17. Brooke

The next morning, I woke to the unexpected warmth of Bradley"s arm draped over me, his breath a gentle rhythm against the nape of my neck. Turning cautiously, not wanting to disturb him, I took the opportunity to study his face in the quiet of dawn. In sleep, Connor seemed years younger, the lines of stress and the weight of his reputation smoothed away. His features had that same rugged handsomeness he had when I first saw him two years ago—sharp jawline, strong cheekbones, and the faint shadow of a beard. The morning light softened his expression, revealing a vulnerability seldom seen during waking hours. It was a side of him that few were privy to, a stark contrast to the tough exterior he presented to the world.

A sudden tightness clenched in my chest, an unwelcome admission that my feelings for him might be deepening. But as quickly as the thought emerged, I forced it away, unwilling to confront the implications just yet. With a careful motion, I pulled myself from his embrace, the cool air of the room wrapping around me as I left the warmth of the bed behind.

I began my morning routine in silence, pulling on my uniform with mechanical precision. The familiarity of the fabric, the emblem of my day-to-day life, anchored me back to reality, to the roles we both played in this complicated arrangement. Descending the stairs, I moved towards the kitchen, driven by the need for the normalcy of brewing coffee and preparing breakfast.

The quiet hum of the house enveloped me as I filled the coffeemaker and set about making a simple breakfast. Each action, from slicing bread to scrambling eggs, felt meditative, a way to center myself after the turmoil of emotions stirred by the morning"s awakening. The aroma of coffee filled the air, a comforting reminder of the day ahead, of the need to focus on the present and push aside the burgeoning feelings that threatened to upend the precarious balance I had managed to maintain.

As I sat down with my breakfast, the silence of the house was both companion and witness to the conflicting emotions within me. It was a moment of pause, a breath taken before diving back into the depths of an arrangement that was becoming increasingly difficult to navigate with indifference.

In search of some background noise to fill the quiet of the kitchen, I turned on the TV, flicking through channels until a familiar scene caught my attention. The screen displayed the Christmas tree farm we had visited, and my heart sank as I recognized one of the men from yesterday"s altercation. He was being interviewed by a local news reporter, and the caption beneath him branded Connor as the aggressor in a violent incident.

"I was just minding my own business, you know, enjoying a day out with my family at the farm," the man claimed, his face a picture of innocence betrayed. "Out of nowhere, Connor Bradley comes charging at me, starts throwing punches. I didn"t even say anything to him. It was completely unprovoked."

My mouth dropped open in disbelief. The audacity of his lie was staggering.

The man spun a tale of victimhood with practiced ease, painting Connor as a loose cannon who attacked without cause. "All I did was ask for a photo, and he lost it," he continued, shaking his head as if bewildered by the violence of the encounter. "I know he just got divorced, but, I mean, what if I had been a kid, you know? I"ve always known he was trouble, but to see it firsthand... It"s shocking, really."

The interview wrapped up with the reporter expressing sympathy for the man"s supposed ordeal, promising to follow up on the story as it developed. The whole segment was a fabrication, a distortion of the truth designed to vilify Connor in the court of public opinion.

As the TV screen transitioned to another story, Connor appeared at the foot of the stairs, oblivious to the character assassination that had just unfolded in his absence. My mind raced, trying to plan the best way to break the news to him, to prepare him for the backlash that would inevitably follow. The knot in my stomach tightened, a mix of anger at the injustice of the situation and concern for Connor, who was about to face a new storm that wasn't his fault.

Connor's presence commanded even in the early morning quiet. He was dressed impeccably in a suit that seemed to mold perfectly to his frame, the fabric dark and rich, a stark contrast to the soft light filtering through the kitchen windows. He was adjusting his cufflinks, a gesture of refinement and routine, seemingly unperturbed by the turmoil that awaited him beyond the walls of his home.

In a desperate attempt to shield him from the news story, I flipped the channel, only to be met with his ex-wife on the NHL Network. She was discussing the latest "Fury Bradley controversy" which happened to be the alleged assault at the Christmas tree farm.

"Honestly, I"m not surprised," she said, her tone dripping with feigned concern and barely concealed satisfaction. "This is just who he is. I wouldn"t be surprised if he stooped so low as to sleep with his students in his own classroom."

Hearing her words, a wave of anger and upset washed over me. It was one thing to attack Connor, but to insinuate such things crossed a line. Before I could react further, Connor reached out and turned off the television, cutting off his ex-wife"s venomous tirade. He brushed by me to pour himself some coffee, an island of calm in the storm her words had conjured.

"How do you do that?" I found myself asking, unable to hide my confusion and admiration. "How are you just unbothered by what people say about you, especially when it"s a lie?"

His back was to me as he prepared his coffee, the simple domestic act contrasting the complexity of the situation. I waited for his response, the silence between us stretching, filled with unspoken questions and the weight of a reputation that refused to leave him in peace.

Connor"s response was stoic, a testament to the thick skin he"d developed over the years. "It doesn"t bother me," he said, his voice even and devoid of emotion. "I never cared what people thought about me, and I don"t plan to start now. They"re going to believe whatever they want." He turned to face me then, taking a long sip of his coffee, his gaze piercing. "Notice how they haven"t reached out for my side of the story but they"ll go to my ex? They don"t care about the truth."

"But... but that"s wrong," I insisted, unable to accept his resignation to the situation.

