"Two weeks?!" Spencer demands through a mouthful of sandwich at the Anarchy Café.

"I'm on the bubble for the NHL contract," I remind him again.

Really, I should be stoked. Most minor-league kids don't get pulled to their major-league affiliates. It just so happens a Buffalo player blew out his shoulder and I'm the operative forward until he's medically cleared. I lose the Cyclones but get big-time play again with my old teammates.

"Fuck, Bas," Spencer moodily slams his coffee down. "That leaves us down two players! No way we'll be able to cinch that up while you're gone!"

He's been a bit over-dramatic. I mean, we've been back from Kalamazoo for several days now. I've managed to play captain and capture a decent amount of respect from the guys while Spencer's been nursing that sprained knee. Technically, he'll be good to go come the end of next week, just after Christmas, and we don't play a lot of games until after the holiday. He'll be back on the ice before the new year, and then I'll take my place at his side.

"Hey now," Kaila drops by to offer Spencer another sandwich. "That cup didn't do anything to deserve that man-handling."

"Sorry, Blue." Spencer grabs Kaila around the hips and gives her a tight squeeze. "I just found out my assistant-captain and best left wing is going to be stationed in Montreal for a few months."

I roll my eyes. "A few weeks." I correct.

Technically, I'll be in Buffalo running drills and then going to Montreal for games. They don't need me for long, just enough to see Erikkson through his injury. After that I'm back on the Cyclones' roster, kicking us toward the Kelly Cup.

Cakewalk, really.

Except the concept of travel and fresh faces doesn't quite have the same allure it did mere months ago. Before I had a lust for challenge and change. Now all I can think about is the long days of not having Reece I in my arms.

Kaila perches herself on Spencer's lap. "Does Reecie know, yet?"

Get out of my head. "I just found out after morning skate."

She eyes the small bouquet of white lilies and yellow roses resting at my hip. "Is that why you got her flowers?"

"No," I say honestly. "I just wanted to do something nice."

Kaila purses her lips. "Aww!"

"Probably wants to thank her for rocking his world." Spencer taunts.

Her green eyes grow wide and she claps with glee. "Bas! That's awesome!"

"Reece is a little firecracker. You should have seen the marks on him this morning – ow!" He grabs where I just jabbed his shin with my heel. "Fuck, Bas! That's my bad leg!"

I can't exactly kick his ass with Kaila acting as a shield. "Oops." I simper. "Forgot."

Kaila runs her hand through his hair and I swear he purrs. Winking at me, she says, "I think it's adorable."

"Thanks?" I try not to make it sound like a question.

The flowers were just a little statement to let Reece know I was thinking about her, add some color to her week. Of course, I had to ask Mia what to get after she shot down my suggestions of red roses or a purple orchid. "Too passionate," my sister had said. "You'll scare the poor girl off. Go with something simple, but provocative."

...when the fuck did flowers get so complicated?

The door opens to a cascade of UC students. Kaila pecks Spencer on the cheek before joining Lukas behind the counter to take orders. I stand and head toward the Wall of Expression.

What started out as an accidental prank has become a mild form of flirting. Reece writes something dark, challenges me to change her mind, upend the wicked thoughts like Jack Skellington upended Christmas. "Fairy jizz and unicorn farts." Her words, not mine.

What happens when everything falls apart?

Except instead of my normally empty space and myriad of Sharpies, I'm faced with a newcomer. His nearly platinum blond hair is gelled back where he stands in burgundy corduroy trousers. A white tucked button-down and a black sports jacket over a hoodie complete his ensemble. His pants are so tight my dick would have to go inside my body like a dog's.

Steely blue eyes survey the Wall, fixate on the latest phrase. For whatever reason, that makes me bristle. It's not even jealousy. Something just doesn't sit right in me about this dude.

I clear my throat to make myself known. When the blue-eyed stranger turns, I offer a tepid smile. "Hey."

"Hello," he greets with a grin and haughty British accent. His eyes, however, remain dead as a shark's. "Didn't see you there, sorry."

