Chapter 7 Jari
SEVEN
Jari
I hated that Cam had seen the panic, but the worst of it had passed. The shaking had eased. My heart wasn’t trying to claw its way out of my chest anymore. That didn’t stop the shame from settling in, heavy and familiar.
I focused on Lionel’s weight on my legs, the steady vibration of his purr, the warmth grounding me back into my body. My hands still shook, but less. Enough that I could breathe without counting.
Cam didn’t say anything about what had happened.
That should’ve been a relief. Instead, it made me aware of him in a way I didn’t want to examine too closely—the space he gave me, the way he angled his body, so he wasn’t crowding me, the fact that he stayed anyway. Not hovering. Not pretending nothing had happened. Just there.
I risked a glance at him.
He wasn’t watching me as if I might break. He wasn’t watching me at all, not really—just sitting close enough I could feel the heat from his arm when he shifted, close enough I caught the clean scent of soap and coffee when he leaned forward. Normal things. Stupid things to notice.
My stomach flipped hard, sharp enough that I stiffened.
No.
I dragged my attention back to Lionel, fingers digging into his fur as if I could anchor myself there. This was just my nerves misfiring—adrenaline crash. My brain was searching for something safe to latch onto now the danger had passed.
Except my awareness kept sliding back to Cam. To the way his voice had cut through the noise. To how he’d asked before touching me. To how he hadn’t let go too quickly—or held on too long.
I didn’t want this. Whatever this was.
Wanting things made everything harder. Wanting people made them dangerous. I’d learned that lesson young and had paid for it more than once. I swallowed, throat tight, and forced myself to sit back in the chair, putting a fraction more space between us.
Cam noticed, of course he did, but he didn’t comment or look hurt, just adjusted with me as if it mattered that I was okay, and it shouldn’t have mattered as much as it did.
I exhaled slowly, steadying myself, telling inner Jari this was only relief, only gratitude, nothing more.
But the thought crept in anyway, quiet and unwanted, settling low in my chest where panic had been moments ago.
I didn’t want this feeling to go away.
That scared me more than the panic ever had, but as he and Phil chatted, I felt my tension ease, as I realized I hadn’t needed to manage myself around Cam.
“I always step onto the ice right foot first,” I added quietly when there was a pause in the superstition discussion. “If I don’t, I feel off all game.”
Phil nodded, as if this were serious business. “That tracks.”
Cam smiled, small and warm, the corner of his mouth tugging up first, eyes crinkling as though he hadn’t meant to do it—and something in my chest loosened. I noticed the shape of it before I could stop myself, then shoved the thought away.
I stole a glance at him. Then another. He was relaxed now, sprawled just a little, long legs stretched out, hands easy on his thighs.
There was no sign that what had happened outside bothered him.
It was as if it hadn’t changed how he saw me, and that made me feel warm.
Because I wanted his eyes on me, wanted that look again—the one that said he saw me, really saw me, and didn’t flinch.
My stomach flipped because that was what a friend would do.
Right? I didn’t have many friends, not any that stuck around, and maybe Cam could be that friend I wanted?
Friends who have coffee and talk about nothing and everything?
I dragged my attention back to Phil, who was explaining something about socks and winning streaks.
I nodded in the right places, even laughed once, but my focus kept slipping.
Back to Cam’s mouth when he smiled, which was stupid and unhelpful and not something I needed to be noticing. Because… friend…
When there was a pause in the conversation, Phil shifted in his chair, the leather creaking, and peered at me over the rim of his mug. ” So,” he said, casual as anything, “You're that new puck pusher, then? Aarni Lankinen's kid.”
The knot in my stomach tightened again. I nodded once.
No point pretending otherwise, and I glanced at Cam, who watched me steadily.
This was clearly not news to him that my last name was Lankinen.
Of course it wasn’t, I couldn’t hide it, and I felt sick.
“Yeah.” Heat crept up my neck. I dropped my gaze to Lionel, burying my fingers deeper into his fur, and out of the corner of my eye, I saw Cam lean forward, forearms on his thighs, as if he wanted to be closer to me.
Great. If he knew who my dad was, maybe he saw me as pathetic now—something to be pitied for my name, for the panic attack.
Or worse, perhaps this was kindness with strings attached, a lull before the drop?
Stop!