Connor simply shrugged, an action that seemed to convey a lifetime of indifference to public perception. "I"m used to it," he stated plainly.

"That doesn"t make it right," I snapped back, frustration propelling me to stand up and walk around the kitchen island to put my empty bowl in the sink. The injustice of it all, the casual dismissal of his character based on unfounded accusations, was infuriating.

Compelled by a need to offer some form of comfort, I took Connor"s hand in mine, my gaze dropping to his knuckles. "How do you feel?" I asked, my voice softening as I examined the redness and swelling. He didn"t pull away, and for that, I was grateful. I couldn"t bring myself to look up at him, aware of a blush creeping up my cheeks for reasons I couldn"t quite articulate.

"Your knuckles look like shit," I muttered. The moment felt strangely intimate, a shared concern over his well-being momentarily bridging the gap that the world"s perceptions had placed between us.

"You know, you can"t just go around fighting every time someone says something you don"t like," I began, my voice taking on a lecturing tone I hadn"t intended to use. "It"s not just about you. There are consequences, and?—"

Connor interrupted me, using his other hand to cup my cheek, his thumb tracing my bottom lip softly. "I"d do it again," he told me, his gaze holding mine with an intensity that sent a shiver down my spine.

My mouth went dry, and words failed me. I didn"t know how to respond to such a raw, unguarded admission, so I chose silence. Instead, I redirected the conversation to a safer topic. "Just ice your hands again," I advised, trying to regain my composure. "They look better than yesterday, and that"s saying something."

"What, you"re a doctor now?" he teased, the lightness in his voice at odds with the tension of the moment. His hand was still on my face, a warmth I found myself leaning into, not wanting him to pull away.

"No," I replied, a hint of defiance in my tone. "You don"t listen to doctors."

"And you think I"ll listen to you?" he asked, a playful challenge in his eyes.

"Maybe if I nag enough," I said, hoping my light-heartedness would mask the turmoil inside me.

Connor finally pulled away, rolling his eyes in mock exasperation. "Please. You"ll be worse than my ex," he quipped.

I pretended to gag at the comparison. "Don"t ever compare me to her again," I said, half-joking, half-serious. But then, curiosity got the better of me, and before I could stop myself, the question was out. "Hey. Can I ask you a question? It"s not any of my business, but what happened? With her, I mean. Love always starts out good, doesn"t it? Obviously, neither one of you planned to divorce or fall apart. How...how does that happen?"

I regretted the question as soon as it left my lips, hating that I"d asked, yet unable to take it back. I didn"t care, or at least, I shouldn"t care, but the query hung between us, a reminder of the complexities that underpinned human relationships, even those that seemed doomed to fall apart.

Connor studied me for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then, with a sigh that seemed to carry the weight of memories best left undisturbed, he finally spoke. "Love does start out good, doesn"t it? Everything"s perfect in the beginning. You see the best in each other. But...life happens. People change. Or maybe they don"t, and that"s the problem."

He paused, his gaze drifting past me, as if he was looking at something far away. "With Sarah... we were young, passionate. We thought love was enough to overcome anything. But as time went on, the things we ignored, the little incompatibilities, they started to matter more. We stopped communicating, stopped trying to understand each other. It wasn"t one big thing that ended us; it was a thousand little things that built up until we couldn"t see past them."

He looked back at me, his eyes clear and direct. "You asked how it happens? It happens when you stop working on it, when you take what you have for granted. I guess we both thought love would just... carry us through. But love is work, Westwood. Hard work. And neither of us wanted to admit that until it was too late. Neither of us was willing to put in that work."

I absorbed his words, a mix of sadness and insight swirling within me. "I"m sorry," I murmured, not knowing what else to say, feeling an odd sense of closeness for having shared this moment of vulnerability.

"Don"t be," Connor replied, offering a half-smile that didn"t quite reach his eyes. "It"s history. What matters is what we do now, right?" His question, rhetorical yet sincere, left an imprint, a reminder that while the past shapes us, it doesn"t have to define us.

Without warning, Connor leaned forward. A part of me froze, my heart pounding with both anticipation and fear. For a fleeting moment, I thought he was going to kiss me, and despite the myriad reasons he shouldn"t, I wanted him to. The realization that I wouldn"t fight it, that I was prepared to kiss him back, sent a thrill of alarm through me.

Instead, his lips brushed my ear, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Remember, when you get back, I want to see you on your hands and knees, cleaning up this house with a toothbrush," he whispered in a low, rough voice. "I want my books alphabetized. I want dinner burning in the oven."

The contrast between the intimacy of his proximity and the content of his words jarred me back to reality.

I scowled, pulling back to meet his gaze. "If you know what a bad cook I am, why even have me make dinner?" I asked.

I couldn't believe I thought he was going to kiss me.

Ass.

He smirked, a spark of mischief in his eyes. "Because I know you hate it," he said. "Don"t forget, Westwood, you"re here for a reason. Just because I got you a Christmas tree doesn"t change anything."

His words should have reinstated the distance between us. Except, I knew he was wrong.

Maybe it didn"t change anything for him, but it definitely changed something for me.

The realization that my feelings were evolving, that I was allowing myself to care for him beyond the confines of our agreement, scared me more than I wanted to admit. The simple act of choosing a Christmas tree together had somehow deepened the connection between us, a shift I was still struggling to understand and accept.

And I wanted it to stop before I was too far gone and it was too late.