11. WADE
WADE
The Fever and the Flame
F or two days, I couldn’t stop glancing at the door. Like some sad, lovesick puppy, I kept expecting Pretty Boy to stroll in with that ridiculous flare of his, flashing me that infuriating, cheeky smile. But there was nothing—no sign of him. The silence was driving me up the damn wall.
“You know,” Sadie said, her tone far too casual for the way her eyes gleamed behind those wire-framed glasses. “You could just ask for his number. Check in on him. Maybe make it a date while you’re at it.”
I scrubbed a hand down my face, trying not to let on that I’d been thinking the exact same thing. “Don’t know what you’re talking about, Sades.”
Her laugh rang out, quick and sharp. “Mhmm, sure. Just like a lesbian doesn’t know where the clit is.”
“Jesus, Sadie,” I muttered, scoffing to cover the laugh that nearly escaped. “Point taken.” I hesitated, the question I’d been chewing on slipping out before I could stop it.
“But… do you think I upset him?”
The teasing flickered out of her face, replaced by something gentler. “Jack. It’s Cal. He’s made of tougher stuff than that. The guy’s got balls of steel. Whatever you said, he’s probably forgotten it already. He’s just recovering from that cold. Or training so hard he forgot what sleep looks like.”
I stared at the counter, lips pressed tight, picturing the way Cal had looked that last night—pale, dark circles under his eyes, a shadow of his usual spark.
“Have you heard from him?”
Sadie’s smile softened, and for once, there was no sarcasm in it.
“I’ve left him a couple of messages. It’s not unusual for him to drop off the grid, though. He’s either glued to his phone or disappears for days. That’s just Cal.”
“That’s reassuring,” I muttered, my frown deepening. “Do you know where he trains?”
And that’s how I found myself at the rink the next morning, two coffees in hand, feeling like a complete idiot. The cold air hit me the second I stepped inside, sharp and biting, but it wasn’t enough to distract me from how ridiculous this was. Who goes looking for someone at six-thirty in the goddamn morning? Apparently, me.
The sound of blades carving across the ice filled the space, steady and rhythmic. My heart picked up as I followed the noise, my boots echoing against the cement floor. I wasn’t sure why I felt nervous. Maybe it was because I was about to track down the guy I’d lied about being my boyfriend—twice. Or because my phone wouldn’t stop buzzing with messages about my brother’s engagement party in four weeks, and I still didn’t know how the hell I was going to convince Cal to help me.
Or maybe it was because I was about to see him in his element. On the ice. Where he belonged.
I turned the corner, pausing at the edge of the rink as my eyes landed on a girl skating across the ice. She moved like a blade—sharp, precise, effortless. Every turn, every edge, calculated but fluid. It was like watching someone practice military drills—everything about her was deliberate and in control.
For a moment, I let myself be impressed. Until the coach’s voice snapped through the cold air, knocking me out of my thoughts.
“Alright, Petra, that’s enough. Let’s focus on a solo since Cal isn’t here to grace us with his presence.”
The coffee in my hands suddenly felt heavier, like the universe itself had decided to point and laugh at me. Of course he wasn’t there.
My jaw clenched as I stared at the two cups, the condensation smudging against my fingers. I’d come all this way, looking like an absolute fool for a guy who couldn’t even show up to his own damn training session.
Frustration bubbled up inside me, mixing with something I didn’t want to name. Anger? Concern? I didn’t know. All I knew was that Cal had waltzed into my life like some charming, chaotic hurricane, flipped everything upside down, and now had the audacity to disappear.
This was ridiculous.
I didn’t even know what I was doing anymore. It wasn’t like I cared about him—no, I was just trying to deal with the absolute mess he’d left in my bar. Or the stupid lie I’d told my family that needed fixing. That was it.
And yet, as I stepped back out into the bitter morning cold, the thought still gnawed at me. Where the hell was Pretty Boy?
Without much reason—other than the fact that I was apparently a complete fool—I found myself on this ridiculous mission to track down the man who’d barged into my life, flipped my bar upside down, and somehow made me lie to my entire family about him being my boyfriend. Now, I needed him to agree to play nice for one weekend—maybe two if I could wrangle him into the wedding—and then that would be it. He could go back to his glittering life of skating, and I could return to my perfectly content, “lonely barman” routine, even though, if I was honest, I didn’t actually feel all that alone.
