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

19. WADE

WADE

The Morning Showdown: Worry, Waffles, and Way Too Much Charm

I was in a mood—a very specific, simmering blend of irritation and worry that only seemed to amplify when I rolled over on the daybed and saw the bed I’d given up, empty . My body ached, and as my thoughts snapped into focus, so did the anxiety. He’s downstairs… alone… with my family. I moved faster than my sore limbs liked, ignoring every protest. I dressed hastily, skipping the shower because I didn’t know how much headway he’d already made with them—or worse, how many probing questions they’d started firing his way.

As I approached the kitchen, the sound of my family’s voices—chittering and laughing, all too happy—reached me first. But no sign of Cal’s voice mingling with theirs. My gut twisted, and when I rounded the corner, there they all were: siblings, partners, kids, filling the bar stools and scattered around the table like they hadn’t a care in the world. My nieces and nephews dashed over, hugging me, and for a split second, the warmth of their small arms brought a little calm to the war inside. But then I saw the spread laid out on the counter, a breakfast feast that could feed twice our number.

“Thanks, Mom,” I managed, trying to keep my voice neutral. But the moment she said it was Cal who’d prepared it all, that calm was gone, replaced by a flash of irritation and protectiveness. He’d been up early, moving around, probably exhausted and in pain—and no one thought to make sure he got some real rest?

I barely registered the wide-eyed looks from my family as I muttered, “Where the fuck is he?”

Without waiting for an answer, I strode out of the kitchen, scanning every room until I knew exactly where he’d be. Sure enough, there he was, out on the porch, cradling a coffee, dressed in nothing warmer than a cardigan. He looked up, eyes going wide as I stepped out, the cold biting as the slider closed behind me. He opened his mouth, probably to make some smart comment, but I was too wound up to let him.

“What are you doing out here in the cold?” I said, trying and failing to keep the frustration out of my voice. “You’ve barely slept, you’re injured, and it’s freezing. Do you want to make yourself worse?”

Cal raised his eyebrows, giving me that familiar look—part amused, part annoyed.

"Good morning to you, too. I think I can handle a little morning chill."

I fought the urge to shake him, instead pulling off my jacket and wrapping it around his shoulders.

“If you insist on getting yourself sick, fine. But at least don’t make it worse.”

"I’m fine, babe," Cal said, though the warning look in his eyes made it clear that he was aware we had an audience—my entire family, pressed to the windows like a Rossler family peanut gallery.

I stepped closer, shifting to block him from view, giving the family peanut gallery a not-so-subtle signal to back off.

“It’s not fine,” I muttered, low enough so only he could hear. “Why didn’t you go back to bed like I told you?”

Cal arched a brow, his expression unreadable, but he was so close now that I felt every breath he took.

“I couldn’t sleep, okay?” he admitted, voice softening. “Had some…bad dreams. Didn't feel like going through that again if I closed my eyes. So, I came down here to make myself useful—and maybe make a better impression than my train-wreck appearance last night.” He was so close that his breath fanned over my lips, and I had to close my eyes just to keep from giving in to the pull between us.

“You need to rest your ankle,” I said firmly. “Don’t think I missed you favoring it on the stairs last night.”

He brought his hand up, cupping my cheek, his thumb grazing just under my eye as if it were the most natural thing in the world. I reminded myself it was just for show, the usual Cal charm turned up a notch to play to our little audience, but he was good—so good, he had me under his spell.

“I’ve rested it enough,” Cal said, brushing off any concern with that trademark smirk that could charm the pants off a statue.

“Besides, I’m perfectly fine.” He tilted his head, his grin growing smug. “Now, how about you try the food I slaved over? It’s the least you could do.”

Before I could respond, he leaned in, pressing a featherlight kiss to the corner of my mouth. My breath hitched, a jolt of electricity shooting through me as my hands twitched at my sides, desperate to move but locked in place.

“Only if you come inside, too,” I bargained, trying to ground myself and at least get him out of the freezing air. His cheeks were already flushed pink, and not just from his usual charm.

“Fine,” he huffed dramatically, rolling his eyes as he pulled my jacket tighter around himself. “But if you think you’re getting this jacket back, you’re dead wrong.”

I chuckled, stepping back and holding out my hand.

“Wouldn’t dream of it, pretty boy.”

