Chapter 20
CHAPTER TWENTY
kennedy
Sloane leads me past equipment rooms and staff offices, her heels clicking authoritatively on the concrete, only slowing as we approach a door marked LOCKER ROOM - AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY in bold letters.
She pauses, grasping the door handle, glancing back at me, her expression one of concern. “Last chance to change your mind.”
Hell no. I flick my wrist, gesturing at the door in an “after you” motion.
With a nod, she pulls it open and steps inside.
The locker room is bigger than I expected, a large rectangular space with benches and cubbies lining the walls, each station marked with a player’s name and number.
Logan, Jake, Cole, and Cameron all have stations next to one another, which is very bromantic.
There’s equipment everywhere: pads scattered on benches, helmets and gloves in various states of organization.
Now I understand why Cameron didn’t run screaming when he saw my apartment. He sees cluttered chaos every day.
The tension in the room is thick enough to choke on.
The energy isn’t the confident and celebratory kind a team that’s winning (albeit by one) should possess.
As the players notice us, conversations simmer to silence and every head turns our way.
Sweat breaks out at my hairline, the awareness that I’m a woman in a male space acute.
It’s not threatening, but it definitely doesn’t feel great.
I’m an intruder here, breaking some unspoken rule about locker room sanctity. It’s clear by every eye fixed on me.
As a rush of awkwardness rolls over me, I smile at the team like I’m a presenter at an awards show.
“Hi,” I squeak out. “You guys ever thought about hiring an interior designer? The vibes down here are giving…” I scan the space, nose scrunched, “underground bunker. You should also invest in candles. Or air freshener.”
Cole ducks his head, biting back a laugh.
Logan tosses his arms up and growls. “No one’s going to give her shit about suggesting candles? I’ve been saying this for months, and you all yell at me and pretend to throw tomatoes.”
“Sloane?” One of the assistant coaches approaches, his clipboard clutched in one hand and confusion written across his face. “What’s going on? We’re about to—”
“I know. This’ll just take a minute,” she says, her tone authoritative.
The man takes a step back, nodding once without further argument.
Hell yeah, queen.
She lifts her chin, expression expectant. “Where’s Cameron?”
The question lands like a stone in water, the ripples spreading outward. A few players exchange glances and one of them mutters, but I can’t make out what he’s saying.
Cole, a man worthy of the title of team captain, stands. “Talking to Henderson in his office.”
“More like getting spanked by Henderson,” Logan pipes in. “And not in the fun way.”
Sloane shoots him a biting look, then turns, signaling for me to do the same, but before we can leave the room, Cameron and Coach Henderson stalk in.
Cameron spots me right away and freezes, zeroing in on me. His hair’s damp with sweat and sticking up all over like he’s been running his hands through it. The hard glint in his eye would freak me the fuck out on anyone but him.
His expression cycles through surprise and confusion and then a look more complicated. One I can’t quite name. Whatever it is, there’s pain there, too.
The room goes quiet. Even the assistant coaches stop and turn, waiting to see what happens next.
The pressure of all the attention on us makes my skin prickle, but I force myself to ignore it all and stand taller.
“Hey,” I say, the single word scraping out of me.
I clear my throat and keep going. “Not to sound like a needy Bachelorette contestant or anything, but can I pull you aside for a quick chat? Then you can get back to kicking the Trailblazers’ asses. ”
A few players clap and whoop at my compliment, and some of the strain in the air dissipates.
Cameron doesn’t move, though.
“Sorry, I didn’t quite catch your answer,” I say when he doesn’t respond. “It’s hard to hear over all that silent brooding you’re doing.”
“Don’t,” he finally says, voice low and grumbly in a way that turns me on despite the situation. “I’m not in the mood, Kennedy.”
“Well, I am, and since I’m a woman, and therefore always right, I think now is the best time to talk.”
A muscle twitches near his temple, his jaw going rigid. “No.”
“Fine.” I shrug, going for flippant when inside, I’m trembling. “Then I’m calling in my favor.”
His eyes narrow to slits. “Excuse me?”
“I’m. Calling. In. My. Favor,” I repeat, punctuating each word. “You know, the unspecified favor of my choosing to be redeemed at any point in time?” I arch a brow. “I’m calling it in. So you’re going to shut up and listen for the next five—”
“Three,” Sloane cuts in.
