Chapter 8
Eight
Mac
The fire crackles between us as we settle onto the makeshift bed of couch cushions and blankets I've arranged on the floor. Snow continues pelting the windows, but inside this small circle of warmth, the world feels impossibly intimate.
The generator ended up not having gas, and my phone has no signal to ask Randy, the owner of the cabin, if they have any more stored. In my multiple attempts at searching, I've come up short, leaving us with only the fireplace for warmth.
Delaney sits cross-legged across from me, her honey brown hair escaping its bun in soft tendrils that catch the firelight.
She's nursing hot cocoa in a mug that I’m almost certain was Lily’s favorite when we used to come up here.
When she picked it out of the cupboard, I couldn't stop the sharp intake of breath at the sight of it.
Thankfully, she didn't make it awkward when I explained myself.
"Truth or dare," she announces, that mischievous smile playing at her lips again.
I lean back on my elbows, studying her face in the amber glow. "We're not twelve, Caldwell."
I seem to be saying that a lot to her. Not because she's immature, but because she's got such an innocence to her still. Like the real world hasn’t snatched that away from her just yet.
"Scared?" She raises an eyebrow, the same challenging look she's been giving me since she was fifteen and trying to keep up with Lily and me on our adventures around town.
The memory hits unexpectedly: Delaney trailing behind us on the hiking path to Miller's Point, determined not to be left out despite being two years younger and at least six inches shorter. Even then, she had this stubborn fire in her green eyes.
"Of a game? Never." I sit up straighter. "Truth."
She taps her finger against the mug, considering. "Why hockey? Out of all the sports you could've played."
I expect the usual surface answer to roll off my tongue—the speed, the strategy, the physicality. Instead, I find myself actually thinking about it.
"My dad took me to my first Howlers game when I was seven." I stoke the fire with the poker, watching the logs shift and spark. "Not because he loved hockey or wanted to bond with me. Because his boss gave him tickets and he figured he should use them."
Delaney's expression softens, but she doesn't interrupt.
"I remember sitting in those seats, watching these guys fly across the ice like they were weightless.
The crowd was going insane, everyone on their feet, and for the first time in my life I felt.
.." I pause, searching for the words. "Like I belonged somewhere.
Like if I could just get good enough, fast enough, strong enough, I could make people feel that same rush. "
"Did you? Make people feel that way?"
The question catches me off guard. I've spent so much time focused on stats and contracts and wins that I'd forgotten the real reason I started playing.
"I don't know anymore." The admission comes out rougher than intended. "Hard to make people happy when you're the reason they're not getting their championship."
"Mac." Her voice is gentle but firm. "You know they care about more–"
"Your turn." I cut her off, not ready to go down that particular rabbit hole. "Truth or dare."
She studies my face for a moment, clearly seeing through my deflection, but lets it slide. "Dare."
Now I'm the one tapping my fingers, this time against my knee. What can I dare her to do that won't completely cross the line we've been dancing around all evening?
Nothing good comes to mind, so I play it safe.
"I dare you to tell me something you've never told anyone else."
"That's not how dares work," she protests with a giggle. "That's basically truth disguised as dare."
"My cabin, my rules." I gesture around us with mock authority. "Take it or leave it, Caldwell."
She sets down the mug and pulls her knees up to her chest, wrapping her arms around them. For a moment, I think she's going to call my bluff. Then she takes a shaky breath.
"I used to practice conversations with you.
" The words come out in a rush, like she's afraid that if she doesn't say them quickly, she'll lose her nerve.
"When we were teenagers, and you'd come here for summers.
I'd stand in front of my bedroom mirror and rehearse all these clever things to say, hoping maybe you'd finally notice me as more than just Lily's tagalong friend. "
The confession hangs between us, vulnerable and raw.
I remember those summers differently. Delaney was always there, bright and eager and annoyingly persistent.
I remember how hard I worked to ignore the way she made me feel.
How much effort it took to pretend I didn't notice when she'd gotten curves, or when her laugh started doing something strange to my chest. The way her lips felt on that night I finally let myself kiss her, or how irritating I found it that Lily kept her friendship so far removed as we grew older.
"I noticed." The words slip out before I can stop them.
Her head snaps up, eyes wide. "What?"
Shit. Now I'm the one who's said too much. But there's no taking it back, and something about the firelight and the storm and the way she's looking at me makes me want to be honest.
"I noticed you, Delaney. Trust me." I run a hand through my hair, avoiding her gaze. "You think I didn't see you in that little yellow sundress you wore to the Fourth of July barbecue? Or the way you bit your lip when you were nervous about something?"
"Then why–"
"Because you were fifteen and I was preparing for college." I finally meet her eyes. "And because you were Lily's friend, and good girls from small towns didn't need to get tangled up with guys like me."