With that half-assed plan lodged firmly in my brain, I approached the rink, greeted by the sharp voice of a slim, hawk-eyed man barking orders across the ice. His tone was clipped, the kind of sound that made people straighten up without realizing they were doing it.
“Can I help you?” he growled, not bothering to look my way as he shouted another cue at the skater gliding across the ice. When his gaze finally flicked toward me, it was with all the warmth of a freezer door cracking open.
“I’m here to see Cal,” I said, straightening my spine as if that would help me match his unwelcoming energy.
The guy let out a short, humorless laugh, the kind that made it clear he thought I was an idiot. His breath fogged in the cold air like even the rink itself was laughing at me. “That explains it. Distracted by a man once again, happened in college, happens again–honestly gay men and women, always getting drunk on the cock and losing sight of the goal.”
I blinked. The hostility in his voice was so sudden it knocked me back a step. What the hell was that supposed to mean? “Excuse me?” I bit out, working to keep my voice steady. “I’m not ‘another man.’ I’m a friend. I haven’t heard from him in days, and I wanted to make sure he’s okay.”
His mouth curled like he’d just tasted something sour. “Sure. A friend .” The disdain dripped from his words, and I could feel the heat building under my skin. “Let me guess—he hasn’t told you? You fit his type perfectly.”
Type? What type? I didn’t get a chance to ask because he steamrolled right past my confusion. “Since you’re so concerned, here’s your update: he’s got pneumonia. Doctor’s orders—no skating until he can breathe without hacking up a lung.”
The way he said it—flat, clinical, like it wasn’t a big deal—made my jaw clench hard enough I thought I might crack a tooth. My mind spun with the image of Cal: pale, shivering, looking like hell the last time I saw him. Of course he’d kept pushing through. Of course he hadn’t told anyone.
I opened my mouth, words bubbling up—none of them nice—but clamped it shut. Punching a coach wasn’t exactly the kind of thing I needed on my record. Besides, this wasn’t about me.
I turned, ready to walk away and figure out my next move when, out of nowhere, the asshole snatched the coffee cups from my hands like they were his to take. Before I could react, he took a sip of each, face screwing up in immediate disgust.
“Some friend you are,” he sneered. “He doesn’t do dairy—too many calories. And is that sugar I taste? If you ever bring him this garbage again, we’re going to have words.”
And then, in one fluid motion, he tossed both drinks into the trash like they were offensive works of art, dismissing me with a wave of his hand.
I stood there, frozen, teeth grinding so hard I swore I heard a crack. It took everything in me not to lose my cool. Who even does that?
Fine. Whatever. I wasn’t about to stand there and argue with some Napoleon-complex coach. Without a goodbye, I spun on my heel, taking long strides back toward the exit.
The second the rink door slammed behind me, I yanked out my phone, fingers already tapping out a message to Sadie.
Me: Do you have Cal’s address?
If Pretty Boy was too sick to show up to the rink, then he sure as hell wasn’t running errands for himself. I’d figure out where he was holed up, shove something he’d actually drink into his stubborn hands, and make sure he was okay.
Because I didn’t care what that jackass coach said—I wasn’t just “another man.” And I wasn’t about to let Cal disappear.
The unfamiliar door had me hesitating, my hand hovering just above the wood. Do I knock or just turn around and pretend I wasn’t there? I couldn’t decide before the door swung open on its own. Standing there, filling the doorway, was none other than Tyler Riley—rookie NHL golden boy himself. I blinked, my brain short-circuiting. Of all the people I expected to answer Cal’s door, Tyler Riley wasn’t on the list.
His brows pinched together, his expression hovering between confusion and suspicion, like he couldn’t decide if I was a delivery driver or a crazed fan.
“Uh… hi?” His voice was slow, wary, as if he were bracing for me to shriek and demand an autograph.
I cleared my throat, clutching the bag of soup and cold remedies like a lifeline. “Is, uh… Cal here? His coach told me he’s got pneumonia.”
The instant I said it, Tyler’s entire demeanor shifted. Suspicion turned to relief, his eyes lighting up like I’d just promised to save his life.