“Three,” I agree with a nod at her, “minutes. Then you can go back to brooding in peace.”
A few of his teammates snicker, but I don’t take my eyes off Cameron to identify who.
He studies me, searching my face. For what, I don’t know. So I stay stock still despite feeling like prey about to be pounced on. He must find what he’s looking for, because after a moment, his face softens. The change is subtle, but I’ll take it. With a breath out, he nods.
I turn to his coach. “Can we talk in your office? You have my word that I’ll keep this guy on his best behavior.”
Coach Henderson shakes his head, his face red and his eyes hard. “Yes. Fine. Go. But your ass better be back on the ice and ready to play in three minutes.”
“You definitely don’t want me out there,” I reply, cringing. “I do better in heels than skates, although—”
“I meant my goalie.”
I rock back on my heels and point at him. “Right. Yep. Of course.”
Before I can embarrass myself any further, Cameron grips my hand and pulls me out of the locker room. His palm is warm against mine as he leads me past a couple of doors. He stops abruptly and tugs me into a room filled with framed jerseys, photos, and championship memorabilia.
The moment the door clicks shut behind us, I dive in, listing off the series of events in a quick, to-the-point manner.
“I was wearing your jersey. Well, it’s mine, but it has your name on it,” I blurt.
“But a server spilled a tray of drinks on me. Gigi”—I try not to growl—“saw it happen and insisted she’d have someone bring me a new one.
And they did. It was the Linden jersey, but didn’t recognize the name.
The moment I found out whose jersey it was, I ripped it off.
Hence why I’m in a bra and Sloane’s too-tight blazer that makes me look like I’m auditioning for the role of teacher in a very specific type of adult film. ”
He scans my face, his expression raw, almost unguarded in a way I’ve never seen.
The look alone makes my chest ache.
“You were wearing my jersey?”
His voice is rough and scraped raw, making me pause.
“I—yes… it was a really cool one, too. I found a vintage one online from your rookie season. I even paid extra for expedited shipping so it’d be here in time for the game.”
“You…” He blows out a breath. “You bought a jersey from my rookie season.” He takes a step closer. “Online.”
“Well, yeah. They don’t sell them in stores anymore, and I wanted something unique.”
“And you paid for expedited shipping?”
I blink in confusion. Why does he care about that? “Yes, I paid for expedited shipping. I’d prefer not to talk about it because it goes against my personal belief that shipping should be free or at least baked into the price of the item so I don’t know I’m paying it. It—”
“Kennedy.” He cuts me off, his expression heating.
Nerves rattled, I shift my weight from one foot to the other.
His green eyes are dark, nearly burning. “You bought a vintage jersey from my rookie year.”
“Yes… I think I’ve made myself clear about that. I didn’t want to keep borrowing Sophie’s jersey, even though I don’t care about being an outfit repeater, so—”
“And you ripped off his jersey the second you found out.”
I scoff. “Obviously. I wasn’t going to stand there wearing—”
“In the middle of a hallway? You just took it off?”
“One, stop cutting me off. It’s really rude.” I sigh. “And two, it was technically the end of the hallway, but yes.”
Without warning, he closes the distance between us, and suddenly I’m pressed against the wall, his hands framing my face, his mouth on mine.
My hands come up automatically, gripping the shoulders of his chest protector. The equipment is hard and solid under my fingers. Fuck, I wish I could feel his skin right now.
He’s everywhere, crowding into my space, his body gear pressed against me from chest to thigh.
The kiss isn’t gentle or tentative or questioning. It’s fierce and desperate and tastes faintly of Gatorade and something that’s just him.
A loud knock on the door, followed by “Davies, time to go!” has me pulling back.
Cameron’s not having it. He slides a hand into my hair, tilting my head back, then slips his tongue between my lips, teasing in a way that has me whimpering into his mouth.
The knock and voice come again, louder and angrier this time. “Davies! Coach wants you back now!”
Cameron steps back, and the loss of his warmth is visceral.
His hair is an even bigger mess thanks to my fingers, and there’s a dazed look in his eyes that probably mirrors my own.
For a second, we only look at each other, both breathing heavily, both clearly trying to process what just happened and where we go from here.
The knock comes a third time, aggressive enough to rattle the door in its frame. “Davies, I swear to God—”
Cameron stomps to the door and yanks it open just wide enough to stick his head out. “I quit,” he announces flatly, then slams it shut again without waiting for a response.