"No trouble, eh?" I offer on a shrug, glance to the Sharpies. "You going to add something?"

"I think not," he muses, gaze dipping from me to Reece's newest phrase. "I simply came to admire the...artistry."

The way he says that last word is like he's addressing a piece of dog shit stuck to his shoe.

I shove my hands in my pockets. "Not really your thing?"

"You might say so," he shrugs, tilts his head as he regards me. "You're that hockey player."

I cock a brow. "One of many."

Since playing on the team and attending charity functions, it's not abnormal to be recognized. Especially by die-hard fans. I'm a former NHL player, after all.

Something about the way he says that hockey player unsettles me. Like I'm the one special enough to earn the malicious way his lip curls into a smile.

"Killfeather, right?" The stranger asks.

"Yeah," I reply. "Didn't catch your name."

"No," he pulls leather gloves from his pockets and slides them on. "You didn't."

What a fucking douche-canoe.

"Right," I offer slowly. "Well, you have a nice night."

He regards me like I'm an unsolicited hawker. Then the stranger gives a terse nod, pulls his hat and hood up before sauntering out the door. I don't even think he bought anything.

I roll my shoulders, try and shake off the intense feeling of unease. Focusing back on the wall, I roll up my sleeves and get to work.

Smirking to myself, I take up an abandoned canister of spray paint and an emptied cardboard six-pack. Guarding her phrase against mine, I spray the obnoxious highlighter pink across the brick façade. Once dried, I attack with Sharpie, making it so our words fall into alignment like a Tetris board.

What happens when it all comes together?

I just stand back to admire my work when Reece comes in from the side door. Hanging up her winter jacket, she slips on her apron and stands beside me at the Wall. Hands in her pockets, she purses her lips and gives a vague, if approving, nod.

"Nice," she declares.

"What?" I tease, nuzzle against the clean eucalyptus smell of her hair. "No complaints about the douchebag raining glitter and rainbows over your pity party?"

"I've had a change of heart," she confesses, turning into my embrace.

She's small enough her brow barely reaches my sternum. Still, memories flood me of her in lacy lingerie, letting go of her inhibitions, trusting me. I'm half-hard and all I've done is share space with her.

God, I have it bad.

"It's because I'm so fucking cute," I tease.

She slaps me lightly across the face. "It's because you're ridiculous."

I lean in a meet her lips with a quiet snick. Nothing is quiet inside me, however. I thrum at her closeness, the feel of her soft body in my arms.

"Reagan!" Spencer roars from across the café, startling more than a few UC students and jerking Lukas's attention. "Tell him he can't disappear for two weeks!"

Reece turns those amazing brown eyes to me. "Disappear?"

"He's being dramatic." I wave Spencer off. "I'm just going to be on the line for Buffalo during their match against Montreal."

Her brows raise, clearly impressed. "Isn't that a big deal?"

Something thrills in me at her attention. We walk back to the sofa Spencer occupies. "Yeah, ma belle."

A comely flush rises to her cheeks. "So why's your boyfriend so bent out of shape?"

"Damn, Reagan!" Spencer drawls, injured knee propped up on the coffee table. "You gonna do me like that?"

Reece shrugs and wrinkles her nose adorably at him. "If the shoe fits."

I pluck up the flowers from where they rested on the sofa, offer them to her. "For you."

A strange play of emotion trickles across her face. Surprise, confusion, and finally joy. She takes them in her hands, admires the blooms.

"These are...wow." She murmurs, still shocked. "You didn't have to."

"I wanted to," I assure her.

Her brows knit. "Why?"

I lean in close, tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, and whisper so Spencer won't hear. "Because I can't stop thinking about you. I wanted to give you something to remind you of that."

Reece flushes scarlet. "Oh."

I plant a slow, lingering kiss on those delectable lips. I don't care that we're in public, that her father has a front-row view of my display of affection. I love this girl, and I need her to know it.

"Come with me," I blurt.

Reece looks as stunned as I feel. "What?"

"To Montreal," I clarify. "For Christmas and New Year's. I'll be staying with my family, so you don't have to worry about hotel costs."

