Chapter 14
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
cameron
Every eye is on us the moment we arrive, the whole team damp from the snow and freezing winds. Conversations don’t stop exactly, but they shift. Patrons and fans sneak photos using their phones, pretending they’re not clocking our every move.
It’s annoying as shit, but unfortunately, it’s a side effect of my career.
Kennedy is by the bar with Maya, wearing a vintage Bobcats shirt that hugs her curves and shows a sliver of midriff.
Operation Fake Girlfriend (still a horrible name) is officially underway, so I cut through the crowd, pushing one shoulder forward to slip past clusters of people, my eyes locked on her the entire way.
“Hey, Cam,” Maya calls out. “Great game.”
“Thanks.” I give her a slight nod. “You may want to go save your boyfriend. Logan’s trying to convince him to get a Manzilian.”
Maya puffs out a slow breath. “I love him, but sometimes I wish he had an off button.”
She leans in close to Kennedy, murmuring something, then disappears into the crowd, hopefully to save Cole’s balls from the discomfort of hot wax. Jake learned his lesson the hard way, and the horror stories have my appendage hiding in solidarity.
Kennedy gives me a conspiratorial wink. “And then there were two.”
“Observant.”
“Smart-ass,” she counters.
“Part of my charm.” I nod to the bar. “Can I get you a drink?”
She holds up her hand, the one that’s very obviously holding a drink, and shakes her head. “Thanks, but I have one.”
Before my brain can process what the fuck I’m doing, I take the glass from her and down the contents. It’s delicious, the warm honey-sweet liquor of the hot toddy a pleasant surprise.
“What the actual fuck?” she growls, punctuating each word with the kind of venom that would make most men step back.
I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and let out a breath. “Can I buy you a drink now?”
“Now?” she asks, the pitch of her voice alarming high. “Now I want to punch you in the dick, not accept your offer for a drink. What is wrong with you? Is this how you flirt?”
“No.”
At least I don’t think so. I usually don’t have to flirt, so I guess I’ve never thought about it. Women usually make the first move, or they don’t, and I go from there.
“So you just wanted to be an ass and steal my drink?”
“I offered to buy you a new one,” I remind her.
“Jesus Christ,” she mutters. “Buy me a new drink, but don’t expect me to say please or thank you. I’m still annoyed with you.”
“Okay.”
I flag down the bartender and order another hot toddy.
As he wanders away, I study the woman beside me, watching the way her jaw tightens.
Annoyed Kennedy is sexy. The flush creeping up her neck; the fire in her eyes; the harsh angle of her jaw, like she’s biting back a sharp comment—they all do it for me.
She takes the fresh drink when it arrives, wrapping both hands around the glass like she’s restraining herself from throwing it at me.
“You’re welcome,” I say.
“I didn’t say thank you,” she shoots back, but there’s the smallest twitch at the corner of her mouth.
Yeah. Definitely sexy.
A loud crack behind me draws Kennedy’s attention. She tilts to one side, peering past me, then straightens. “You any good at pool?”
“Decent enough. Are you?”
Rather than answer, she slides her warm hand into mine and tugs me toward the pool tables.
The green felt is worn smooth from years of bad shots and spilled beers, and it’s scattered with striped and solid balls.
Jake and Tyler are locked in an intense game where the rookie appears to be whooping my friend’s ass.
“I’m playing winner,” Kennedy announces. “Which will most likely be…” She leans closer to the rookie. “Sorry, what’s your name?”
He looks up from the table and flushes. Hand held out, he replaces the look of surprise with a dimpled smile. “Tyler.”
“Our new right-winger,” Jake adds, eyes never leaving the table.
“Nice to meet you, Tyler,” she says. “It looks like you’re winning, so I’ll play you next.”
I don’t know much about the rookie other than that his sister has a successful sports podcast and is engaged to a Formula 1 driver, and that Jake has taken him under his wing. But there’s no way in hell he’s playing Kennedy in a one-on-one game while I stand here like a cuckold and watch.
I place a heavy hand on her shoulder, giving it a light squeeze. “We’ll play two-on-two.”
Jake shrugs. “Cool. How about Kennedy and me against you and Tyler?”
How about absolutely the fuck not?
Before I can shut his dumb idea down, before I can tamp down the flare of possessiveness that came out of nowhere, Kennedy takes a step forward.
“Sorry, bud, but Cameron already shot-gunned me. I promised to be his partner for any double games. He knows how talented I am with sticks and balls. Right, Cam?”
She tosses me a saucy wink that has me standing stock still, muscles frozen.