“Big move coming to Harrisburg with all that baggage,” Phil said. “I read a few things and y'know, fans have got long memories, but you'll show them, so don't pay any mind to what they're saying.”
Something in his tone—kind, unassuming—made my chest ache. I swallowed. “I won't.” I lied. Jeez, one drunk asshole and I'd lost my shit on a sidewalk, so how was that for ignoring people?
Cam shot me a quick look, checking in without making a thing of it, and I stole another glance at him in return. He caught me that time. Didn’t glance away. I didn’t see pity in his gaze, or criticism, or… my stomach flipped again.
Phil chuckled to himself and took another sip of coffee. “Well, I'd better go and fix myself to the back. Got a couple of boxes of baseball cards just came in—needs sorting before Lionel decides they’re beds.”
Lionel kneaded my thigh, purring like a small engine, and for a few quiet seconds, the world narrowed to coffee, dust, and the warmth of a cat.
And Cam was close enough that I caught the clean scent of soap and coffee when he shifted, steady warmth at my side, I pretended not to notice.
I was still anxious. Still embarrassed. Still carrying the echo of that man’s voice in my head, but I stayed, and that felt like something.
We passed an hour in there without really noticing the time. Just… sitting. Chilling. Talking about nothing and everything—road trips, the weirdest superstitions Cam had seen in clubhouses, the difference between hockey tape and baseball grip tape as if it were a serious academic debate.
Cam didn’t revisit what had happened on the sidewalk or the way I’d lost control. He didn’t ask about my dad, or my name, or what it was like growing up with all that noise. He let the silence exist when it wanted to and filled it when it didn’t.
At some point, we made plans—loose ones, easy ones—and I caught myself wanting them to happen sooner than necessary, which I immediately reframed as enthusiasm for normal human friendship.
Coffee again. Maybe food next time. Something low-key.
Something I didn’t have to armor myself for.
I didn’t realize how quiet my head had gotten until he stood to leave.
I could do this. I could have a friend who didn’t need explanations.
Who didn’t need me to perform, confess, or justify myself.
Someone who just let me be me.
Now, if only I could come to terms with wanting to hug or even kiss my new friend, everything would be fine.
New Jersey had us by the balls.
Again.
This was our second pre-season game against them, and we'd already lost to them two nights ago, a tragic five to nothing in their barn. But now we were home, and when I’d skated out for warm-ups, my first time as one of the Railers, the noise had hit me full in the chest.
Loud and grating boos rolled down from the stands.
I’d expected it. No one wanted me traded here.
To them, I was the mistake, the question mark, the reason we’d lost to New Jersey despite neither of us fielding our best teams because, yeah, pre-season.
I kept my head down, did my laps, told myself it didn’t matter—but the sound followed me anyway, a low, ugly reminder that home ice didn’t automatically mean welcome.
Cap made sure he was right by my side, Noah, Trick, Becks, Mules, they all made a show to the fans that I was wanted, whether they believed it or not.
I hadn’t shone in the first pre-season game—and tonight wasn't any better.
Three to them, nothing to us on the board, and it felt worse than the score suggested.
New Jersey was everywhere—on the puck, in the lanes, on our sticks before we could even think about making a play.
Every rush died early. Every breakout turned into a scramble. Nothing flowed.
I didn't flow.
For a second—no warning, no reason—I was thirteen again, standing in the kitchen in my skates, still damp, still smelling like the rink. My dad hadn’t even glanced up from the paper.
If you were any good, they’d notice.
I’d tried to explain. About the assist. About the coach playing favorites.
He’d snorted. Excuses. You want to make it? Be better. Otherwise, don’t embarrass me.
The memory hit hard and fast, like a punch to the ribs—the same tightness in my chest. The same instinct to shrink, to disappear, to stop giving anyone a reason to look too closely.
I shoved it down where it belonged and focused on the ice.
On my line, it was undeniable why we were fucked up.
It was all on me, and I wasn’t connecting with Becks and Mules the way I needed to.
I was a step off on the forecheck, drifting into space that was already covered, arriving just late enough to be useless.
Becks carried wide, searching for support that didn’t come.
Mules went hard to the net, banging for position, but the puck never followed him there.
Frustration crept in fast. I started gripping my stick, forcing plays that weren't there. New Jersey fed on my fuckups.