She blinks. "Your family?"

Wow.

Way to not rush into this, Bas. Having the girl of your dreams meet the family?

"They'll love you," I reassure her, knowing the dark paths her mind takes. The last time she went out of the country for a guy....

Reece casts her eyes about the café. "I don't know. I don't have schoolwork, but Dad – "

"Will be just fine without you," Lukas declares. I don't know when he stepped away from the counter, but he sidles up alongside Reece, drops a hand on his daughter's shoulder. Beaming between the two of us, he coaxes the flowers from her hands. "These are lovely, Bastien, thank you. I'll go put them in water."

She glowers at her father. "Really?"

"They need water, Reecie-cup."

A dramatic eye-roll. "The dude invited me to see his family. Out of the country?" She clarifies.

"You could use a vacation," Lukas replies mildly, grins at me. "I'm sure his kinfolk are lovely."

"Don't people usually go someplace warm in the winter?" She bites back, fingers toying with the sleeves of her hoodie.

"I'm sure you'll survive," he chuckles.

"B-but," she stutters. "The holidays! You'll be alone for Christmas."

"Um, no!" Kaila barks. "Spence and I will be there."

My teammate suddenly looks shy. "Yeah. Thanks for the invite, Mr. Reagan."

"My pleasure," Lukas beams at him, eyes bright where they drift between Spencer and Kaila.

Reece looks down at the ground, worries her lip and hands.

I sense the darker seed in her hesitation, draw her close to me. The last time she went out of the country she almost lost her life. I need her to know I'm not that man, these aren't those circumstances. My family has and always will be a part of me. Having her there too? I've never wanted anything more.

Small hands splay on my chest. I glide my thumb subtly over the scar on her belly, beneath her hoodie where nobody will see.

"Look," I reason gently, "Nobody's forcing you to stay or go. You can show up whenever and leave anytime you want." Then I press a kiss to her temple because I can't help it. "You're your own woman, Reece."

Confliction wars in her gaze. Something longing, something scarred, and something excited pass through her eyes where I hold her. Those small hands don't leave where they touch me, but neither do they cling for fear or desperation.

"I'll keep you safe," I promise.

The same words I've sworn since we met. No darkness. No nightmares. Only hope.

A long moment of silence passes where we just stare into each other's eyes. I see the battle, watch her fight her fear. And I'm so damn proud of her.

"Okay," she announces, finally. "What should I pack?"

**

I bust my ass the week before Christmas. Drills and practices blur together while I hustle and work to make my time in Buffalo count. I find a decent rhythm with guys I used to spar with. The Captain with the chip on his shoulder is out of the picture, though I can only speculate the causes. It's been a few months since O'Rourke iced me. The team and I still have history.

Game-day, the first several shifts are hard-fought against Montreal. We don't manage to create any scoring chances. The defenseman does an excellent job of not letting me in. I make sure to thoroughly punish them for it, only draw a few minor penalties for roughing. Montreal's defense hits harder than they let on. Good thing, too. Their goalie is seriously lacking. Word in the press is that the poor guy has two bad knees – a career-ender for a hockey player. Not to mention he's ancient by NHL standards at thirty-six.

I'm only a little bit sorry to help Buffalo beat my hometown in a sloppy overtime round of 3-2. The away crowd cheers us loudly, hooping and hollering on our side of the ice while Montreal looks on grudgingly. Dragged down the chute in a sea of blue jerseys, I get clapped on the shoulder and tapped on the helmet with cries of victory from the team.

I'm surprised when I come out of the shower to find a petite dread-headed woman with pretty brown skin standing in the locker room amid a bunch of towel-clad hockey players. It's not unheard of for the press to be allowed access after games, regardless of gender. A few of the guys are getting hit for sound bites as they get dressed before the holidays.

The woman's lips curve into a smile as she sees me. "Bastien Killfeather."

Shit. I wasn't expecting to have any attention. Too bad getting kicked to the minors and suddenly brought back for a cinch win is bound to draw attention. Dammit.

