That Time We Faked It (Time On The Ice #3)

18. CAL

CAL

The Morning After, Complete with Culinary Redemption and Catastrophic Cringe

M y dreams were a relentless montage of my hellish day—the taxi hitting every pothole in Boston, getting a flat tire, and the freezing wait while the driver changed it, the ache in my ankle making me hobble like an arthritic grandpa. I’m convinced I am a bad omen. They should have sent me back to the airport with a “ return to sender ” sticker.

But when I finally surfaced from sleep, bleary-eyed and stiff, the window seat I’d stubbornly chosen as my bed was mercifully behind me. Someone—Jack, probably—had moved me to the actual bed. The warmth, the softness, and the familiar scent wrapped around me like a cozy hug, and I sank back into it, feeling something in me let go, just for a second.

My mind drifted to the bath—where I’d polished off a glass (okay, a bottle) of wine, sung Taylor Swift's “ Champagne Problems ” in my head– Because I had embarrassed myself enough and successfully drowned every remaining shred of dignity. I’d really made a spectacle of myself. And the flash of Jack’s stunned expression when I accidentally flaunted my lack of attire? Yeah, that memory decided to play in my head like a highlight reel. The way he looked at me, like he couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing… It did things to me I refused to admit. But we’re not going there.

The cruel gods of fate had already had their fun with me. They didn’t need to twist the knife by reminding me I was in bed with a guy who’d looked at me in ways I wasn’t supposed to crave. I rolled over, expecting to find him beside me, the man who’d moved me to this cloud of a bed. But… he wasn’t there.

My gaze shifted to the former “bed” I’d chosen—the narrow daybed by the window. There he was, the man himself, curled into an almost impossible ball given his sheer size. Even in sleep, his body looked rigid, his brows furrowed as if he were waging some private battle behind his closed eyelids. Somehow, though, he stayed deeply asleep, despite the obvious discomfort of that tiny makeshift bed.

I stifled a laugh. I’d have hauled him over here myself if he weren’t so damn large. Sure, I could lift my skating partner without breaking a sweat, but moving that was another story entirely.

My eyes fell on the nightstand where I’d left my phone, vaguely remembering I needed to ask Jack for a charger. I’d forgotten all about it, thanks to the wine and my tragic state of mortification from exposing myself, literally, in front of him. But there it was, fully charged and glowing softly in the dim light. Thank God for small mercies.

I powered it up, squinting at the screen. The clock read 4:30 a.m., a time that spelled doom in the world of sleep hygiene. Three hours of sleep. That was about par for the course with me. Between the nightmares and the subtle ache in my ankle that just wouldn’t quit, I knew there was no going back to sleep now—not without my sleeping tablets, which, naturally, I’d left at home. After all, Jack didn’t need to know about all my little crutches.

I sighed and looked back over at him. Even in sleep, he managed to look vaguely responsible, curled up like he’d claimed the last spot on Earth to crash in. The blanket I’d left him had somehow slipped, so I crept over to tuck it back around his shoulders. My fingers brushed a lock of hair off his forehead, and his brow relaxed just a little, his face softening in a way that tugged at something deep in me.

As if sensing my presence, he stirred, his eyes fluttering open. His sleepy blue gaze met mine, and for a moment, neither of us moved, caught in a silence that felt far too real. I could barely breathe, half entranced, half horrified that he might catch me standing over him like some ridiculous fairy-tale stalker.

“What are you doing up?” His voice was husky and sleep infused.

I almost laughed, though I kept my voice quiet.

“Couldn’t sleep. Just… checking on you.”

He rolled his eyes, a sleepy smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“The day you check on me … must be a sign of the apocalypse.”

I bit back a grin.

“Says the guy who played Florence Nightingale and upgraded my sleeping arrangements.”

He huffed out a little laugh, closing his eyes.

“Get some sleep, Cal,” he muttered. “You’re safe here, alright?”

He turned back over, settling deeper under the blanket as if that was that. I watched him for another beat, caught off guard by how naturally he’d scooped me up from that brutally hard daybed and set me in a bed fit for a queen, claiming the smaller, lumpy one without a second thought. What did I tell you about being nice, Jack? I huffed under my breath, not letting any thoughts sink in, instead I grabbed my charged phone and bag, determined not to wake him with my rifling.

I slipped into the bathroom to brush my teeth, changed into something that looked laid-back but flattering, and did my best to gather myself. By the time I stepped out again, Jack was still sleeping soundly, his large frame sprawled over the cramped daybed, somehow looking serene. I tiptoed toward the door, ignoring the sting in my ankle, and slipped out, pausing just outside to see if he stirred. But all was quiet. Well, at least one of us was getting decent rest.

