16. Connor

As we made our way back to the car, I caught sight of a couple of guys entering the farm. Their gaze landed on me, and I saw the flicker of recognition spark in their eyes. My gut tightened, an instinctive response to the familiar signs of an impending confrontation. I steeled myself, hoping to avoid any unnecessary drama, especially with Brooke by my side.

"Hey, aren"t you Fury Bradley?" one of them called out, a hint of mockery lacing his tone.

His companion, smirking, added fuel to the fire. "What"re you doing with a little schoolgirl?" The disdain in his voice was palpable, and I felt Brooke tense beside me.

I attempted to sidestep them, my reply strained with politeness I didn"t feel. "Just passing through," I said, trying to keep the situation from escalating. But they weren"t inclined to let it go so easily, stepping in to block our path.

"Didn"t you just get divorced?" the first man pressed on, his tone bordering on invasive. "Heard you"re washed up now."

My fingers curled into fists at my sides, the urge to retaliate surging within me. Despite everything—the efforts to remain patient, to be better—I wasn"t in the mood to be mocked or judged, especially not in front of Brooke. The last thing I wanted was to revert to the violence that had so often defined my past, but the taunts grated against my resolve, threatening to unleash the fury I"d worked so hard to contain.

Before I could even formulate a response, Brooke stepped forward, her voice cutting through the tension with unexpected fierceness. "Why don"t you mind your own business?" she snapped, her eyes flashing with defiance. "He"s more of a man than either of you could hope to be."

I was taken aback by her defense, surprise momentarily overtaking my anger. It was a side of Brooke I hadn"t seen before, and in that instance, my respect for her deepened.

However, her intervention seemed to only shift their focus and malice onto her. "Look at that, the little girl thinks she can talk back," one of the men said with a sneer, a disgusting grin spreading across his face. "What, is she your bodyguard now, Bradley?"

"More like a tight little pussy for him to fuck," the second one said. "A puck slut."

Their words, their derision aimed at Brooke, ignited something within me I hadn"t felt in a long time. It was one thing to endure their insults directed at me, but it was another thing entirely to hear them talk that way about her.

Without another thought, I lunged at them, my fists connecting with flesh and bone. Every punch thrown, every hit I took, was fueled by a surge of protectiveness for Brooke and a simmering rage against the unwarranted attack on her. I was aware, somewhere in the back of my mind, that this was not the way to handle the situation. Even so, I couldn"t bring myself to stop. The need to protect Brooke, to defend her honor and my own, overrode any semblance of restraint I had left.

Just as my anger reached its peak, a firm hand clamped down on my shoulder, pulling me back with surprising force. A worker from the farm had intervened, his grip strong as he attempted to separate us from the escalating confrontation.

Brooke"s voice broke through the chaos, urgent and protective. "He was just defending me," she explained hastily. "They were harassing us, and?—"

"Such a good little bitch, aren"t you?" the first man said, blood dribbling down his chin. "How quick you bend over for him. It's what you're good at, isn't it?"

The insult pierced through the thin veneer of control I had been struggling to maintain. Without a second thought, I swung at him again, my fist connecting with his mocking face.

Before I could get in another punch, Brooke grabbed my elbow. "We"re going," she declared firmly, pulling me away with a strength that surprised me. "We"re going." Her insistence was the anchor I needed, pulling me back from the edge of losing myself completely to the fury that threatened to consume me.

She led me to the car, her grip tight and unyielding. As we walked away, a torrent of anger still raged within me, my fingers trembling from the adrenaline and the aftermath of the fight. Despite the anger, there was a numbness to the pain, a distant awareness of the physical toll the confrontation had taken on my body.

Once we were inside the car, the door closed with a finality that seemed to seal us away from the altercation we"d left behind. My breathing was heavy, the rush of the fight slowly ebbing away, leaving a cold, hollow feeling in its wake. Brooke"s presence beside me was the only constant, a silent testament to the complex bond that had formed between us amidst the chaos of our intertwined lives.

I started the car; the engine coming to life with a rumble that momentarily filled the silence between us. Brooke turned to me, eyes burning. "What the hell was that?" she demanded.