"‘Guys like you,’" she repeats slowly. "What does that mean?"
I gesture vaguely at myself. "Come on. Even then, you had to know I was trouble.
I was angry all the time, picking fights, drinking too much, hooking up with too many girls.
The pressure to perform was consuming me.
You had your whole life mapped out—college, probably some nice guy who'd worship the ground you walked on, kids, the whole fairy tale.
I had my eye on one thing, and that was hockey. "
"Maybe I didn't want the fairy tale," she says quietly. "Maybe I wanted the guy who made my heart race every time he walked into a room. The one who stole my first kiss on a night he’d never remember, then disappeared for ten years."
The words hit me square in the chest. I stare at her across the flickering light, this woman who's somehow become essential to my breathing in the space of a few weeks, and I can't remember why keeping my distance seemed so important.
“That was your first kiss?” I dumbly ask. Her first kiss, and I snatched it away on some random drunken night…
She only nods, her gaze falling to her lap. "Your turn," she says, voice barely above a whisper. This time, it's her turn to deflect. "Truth or dare."
"Truth."
She shifts closer, and suddenly there's barely two feet of space between us. "Do you still think I'm too good for guys like you?"
The honest answer sticks in my throat. Because yes, she's too good for me.
She's sunshine and hope and everything bright in this world, and I'm the cynic who doesn't believe in…
anything. I'm the guy who couldn't even keep his own sister safe.
But looking at her now, the way the firelight dances across her skin and her lips are slightly parted like she's waiting for something, the honest answer doesn't seem to matter.
"I think," I say, reaching out to tuck one of those escaped strands of hair behind her ear, "that good and bad are more complicated than I used to believe."
My fingers linger against her cheek, and she leans into the touch. Her skin is soft and warm, and when she looks up at me through her lashes, I forget how to form coherent thoughts.
"Truth or dare," I murmur, though I'm not sure I actually want her to answer. I just want an excuse to keep touching her.
"Dare."
The word comes out breathless, and suddenly the game feels dangerous in an entirely different way. We're both leaning forward now, drawn together like magnets. I can smell her perfume—light and sweet. Something that makes me want to bury my face in her neck.
"I dare you," I whisper, my thumb brushing across her cheekbone, "to tell me to stop."
Her breath catches. "Stop what?"
Instead of answering, I lean closer.
Close enough to count her freckles.
Close enough to see the way her pupils have dilated.
Close enough that when she whispers my name, I can feel her breath against my lips.
"Mac..."
It's not a request to stop. It's a plea for something else entirely.
“Tell me to stop, Delaney,” I urge, my eyes locking in on her throat as it bobs with her nervous gulp. I blink, my mouth watering as my fingers itch to reach around and grasp her neck. What I wouldn't give to feel her pulse thrumming beneath my touch.
Slowly—so slow, I almost miss it—she shakes her head in the negative, stubbornly refusing to follow my dare.
Every rational thought in my head evaporates.
I'm going to kiss her. Right here on the floor of this cabin, where everything started going wrong, I'm going to kiss Delaney Caldwell and probably ruin everything good that's happened to me in months.
She meets me halfway, erasing the space between us without any more hesitation, and our mouths meet.
Her lips are cool from the crisp air around us. And soft, like the pillows beneath my legs. There's no hesitation in her kiss. She opens right up for me, allowing my tongue to slide past her lips and swipe against hers.
My hand shifts over to cradle the back of her head, holding her steady while my mouth devours her in ways I've only fantasized about. She digs her fists into my shirt, yanking me closer and taking exactly what she wants from me.
A log shifts in the fireplace, pulling us back to reality when a cloud of sparks flies into the air above our heads. She pulls away first, her fingers lightly brushing against her bottom lip in disbelief.
"We should..." Delaney starts, then trails off.
"Yeah." I clear my throat and put some distance between us, my hands shaking slightly as I reach for another blanket. "We should get some sleep. Big day tomorrow, figuring out how to get your truck started."
She nods, probably just as afraid to speak as I am.
We arrange ourselves on opposite sides of our makeshift bed, the fire between us like a barrier.
But even with four feet and a pile of cushions, I'm hyperaware of every sound she makes—the rustle of fabric as she gets comfortable, the soft sigh she makes when she finally settles.
"Mac?" Her voice drifts across the darkness.
"Yeah?"
"For what it's worth, I don't think you're as bad as you think you are."
I stare up at the ceiling, my chest tight with something I can't name. "Go to sleep, Caldwell."
But I lie awake long after her breathing evens out, wondering if she's right. And if maybe, just maybe, I'm tired of being the villain in my own story.