I wandered down the hallway, my steps slow as my gaze swept over the photos lining the walls between bedroom doors. They were snapshots of a life that felt foreign and unattainable—smiling faces caught mid-laughter, siblings piled onto one another, even a few grumpy teenage scowls immortalized in mismatched frames. The sheer life in those images tugged at my lips, a tiny, wistful smile surfacing despite myself. It wasn’t the kind of life I’d ever known, not really.

For me, home had always been more of a concept than a place. Mom and I were nomads, hopping from rink to rink, competition to competition, living out of suitcases and hotel rooms.

The only photos we had were the polished, professional ones she’d post for her event planning business—smiling for the camera in perfect outfits, set against the kinds of backdrops that made everything look like a magazine ad. Never just us. Never caught in the candid, messy, real moments like the ones that lived on these walls.

Before I moved down the stairs, I paused at a photo of the three Rossler brothers, their identical eyes, sharp jawlines, and dark hair marking them as unmistakable kin. From what I’d learned talking to Wylie, the big family that was Jack’s—no, Wade’s—was a chaotic mess of love and loyalty. Jack, the youngest and unplanned addition, was the one who somehow completed them all.

My fingers brushed over the glass, tracing the image of a younger Wade. His hair was buzzed, his face clean-shaven, and he stood tall in his military uniform. That small, almost secretive smile lit his face, a quiet enigma even then. He was striking, undeniably beautiful, but my thoughts drifted to the man I’d left in our room.

The Wade of today, with his long hair and beard, carried the lines of a life fully lived. Those lines told a story, one I didn’t fully know yet but somehow still understood. Ten years may have separated us in age, but in those etched details that spoke of loss that I knew one day—would also be etched into my own features.

It was the man who now traded smiles like a scarce currency, careful not to overspend, that I found myself gravitating toward.

As I entered the living room, where the fire had burned low, its embers casting a soft, golden glow over the room. Everything about this house exuded a kind of cozy elegance—a luxury that didn’t feel cold or untouchable. Sure, Rossler Flats was undeniably high-end, but it was the little imperfections that made it feel lived-in. The worn leather armchair in the corner, the tiny chips on the edges of the breakfast table, the way the family photos didn’t quite match—it all whispered of a place where love had worn its way into every corner.

I stopped, letting the scene settle over me. Jack’s family wasn’t just wealthy; they were the embodiment of everything I’d secretly dreamed of having. A home, a family, a kind of grounded warmth that couldn’t be faked. I found myself huffing a laugh into the empty air, wasn’t it cruel being there like that? A tourist in my own dream, knowing it wasn’t real. Knowing I’d have to say goodbye to this—to them. To him.

My throat tightened, and I pulled my gaze away, back toward the fire. My own version of home had always been me and Mom, the two of us against the world. I hadn’t questioned it much. Not until he came along. The wealthy best man at a wedding she planned, the client who swept her off her feet, the one who turned her life—and mine—into something unrecognizable. He was the dream partner she’d always longed for, the man who could give her the world.

She sold her business, left behind everything familiar, and moved me to boarding school in the name of my “skating career.” Suddenly, her world revolved around him and the “miracle baby” they had together. My little half-sister. Her new family. And just like that, my life as I’d known it vanished, leaving me on the outside of a picture-perfect new world that wasn’t mine.

The memories stirred, a familiar ache that I usually kept buried, but lately, it was harder to ignore. Maybe it was the realization that, for once, I wasn’t jumping headfirst into a new romance or distraction. Maybe it was watching my friends drift into their own commitments, learning what it was like to build something lasting. I was starting to remember what it meant to be alone, really alone. But that was a spiral I wasn’t about to let myself slip down, not that morning. I pushed it away, refusing to start that cycle.

The kitchen, though, pulled me in deeper with its quiet warmth. It was big enough to fit the whole family, with a long stone countertop lined by barstools, enough for six kids to settle in, share stories, argue over breakfast, and lean over plates of food. I could almost see them there—three boys, three girls—laughing, bickering, shoving each other playfully over whatever sibling drama filled their days. My hand rested on the stone surface as if trying to absorb something from it, a memory that wasn’t mine. The countertop was cool, but there was a warmth in the room itself, something stored in the walls from years of love and life lived fully.

And, for just a moment, I felt a longing that caught me off guard. I’d always pushed it aside, but somewhere in me, a part still dreamed of a life like this. A house full of kids, whether adopted or fostered, a big kitchen where they’d tell me about their day while I dashed around with a mug of coffee, making dinner and listening to them unravel their worlds. I saw myself as the parent who never missed a sports game, who showed up to every art show, who had a fridge covered in magnets and too many fingerprints to count.