I refused to meet her gaze, staring stubbornly ahead at the road. "I don"t know what you"re talking about," I muttered, an obvious lie even to my own ears.

"Don"t act stupid," she pressed, her voice firm. "You"re not. What the hell was that?"

At a red light, I finally allowed myself to look at her, really look at her. The intensity of her eyes forced a moment of honesty I wasn"t prepared for. After a brief pause, I diverted my gaze, the weight of the confrontation still heavy on my shoulders.

"No one is allowed to say that stuff about you," I admitted quietly.

"Who cares what they say?" Brooke dismissed, her attention briefly dropping to the hem of her skirt.

"I do," I confessed, the admission coming easier than I expected. "You"re with me. I care what they say. They need to know they can"t speak that way about you."

"Even if it"s true?" she asked, her tone laced with sarcasm.

I couldn"t hide the irritation that flashed through me. "Don"t say that," I snapped, the idea of her belittling herself grating on me more than I cared to admit.

"It"s the truth," she countered, a stubborn defiance in her voice.

"You didn"t have to defend me," I pointed out. "That was never part of the contract. And yet, you did. Why?"

She turned away then, her hair falling forward to obscure her face, a barrier she erected between us. The question hung in the air, unanswered.

"Why?" I pressed, unable to let it go.

"Are you ordering me to tell you?" she asked, her voice barely more than a whisper.

"I would hope I wouldn"t have to," I replied, the silence stretching between us.

The moment revealed more than just the remnants of a fight; it uncovered a depth of feeling and concern that went beyond the confines of our arrangement, hinting at a connection that neither of us was fully prepared to acknowledge.

"What they were saying about you...it was awful," Brooke said in a low voice, her gaze fixed somewhere beyond the windshield, away from me. Her words were laced with an earnestness that caught me off guard. "It"s not fair. I know you"re a pest, a rat, whatever they want to call you when you're on the ice. But everyone knows that if you were on whatever team they supported, they would love you."

I shrugged, a gesture more for myself than for her, given she wasn"t looking at me. "It"s the nature of the beast," I replied, trying to maintain a veneer of indifference. "I can"t complain."

"You can," she countered, her voice firm. "What Detroit did to you...It"s not fair." The mention of Detroit stiffened my spine, a topic I had long avoided and buried deep. Her acknowledgment of the situation, the injustice of it, piqued a curiosity I had been suppressing. Was she finally ready to admit the truth about how Detroit found out?

"I"m sorry for what happened to you, Bradley," she continued, her gaze finally meeting mine. The sincerity in her eyes was unsettling. "It wasn"t fair. You had a legacy. You were a shoo-in for the NHL Hall of Fame. And now, we don"t even know if you"ll be indicted, all because..." She hesitated, and I found myself holding my breath, waiting. "Do you regret it?"

"Regret what?" I managed, my voice barely above a whisper.

"It," she said simply, her voice trailing off as if afraid to give voice to the specifics of my fall from grace.

Before I could formulate a response, I pulled up to my driveway, the automatic gesture to push the button and open the garage offering a brief escape from the intensity of our conversation.

"Why don"t you go in first before anyone sees you," I suggested, a practical solution to avoid any further speculation from nosy neighbors or unwanted attention.

Brooke looked as though she might argue, her instinct to challenge me almost palpable. But then, surprisingly, she nodded, grabbing her book bag and heading into the house through the garage without another word. Her compliance left me alone with my thoughts, a rare moment of solitude that felt both liberating and confining.

As I sat there, engine idling, I couldn"t shake the weight of her words, the genuine concern and empathy she had shown. After ensuring Brooke had made her way inside safely, I pulled the pickup into the garage, the overhead door rumbling shut behind me. I hopped out and approached the back, bracing myself for the task ahead.

I grabbed the massive fir tree we had chosen and pulled it inside. The tree was heavy, its branches brushing against me as I maneuvered it through the garage and into the house. I couldn"t help but wonder at the absurdity of the purchase. The thing was enormous, and the thought of cleaning up the inevitable mess of needles that would scatter across the floor already felt like a pain in the ass.

"Over here," Brooke called out as I entered the living room. She was pointing to a corner on the left side of the mantle, where she had already set up the Christmas tree stand in anticipation.

