“Ramassez, rammasez, c’est le temps de rammasser,” he croaked, his deep voice terribly off key. The others were singing along, even Mr. Carter, but it was obvious they didn’t know what the hell they were saying. The goofy goalie could have been leading them in a song where they were calling themselves asswipes. Laughing hazel eyes met mine as I walked to my stupid cat picture. I might give it to Harper. She really loved that cat. “Walker. Come sing the cleanup song with us!”
I shook my head. I have no idea how this happened, but I found myself mumbling along as I washed my brushes. The stink of turpentine made my nose wrinkle. Mr. Carter appeared at my side, and I handed him the wet brushes.
“I’m glad to see your headache has eased up.”
“Yeah, it’s manageable. They say coffee helps with migraines, so I thought, what the hell, might as well have a cup.” He nodded softly and moved on. My sight stayed on him even when the other men were heading out the door. I stamped along behind them, with Mr. Carter walking at my side, his shorter legs working twice as hard to keep up. I slowed down. “You got a first name?” I asked and got an amused look in reply.
“Most people do,” he answered as we waited for the red hand to turn green.
“Think you might want to tell me what it is?” I asked, hands in my coat pockets, palms suddenly sweaty.
FOUR
Finn
I wasn’t usuallyin the habit of withholding my first name from my adult students. After all, there was enough “Mr. Carter” in my day job to make me shudder at hearing it after hours, but stepping into a chaotic room had sent my walls shooting sky-high.
It wasn’t just the overturned chairs or the canvas boards tossed around like litter. Bob, a hulking figure, had his large hand wrapped tightly around Arnaud’s throat, face red, veins standing out in anger. Arnaud’s eyes were wild, and dark curses slipped from his lips in rapid-fire French. Chip was stimming in panic. Taft being lean and jittery, tried to get them apart, but his fingers, twitching, were caught somewhere between wanting to intervene and bolting from the room entirely.
And then there was Walker.
He’d been apart from it all, arms crossed, exuding a kind of quiet control even amid the bedlam. His brown eyes had fixed on me when I froze in the doorway, and for a moment, I’d felt pinned by his stare, which made my pulse quicken. There was a silent dominance in his posture and his sharp gaze, and when he’d gotten in front of Bob, it derailed the big man’s temper inan instant. He’d radiated authority like he was used to being listened to without question.
His presence alone had settled things, the tension visibly draining from Bob’s clenched fists and the wild panic fading from Taft’s eyes.
He was so capable, and I had a competency kink.
Sue me.
Now, he waited at the stoplight with me. The others having already made it over, hooting and hollering like a bunch of kids. Walker was tall enough that I had to tip my head back to meet his eyes.
“And?” he prompted.
I hesitated again, feeling unexpectedly vulnerable, my pulse quickening with uncertainty. Why was I withholding my name and turning this simple exchange into some odd game? Walker had unsettled me in ways I hadn’t anticipated, stripping away layers of practiced confidence I thought I’d perfected since my awkward teenage years. Maybe it was the intensity of his gaze or the gentle sincerity behind his rough exterior. A man who’d sketched a cat and quietly spoke of affection as something earned rather than freely given. He made me question my carefully constructed defenses. Something about Walker had gotten under my skin, but equally, this attraction—if that is what it was—reminded me of moments in my past when I’d trusted someone a little too quickly, only to regret it later.
So, I deflected.
“Why didn’t you break up the fight?” I blurted out, unable to stop the question hovering on my tongue.
Walker shrugged slightly, looking almost casual about it. “Bob and Arnaud?” he asked as if there might have been another fight. “I did break it up.”
“A bit too late.” I huffed. “They’d been at it a while, but one word from you, and they parted like a cheap wig in a windstorm.”
He fought a smirk. Asshole. “That’s hockey. Coach comes in. The fighting stops. But it doesn’t mean there won’t be fighting.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Look, they do their thing; I do mine.”
I frowned, not entirely convinced. “So, you don’t mind your friends beating each other up?”
He winced, a brief shadow passing through his eyes. “They’re not my friends,” he said quietly, his voice edged with something distant and guarded.
“Teammates, then.”
He crossed his arms over his impressively muscular chest, his biceps flexing briefly beneath the fabric of his shirt. And no, I wasn’t looking.
Or I wasn’t trying to, but jeez…