“Oh, thank God. You’re a friend.” He sighed dramatically, throwing his hands up. “Yes, Cal’s here. He’s sick as hell and refuses to go to the hospital— ‘just a cold,’ my ass—but I’ve got practice and no one else is home.”
I barely got out a nod before Tyler barreled on, words spilling like he’d been holding them in for hours. “This is normally a full house, you know? The one time someone actually needs help, I’m stuck here solo. If you could watch him while I’m gone, that’d be amazing. Like, life-saving level amazing. He’s a stubborn little shit, so you’ll have your hands full.”
Stubborn little shit sounded exactly right, but I focused on the rest of what he’d said.
“Yeah, I can stay,” I said quickly, the thought of Cal struggling alone twisted something in my chest. “It’s no problem.”
Tyler froze, his gaze darting between me and the open door. I could practically hear the gears grinding as he weighed the risk of leaving his sick friend with a total stranger. “Okay,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “Shit. My boyfriend’s gonna kill me if I let a serial killer in here.”
His voice dropped off abruptly, like he’d just realized what he said out loud.
I didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink.
“Your secret’s safe with me,” I said, calm and simple. “One gay man to another—I get it.”
Tyler’s shoulders slumped with visible relief, his eyes softening for the first time. “Thanks.” He stepped aside, waving me in. “Middle door down the hall. He’s probably dead to the world, but if you can get him to drink anything, you’ll be my hero.”
With that, Tyler grabbed his bag and vanished out the door, leaving me standing in the quiet of the condo.
The place looked like something out of a home magazine—clean lines, warm tones, and perfectly framed photos scattered across the walls. I didn’t linger long enough to study them, but I caught flashes of familiar faces—Tyler and Cal, laughing mid-celebration, arms slung over each other’s shoulders. Another of Tyler with Hunter Graves, one of the A-team’s stars.
I found the middle door and pushed it open softly, bracing for what I’d find.
The room was dim, the only light filtering in through the gaps in the curtains. Cal lay sprawled in bed, half-buried under a mess of blankets, sweat plastering his hair to his forehead. His chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven breaths, and every so often, a wet cough wracked through him, shaking his entire frame.
I crossed the room without thinking, pressing the back of my hand to his forehead. Hot and clammy. Too hot. He stirred weakly at the touch, his eyes barely fluttering open before closing again with a pained groan.
“Shit, Pretty Boy,” I muttered under my breath, glancing at the digital thermometer on his bedside table. I hovered it over his head—104 degrees. My stomach sank.
Moving quickly, I rummaged through the bathroom until I found a washcloth, soaking it in cool water. I returned to his side and carefully wiped the sweat from his face, whispering nonsense under my breath like it might help somehow. He flinched at first but eventually settled, his breathing slightly easier.
I checked the humidifier—half-empty—then added more water and a few drops of eucalyptus oil from my bag. The scent filled the room, sharp but soothing, and I swore his breathing steadied just a little.
The next few hours passed in a blur. I forced him upright long enough to sip vitamin water, spooned soup into him when he was coherent enough, and changed the sheets after he sweat through them. He didn’t wake fully, but sometimes his lips would twitch, muttering fragments of dreams I couldn’t piece together.
Through it all, I felt that same gnawing worry I’d seen reflected in Tyler’s face. What if he gets worse? What if I can’t help him?
I hated the feeling—helplessness never sat well with me. But this wasn’t about me, and every time he managed a weak sip of water or mumbled something snarky in his half-conscious haze, I felt a flicker of hope.
By the time the evening light crept through the curtains, his temperature had dropped slightly. Not much, but enough to make me breathe a little easier. I sat back in the chair beside his bed, exhaustion catching up to me. The bar could survive another night without me, I told myself. Cal needed someone here, and for reasons I didn’t want to examine too closely, I wanted to be the one to show up for him.
I glanced at the sleeping figure in front of me, his brow finally smooth, his breathing steady. “You’re a pain in my ass, you know that?” I muttered softly, though there wasn’t an ounce of bite in my voice.
And for the first time all day, Cal’s lips curved faintly, like even in his fevered sleep, he could hear me.