I can’t get past the idea of him having a crushed heart, and my empathy kicks in like a bad habit I can’t seem to break—which I need to do if I want to succeed with the sharks in this business, or any business.

“I’m not happy at all. I’m sorry. It must have been painful. You were so young.”

“Don’t worry about me. I wasn’t too young to learn fast. Now I’m immune. So I guess it was a good thing to learn early, to get inoculated against the Cupid virus.”

“You see love as a sickness?”

“It’s a fact. They call it lovesick for a good reason, don’t they?”

I nod, and my tummy tumbles like it’s giving a nod of understanding and feeling the connection in every last little tummy cell. I bet it was that girl—woman his sister was talking about—Kara.

“You must have felt it?” he asks with real curiosity, the carefree note gone from his voice.

I nod. “I guess I have.” I try to shrug away the emotions rising in me, threatening to overwhelm me because he looks at me too closely, and I know he’s noticing there’s something deep in my expression. I can feel the gravity of attraction right down to my flickering eyelashes, and I don’t mean physical attraction. I feel a real honest connection with him, like he’s not from another universe after all.

“Looks like we have more than hockey in common.” Brody flashes a boyish grin, deepening his dimple. His pleased expression looks genuine. I almost hiccup with nerves—the excited kind.

Holy hockey boy. I could be in trouble.