Grabbing the towel around my waist, I offer my most charming smile. And, since we're in Montreal, "Oui, mademoiselle."

She introduces herself in perfect French as Jolet Montai. On a brisk handshake, she clarifies that she represents some online sports blog. "I was hoping I could get a bit of an insight into your place here in Buffalo."

"Alright," I put my back to her, yank my boxer briefs on underneath my towel before I drop it. I'll feel a lot better having this conversation clothed.

"Your career hasn't quite been a meteoric rise to the top." Jolet begins, her phone out to record our conversation.

I laugh. "No – more like a roller coaster."

She gives a brief synopsis of my ups and downs through college, NHL, and minor affiliate clubs. How I was drafted young, played hard, and partied harder. I don't correct her on any of it – a Google search shows as much.

"Now you're scoring against your hometown." Jolet muses. "Funny how life changes."

I zip up my hoodie, shake some dampness out of my hair. "Indeed."

"Do you think your struggle to find major league placement has anything to do with your racial background?"

Wow, we're going there.

"Not at all," I declare in a blasé tone, refusing to make my mixed heritage an issue. "The league looks for ability, regardless of race, sexuality, or creed. Sometimes there are stars brighter than mine, and that's okay."

Her lips thin at that. "You don't think that the minors are a place to hole up black players?"

"I think the minors are a place to hone talent," I reply. "Repetition and practice beget skills. The more games under your belt, the better. Major league or not. Our goalie for the Cyclones, Dante Johnson, is black. He's gone from good to virtuosic this season alone. I totally expect him to make the list after training camps next year."

"Dante Johnson," she repeats. "I'll make sure to look for him."

"You do that." I shove my hands in my pockets. "Anything else? My family's waiting for me outside."

"One more thing," she simpers. "HockeyHunks.com has stipulated that you're no longer on the market."

I feel a flutter in my chest. "They'd be correct."

Jolet's eyes widen. "Who's the lucky girl?"

"I'm the lucky man," I correct, then step past her. "You have a nice evening."

Outside the locker room, Mama immediately embraces me with spine-cracking enthusiasm.

"MON FILS!" She bellows so loudly that everyone stops and stares. "OH I'VE MISSED YOU SO MUCH!"

I swear my eardrums are blown. "Missed you, too, Mama."

"Etta." Papa nods at me from behind her in his quiet, supportive way. "Give him some air."

"MY BABY!"

Mia and Leo, the twins, yank me into hugs next. Sacha, my eldest brother, claps my shoulder and Claude punches me in the arm.

"Where're Noelle and her offspring?" I ask, peering around at the deep caramel faces for my eldest sister and her twin boys.

"She and Jack are heading down tomorrow. He had some last-minute business thing before the holidays." Papa offers, clasping my hand to get his own embrace in. "You have bags?"

"A few. I've got them." I won't be heading out with the team back to Buffalo. Thankfully the equipment managers handle my gear, so I don't need to lug it through the airports.

En mass, we exit the arena. Everyone fires a million questions at once – how am I liking The States, how's the new team, what trouble have I gotten into, and am I getting enough to eat. That last one, of course, is Mama and Mia. All the women in my family have Rubenesque figures and a love language of food.

It's a loud, joyful reunion. Once all eight of us are safely crowded into my childhood Dorval duplex, Canadian whiskey gets poured and everyone settles in front of our wood-burning fireplace, watching the snowfall outside.

A few things have changed since Thanksgiving. Sacha, still recovering from his and his husband's divorce, remains subdued. Mia and Leo are thrilled about the potential of their bakery/bar, and Claude has gotten a steady rotation of patients for therapy sessions.

"So, Bastien," Mama's smile is huge on her dark face. "Tell us about the girl we're meeting tomorrow."

"Right?!" Mia gushes. "I've been stalking the hell out of all your social media. Not one picture of you two together! Just hockey BS. Why does Claude get to see her and not us?"

Ever since the draw-off, I've been very careful about what gets posted. I even got Allan on board to avoid the follow-up about a dinner date.