Together, we awkwardly shuffled and maneuvered the unwieldy fir into the stand, a process that required a bit of struggle and a lot of coordination.

"Go tell me if it"s straight," I instructed her once the tree was somewhat securely in place. "And hurry up about it." I held the tree steady, waiting for her verdict.

"You need to move it to the left," she directed after a moment"s inspection.

I adjusted the tree accordingly.

"A little more," she added.

Again, I complied, shifting the tree slightly.

"A little—" she started, but I was running out of patience.

"Westwood," I barked, my tone bordering on impatience.

"Perfect!" she suddenly exclaimed, her voice bright with satisfaction. "Come see."

Reluctantly, I stepped back, viewing our handiwork from a distance. Despite my initial reservations and the hassle I expected, there was a sense of accomplishment in seeing the tree standing there, a testament to our collective effort. The living room felt transformed, the fir standing tall and proud, ready to be adorned with lights and decorations. It was a slight moment of harmony, a rare instance where the chaos that seemed to follow us paused, allowing us a glimpse of something simpler, something normal.

"Now, we just have to get decorations," Brooke said with a grin.

"You have to tell me what you"ll give me for those," I reminded her, the memory of our earlier exchange hanging between us.

I lifted my hand to brush a stray strand of hair from her face, and I couldn"t help but notice the way she shivered at the contact. The realization that I could elicit such a response from her filled me with both satisfaction and a deeper, more unsettling feeling I wasn"t ready to examine.

Suddenly, her expression shifted to one of concern, and without warning, she frowned, grabbing my hand firmly. "Let me check your hands," she declared, not waiting for my consent as she pulled me towards the kitchen, muttering about the poor lighting in the living room.

We sat side by side at the kitchen bar, the intimacy of the moment underscored by the quiet of the house. Brooke took my hands in hers, her fingers gentle yet purposeful. Compared to her hands, mine felt rough and oversized. She examined my knuckles carefully—the redness and swelling a testament to the fight, along with a couple of cuts that had started to form. The damage was minor, all things considered, but her concern was palpable.

"You shouldn"t have done that," she admonished, her voice soft but firm.

"A thank you would be nice," I muttered.

"I didn"t ask for this," she replied, her tone steady. "I can take care of myself."

"You"ve had to do that a while, haven"t you?"

Brooke clenched her teeth, a clear sign she wasn"t pleased with the direction of the conversation, but she chose not to respond verbally. Instead, she focused on my hands, her attention dedicated to assessing the extent of the damage. Her silence spoke volumes, hinting at a resilience and self-reliance that was both admirable and heartbreakingly clear. As she cared for my hands, the barrier between us seemed to thin, a moment of vulnerability and care that neither of us had expected, yet there we were, connected in a way that defied easy explanation.

Brooke abruptly stood, her movements fluid and assured, as she made her way to the freezer. Watching her navigate my kitchen with such ease, I couldn"t help but feel a sense of satisfaction at how comfortably she fit into this space, this slice of my world. It was a thought I wanted to revel in, yet almost instantly, I found myself wanting to reject it, to push away the implications of her familiarity here.

She returned with an ice pack in hand, her demeanor practical yet caring. "Put this on your hands to reduce the swelling," she instructed, handing me the pack. Her voice carried a mix of concern and exasperation as she added, "I know you already know this, but I also know you can be a dumbass and refuse to take care of yourself. So. Just do it."

"Is that an order?" I asked, half-teasing, half-serious, curious to see how she"d respond to the challenge in my voice.

She sighed, a sound that conveyed both frustration and resignation, before she turned and headed back to the living room, leaving me alone with the ice pack and her advice echoing in my ears.

I watched her go, a small smirk playing on my lips, appreciating her assertiveness and the care behind her words. Despite my initial reluctance to heed her advice, I found myself wrapping the ice pack around my knuckles, the cold bite of it a stark contrast to the warmth spreading through me at her concern. Brooke"s presence in my house, her easy command over my space and even over me, was something I had never thought would happen, yet there I was, following her orders. It was a dynamic that intrigued and unsettled me in equal measure, a balance of power and care that we were still navigating.