With a roguish smile, Jake brings his beer to his lips. By nature, he’s a flirt. He doesn’t do it consciously; it’s just who he is. But with this ridiculous jealousy issue I seem to be experiencing, I’m concerned I might end up breaking my friend’s nose if he keeps it up.
While we watch the game unfold, Kennedy provides commentary like she’s a sideline reporter.
“I don’t get it,” she says, shaking her head in mock confusion. “You’re a professional hockey player, Jake. You understand rebounds, angles, and precision…” She gestures at the pool table. “But put a stick in your hand without skates on your feet, and suddenly you’re a giraffe using chopsticks.”
“Pool cues are different,” he argues as he lines up to take a shot.
“They’re sticks, Reid,” Tyler says. “We literally play a sport that requires equipment called ‘hockey sticks.’”
Kennedy takes a sip of her drink, still shaking her head. “It’s okay to admit that you can handle a puck and not balls, ya know?”
Jake shoots, but the shot he had lined up goes astray, crashing into two solids with a clunk. He narrows his eyes at Kennedy. “Inter-fucking-ference. You can’t say shit like that to throw me off.”
“It’s not Kennedy’s fault your mind’s in the gutter,” I comment.
“Probably right next to his razor,” she adds, face perfectly neutral.
Tyler walks around him and retrieves the ball he just pocketed.
Jake cocks a brow and strokes his mustache like an evil villain pets his cat. Unless that cat is Zo, who would probably try to claw his arm off. “Girls love a ’stache.”
She grimaces. “Maybe on Tom Selleck in the ’80s.”
Tyler nudges him before he can reply. “You’re up, man.”
“Not a fan of the porn ’stache?” I ask as Jake takes his shot.
The cue ball hits a yellow solid, which bounces off the edge and does nothing. He’s usually decent at pool, but tonight he’s playing like he’s wearing a blindfold.
She gives Jake a slow once-over, her attention dragging from his sneakers to his gray henley, and shrugs. “I actually like it. Few men can pull off a mustache without looking like a creepy magician, but it suits him.”
Discomfort grows in my chest as her eyes linger on Jake for half a second too long. Of course she thinks he looks good. Everyone does. Jake’s got that all-American boy next door look. He’s tall, with an athletic build and that easy confidence that comes from never having to work for attention.
I take a long sip of my drink, pushing back on the question forming in the back of my mind: If Kennedy had bid on a date with Jake, would she have invited him up afterward? Would he have said yes?
The thought pisses me off more than it should.
“Hello? Earth to Cameron.” Kennedy digs her elbow into my side. “Did you hear what I said?”
“That you like Jake’s mustache?” I ask with an arched brow.
She frowns in confusion. “What? No. That I ran into Gigi at the game.”
My blood runs cold at the sudden topic change. “What?”
She takes a sip of her drink, her expression totally neutral, drawing out the suspense. “Outside the locker room. She introduced herself as Gigi, short for Giulia. Fitting, since Giulia Tofana was one of the most prolific female assassins in history. Killed over six hundred men.”
“And?” I ask, voice sharp and gritty.
“And they arrested her after a failed poisoning attempt was reported. She was more of a savior if you think about it because—”
“I meant with Gigi.”
“Oh, that.” She drops her shoulders and heaves out a dramatically long sigh. “Long story short, I told her we were together and that she’d be a ho if she broke girl code and continued to pursue you.”
I blink, then blink again, as fascinated as I am horrified. “You called her a ho?”
Kennedy huffs. “No, I didn’t call her a ho. I said she would be a ho if she continued to set her sights on you even after I staked my claim.”
“Staked your claim?” I ask, lips twitching. I wish I could have been a fly on the wall for that conversation, considering Kennedy’s lack of social anxiety gives me, someone who never shies away from confrontation, anxiety.
“Yes,” she says, completely misunderstanding my rhetorical question. Or maybe ignoring it altogether. “You know, like put my stamp on it, claim my turf, set up shop, sow my wild oats—”
“That last one definitely doesn’t mean what you think it means.” I bark out a laugh. “But I’m glad you avoided bloodshed.”
“Oh, she definitely wanted to claw my eyes out,” she reassures me with a pat on the arm.
“Davies, stop flirting and help me rack ’em up,” Jake calls out, their game apparently over.
He winks at Kennedy, and to avoid lobbing a pool ball at his head, I grab two pool cues and look away. I test the weight of them before handing Kennedy the heavier one. I’ve never actually seen her play, so if she sucks, this should at least give her a little control over her shots.