"She's camera-shy." My smile is tight as I reply. "She's kinda shy in general."

"Is she, now?" Claude's hazel eyes flash with knowing. I forget how weirdly intuitive my closest sister can be.

Leo guffaws, "We'll break her out of her shell."

Papa grunts. "Easy. Not all of us are loud and rambunctious."

"Oh Mitch," Mama pats his cheek affectionately from where she's draped across his lap. They look as cuddly as a Hallmark movie. It's almost gross. "Even a sourpuss like you came around."

He presses a chaste kiss to her lips. "You seduced me."

"Get a room," groans Sacha.

"Prude." Claude tosses her lavender hair over her shoulder, leers at our brother. "I, for one, am happy that our parents have a healthy sex life. Even after thirty-two years of marriage and six kids."

"Can we never use the terms 'parents' and 'sex life' in the same sentence? Ever." Leo blanches.

"Yes, let's talk about Baby Bas's." Mia giggles, flushed from her whiskey.

"Mia!" I scold dramatically and nod toward Mama and Papa, not giving her the satisfaction of embarrassing me. "Not in front of the children!"

Sacha just laughs. "Please tell me she's not from your – what do they call themselves? – Bastien Brigade?"

"No," I chuckle. "She's in college for graphic arts. Fucking talented, too."

"Baby Bas going for the broody artistic type." Leo teases. "Who knew?"

The fire burns low as my family grills me about Reece. I tell them the parts I can – how we met, our game of drawing on the Wall of Expression. They're all eager to meet her tomorrow. Just like I'm eager to see her.

It's been a week of text messages and FaceTime calls between practices, classes, work, and games. Christmas Eve can't come soon enough.

I send off a brief goodnight text to Reece before I crawl into my old bunk bed in the room I shared with Claude as kids. She peers down at me from the top bunk, a satisfied smile on her lips.

"What?"

My sister sighs wistfully. "You're in love with this girl, aren't you?"

Great. A few hours back home, I'm getting dragged back into the girly sleep-over mode with my big sister.

"Yeah," I admit, because there's no point denying it to Claude. "I am."

She makes a curious noise in her throat. "Have you told her?"

There's a weird flop in my stomach. "No."

"Why not?"

"I..." Words fail me.

I'm not scared by the concept of love. Hell, I've been surrounded by it my whole life. Commitment hasn't really been my thing, but I'm looking to change that. There's a place for me on the Cyclones if I don't make it back into the majors. I make good money, can be a good partner.

So what's the problem?

Claude answers before I do. "She's not ready to hear it."

I meet her hazel eyes, the ones that match mine. "Yeah," I admit after a beat.

"Oh Bas," she sighs like she can feel my pain. Hell, maybe she can. "Who hurt her?"

The blackness of anger gnaws at the pleasant buzz the whiskey induced. I feel myself scowl, work my tongue ring against spewing the seething fury at Asher fucking Bryce. I never had much of a poker face.

"Not really my story to tell," I growl instead.

Claude doesn't speak. She doesn't have to. The silence cocoons me, encourages me to find words. No wonder she's so damn good with her patients.

"I just don't want her to hurt anymore," I mutter. "I don't want her to hear the words from me and remember...I can't handle it if she hears him when I say it."

That's what it really is. The nightmares are fewer, but they still come. It hurts when her eyes grow cold and empty, her face terrified. She always comes back to me, though. Slowly, but surely, she's growing brighter.

"Oh Bastien," Claude murmurs. "You can't take her pain for her. Hard as you try, you can't."

It's the truth, but it stings.

My sister chuckles. "You've been doing that your whole life, you know."

"What?"

"Protecting, guarding, defending." She suggests. "'The best defense is a great offense', or something like that."

"I understand more than sports allegories."

"Whatever," she scoffs. "You don't know how to handle anything you can't put your fist into. But you can't just beat down the demons and take the punishment for her. That has to come from Reece."

I scrub my hand through my hair. "I know."

Claude yawns, finally withdraws from peering down at me. "Get some sleep, Bas. Tomorrow's a new day."