But I shook it off. I knew that dream would fade, just like the snow would disappear when spring finally arrived. I filled the kettle and set it on the stove, deciding a hot tea would be the perfect way to start the morning. As I rummaged through the cabinets, I was impressed by the supplies they kept here—enough to feed a small army, which I supposed was necessary with a family the size of the Rosslers. Still couldn’t quite believe I was in their house, making myself at home in this massive, gleaming kitchen. But there I was, restocking the coffee pot, sifting through teas, and setting out ingredients as I started planning the feast I had in mind.

Though my style in the kitchen was, well, let’s say “ creatively messy,” I knew my way around a breakfast spread. And to my surprise, I found a set of food warmers tucked away, the perfect touch for keeping everything ready until the whole family woke up. As the sun began to rise around six-thirty, I stood by the window, cradling a mug of black coffee with a touch of honey—an addition I hadn’t thought of until Jack brought me one once, and now I was hooked. I watched as the first light touched the vineyards outside, the early morning mist lifting slowly from the fields, frost glistening in a way that felt almost magical.

The sound of footsteps on the stairs snapped me out of my reverie, and I quickly brushed my shirt, hoping I hadn’t dusted flour or coffee grounds all over myself. I scanned the kitchen, pleased with my clean-up efforts but still a bit nervous—Tyler’s constant complaints about my cleanliness echoed in my mind–putting me on edge.. I wanted my first impression here to be something better than “the bedraggled, sleep-deprived guy from last night.”

Then Wylie and Benny walked in, hand in hand, looking at each other like they were the only two people in the room. That look , the “I’m so in love it hurts” look, hit me right in my chest. Years together, weathering life’s ups and downs, and they still glowed with it.

“Oh my goodness, this smells amazing! What the hell, Cal?” Benny exclaimed, dropping Wylie’s hand only for Wylie to pout slightly at the loss of contact. Ugh, I thought, someone put me out of my misery—these two are too cute for my aching, lovesick heart.

“Hope you two are hungry,” I grinned, gesturing to the food spread out on the counter. “I saw this kitchen and just couldn’t resist. You think your mom will mind?”

“Mind? Are you kidding?” Wylie chuckled, already making a plate. “She’ll be running up to Wade’s room to tell him to marry you immediately—or that she’ll find you a suitor who will.”

I could only laugh, though the idea of Wade being bombarded with wedding hints from his mom was…terrifying.

The rest of the family wasn’t far behind—minus Jack. Or, Wade. That was something I was going to have to get used to. I had somehow managed to avoid knowing his real name until this weekend, relying on pet names like “Mr. Grumpy” during calls to get us through. But the moment his mother had said it, something inside me shifted, and I felt my heart skip. Knowing his real name was... dangerous . My mind, predictably masochistic, flashed to how it would feel to say it in a more intimate setting. But, like all my other feelings about him, I shoved that one back into its corner.

The kitchen buzzed with life as the family filed in, their voices a symphony of laughter, compliments, and chatter. They fawned over the breakfast, a cascade of "This is incredible!" and "You really outdid yourself." I tried to act unaffected, but the warmth in their praise stirred something in me. I busied myself clearing plates, rinsing them with an almost frenetic energy, as if the clinking of dishes could drown out the stupid little thrill I got from watching them enjoy something I made.

Wade's mom caught me in the act, waving a disapproving finger.

"Oh, no you don’t, sweetheart. You’ve done enough—go relax!" Her voice left no room for argument as she practically shooed me out of the kitchen.

Reluctantly, I stepped onto the porch, trading the lively warmth of the house for the serene embrace of the morning. A fresh cup of coffee in hand, I leaned against the railing, letting the quiet settle over me. It was the kind of view that must’ve seemed ordinary to the Rosslers, but to me, it was straight out of a daydream. A scene so perfect it almost hurt to look at, knowing I didn’t belong in it.

The minutes ticked by, and just as the sun climbed higher, a voice reached me through the open kitchen window. Deep, rough, and unmistakably Jack.

Even surrounded by the familiar warmth of his family, his tone carried that edge—the weight of someone who’d weathered life and let it shape him, roughen him up.

“Thanks, Mom. This looks great,” he said, his words simple but laced with sincerity. My heart betrayed me with a flutter, an involuntary little leap that left me gripping my coffee cup tighter.

“Oh, I didn’t do this, honey,” his mom replied, her voice light and cheerful. “This was all thanks to that amazing man you brought home!”

The warmth in her tone matched the flush creeping up my neck. A small, private smile tugged at my lips as I stared out at the vineyard, feeling a strange, unfamiliar swell of pride. But before I could bask in it too long, there was a pause—heavy with realization—and then an unmistakable groan.

“Cal?” Jack’s voice growled, cutting through the moment like a blade. “Where the fuck is he?”