He took my hand without hesitation, and I felt the warmth of his grip seep into me, flooding my body. As he straightened, he shifted his weight carefully, favoring his right ankle. I caught the subtle movement, the flicker of discomfort he tried to mask, but I bit back any comment. That conversation could wait.

Instead, I focused on the warmth that lingered between us as we walked back toward the house.

The air inside was a welcome contrast to the biting cold, and as the door shut behind us, I realized I still hadn’t let go of his hand. And for a moment, as the hum of the house surrounded us, it felt like maybe, just maybe, we weren’t pretending at all.

I served myself and Cal, knowing full well he probably hadn’t eaten while cooking. His plate was deliberate: eggs, fresh fruit, a few slices of toast. No waffles, no pancakes, even though I had a feeling they were his favorite. If I piled them on, he’d barely touch a bite, too aware of the scale’s verdict at his next weigh-in. It frustrated me, the constant restraint, but I held my tongue. Still, I couldn’t help wondering what it did to a person, living under that kind of scrutiny day after day.

We settled at the long table, my parents anchoring either end, my siblings and their partners slotting in like puzzle pieces. The chatter filled the room, lively and comfortable, everyone easing into the kind of dynamics that just seemed to click. Cal, though, hesitated for a moment, his gaze flickering across the room, taking it all in. For a split second, there was a flash of unease in his expression, a crack in his polished facade. But it passed quickly, his shoulders squaring as he leaned back in his seat, already bracing for the inevitable questions.

My mom, never one to waste time, dove in.

“So, Cal, tell me all about your family.”

I saw him falter, just for a heartbeat, as he popped a bite of eggs into his mouth, clearly buying himself a moment to compose. He set down his fork carefully, licking his lips as if tasting his words before speaking.

I watched him closely, listening to his voice, at the first insight of who Cal was beyond sheer tops, sass and stubbornness.

“I was an only child until I was fourteen,” he began, his voice soft. “It was just me and my mom, traveling for figure skating. She worked as an event planner to keep us going. Then she met my stepdad, and they had my little sister, Beatrix—though I call her Bea. But I went off to boarding school not long after, so… I missed her growing up.”

He said it like it was just a fact of life, but I caught the faint tremor in his voice, that shadow of a wound he didn’t want to revisit. My mom’s expression softened, her sympathy almost palpable, and Cal, sensing it, dropped his gaze, focusing intently on his plate as if it held an escape from a past he wanted to escape… or maybe rewrite.

Without thinking, I reached out, placing my hand over his. It was instinctive, meant to steady him, and when he looked up, his eyes met mine with a quiet softness that wasn’t for show. It was just for me.

“That’s so sad,” my mom murmured, shaking her head. “I could never imagine not having a house full of these kids.”

Cal, ever the master at shifting the spotlight, offered a small, easy smile.

“Actually, I’ve always dreamed of a life like this. Obviously, a bit gayer,” he quipped, earning a ripple of laughter.

“But I always wanted to adopt or foster kids someday. I’ve volunteered at shelters for years—youth shelters, LGBTQ centers. When you see how many kids get shuffled around, bouncing from one place to another… I just want to give them a real home. A place they won’t have to leave. Somewhere they can feel safe.”

The table went quiet, every set of eyes locked on him, drawn in by the raw sincerity in his voice. His tone had shifted, the usual practiced charm giving way to something deeper, more genuine. He was meeting my mom’s gaze as he spoke, unwavering, his passion shining through.

My mom’s face softened further, a rare kind of approval radiating from her.

“That’s beautiful, Cal. Not everyone is built to give like that… but I feel like you are.”

Cal shrugged it off with a graceful air, brushing away her praise as if it was nothing. But I knew better. Underneath all the charm, the humor, and the walls, there was a heart big enough to take in the whole world if only he let himself.

As the conversation shifted to his skating, I learned more than I expected. His big competition, the World Championships, was just a month away, set for March in Montreal. The timing sent a pang of guilt through me. Here I was, dragging him to Massachusetts to play pretend boyfriend just weeks before one of the biggest events of his career. But it wasn’t just that. His ankle had been nagging at the back of my mind since I saw him favoring it, and the thought of him pushing through pain for something as frivolous as this arrangement made me bite down on my frustration.

Cal caught me watching him, flashing a bright smile that was pure reassurance, as if to say he had it all under control. I tried to believe it, tried to push down the knot of worry in my chest. For now, I let the moment pass, the sound of laughter and warm conversation filling the room as the fire crackled in the background.