Chapter 13
THIRTEEN
Jari
There was a knock on the pool door while I was midway through a slow stretch, breathing steady, muscles finally unclenching.
I’d rolled my mat out early, chasing quiet before the world had a chance to crowd in, and for once I had the time for it.
An entire day to myself. No meetings. No media. Just space.
The knock came again, polite this time, and I straightened slowly, heartbeat kicking up a notch as I glanced toward the door.
I hadn’t been expecting anyone, and I knew it had to be Cam.
Even though focusing on hockey had taken over enough for me to compartmentalize, the fact Cam was probably at the door made me want to hide.
“Hiding from what, genius?” I muttered. “Coming!” I said louder and glanced down at my athletic shorts and my T-shirt, curling my bare toes against the soft mat.
I crossed the room and opened the door.
Cam stood there with a plastic container clutched in both hands and seeing him sent a quick wash of relief through me, followed by something sharper and more awkward.
Shyness, maybe. Or just the strange awareness that came with knowing I didn’t have a script for this version of us. Not since the blowjob.
He looked so damn handsome, it caught me off guard.
Sweatpants slung low on his hips, an Iron Horses T-shirt that had seen better days, dark hair neatly trimmed and a short beard that made his smile hit harder than it had any right to.
His eyes were dark, steady, warm—and when he smiled at me, something low and confusing tightened in my chest.
“Uh,” he said, thrusting it toward me as if it might explode if he held on too long. “I made cake.”
I blinked. “Cake.”
“Pineapple upside-down,” he added quickly. “With cherries. But not many cherries because I ate them, then I threw one at Kirby because he's an ass, and I think it’s under the refrigerator because I couldn’t find it.” He wrinkled his nose, clearly regretting the explanation.
He shifted his grip, then held the container out again, steadier this time. “Would you like some?”
I took it from him, and he stepped back as if he was going to drop and run. Something in my chest hurt. He’d made my favorite cake, and I didn’t want him to go. “Coffee?” I asked, a little too quickly, and gestured at the kitchen behind me. His smile was wide, and his shoulders dropped a little.
“That would be good.”
I stood to one side to let him in, catching the familiar scent of him as he passed close enough to brush my shoulder. My body reacted before my brain could intervene, heat and need sparking. God, I’d missed him.
“I watched the game,” he said as he sat at one of the stools by the short counter.
“I mean—most of it. I had to look a couple of things up.” He huffed out a small breath, half self-conscious.
“There was that shift in the second, when you dropped back instead of driving the line. I didn’t get why at first, but then I rewound it, and I think it was about slowing the play so Becks could reset? Or am I completely wrong?”
“You watched the game,” I said, focusing on that and the fact he had questions and not even beginning to answer what he'd asked.
“Of course, it's my new favorite thing,” he said with a smile. “And you looked good out there, so fast it was like a blur sometimes.”
I blinked at him. “How do you want your coffee?”
“Black,” he said, and I took a moment to reset myself, filling his mug and mine, then setting out plates for the cake. I cut two slices, and all that time, all I could think was that he'd said hockey was his new favorite thing.
Or did he mean me?
Why did I hope he meant me?
I took the stool next to his and forked up a mouthful of cake, then paused. “Okay,” I said. “That’s unfairly good.”
“Yeah?” His face lit up.
“The pineapple’s caramelized just right,” I went on, because apparently, I was doing this now. “Not too sweet. And the cake’s light, not heavy.” I took another bite, slower this time. “I don’t let myself have cake that often.”
He lifted a brow. “Occupational hazard?”
“Something like that.” I shrugged. “But for this? I’d do extra reps any day.”
He watched me for a second longer than necessary, as though he were weighing something. Then he carefully set his fork down.
“Can I—” He stopped, cleared his throat. “Can I kiss you?”
The question landed softly and still managed to knock the air out of me. I nodded once, and he leaned in slowly, giving me time to pull back if I wanted to.
I didn’t.
The kiss was gentle, unhurried. Sweet in a way that had nothing to do with cake, though the faint taste of pineapple and caramel lingered between us. It was easy to get lost in it, to forget everything else for a few seconds, and that was precisely why I pulled back first.
“I’ve been thinking,” I blurted, setting my fork down because my hands had started to shake. “About what happened. About… us.”
He stilled, eyes on me, open and patient in a way that made this harder.
“It’s not fair,” I continued. “I’m not out.
You are. I can't be out. Not when everyone already hates me, and when my father… and my mom…” Jesus, how did I explain this?
“My mom needs me to… look… I can’t ask you to hide, or pretend, or wait around while I have all this to figure out.
” I swallowed. “So, you should probably stay away from me and maybe find someone else to kiss or something.” The last part came out rough and low, everything I’d been holding back spilling over at once.
“I can’t lose my career. And it’s not fair on you to be wrapped up in secrets that are mine.
” I dragged a hand through my hair, words tumbling faster now.
“What if we keep kissing and someone sees? What if it gets back to the fans or the team? They wouldn’t understand.
I’m not like Noah or Trick. I’m not out, and I don’t know if I ever can be, and I'm not a good person.”
He frowned, processing that, then tipped his head to the side. “Okay,” he said. “But—”
“But what?”
“But you’d be okay,” he said, “with me finding someone else to kiss?”
The words hit me hard, stripped of all the softer edges I’d wrapped around them in my head. Hearing it out loud—him saying it, plain and reasonable—made my stomach drop.
“No,” I said, too fast, horror flashing through me before I could stop it. My chest seized, breath locking up as the truth of it slammed home. I shook my head, even as something hot and unstoppable forced its way up from somewhere deep and buried. “I—”
My voice broke.
I shoved back from the stool, legs unsteady, the sudden movement clumsy and desperate. Humiliating tears burned, spilling before I could get control. I turned away from him, hands clenched at my sides.
“But I can’t,” I said. “I can’t do anything that hurts my mom.”
I backed into the wall, breath coming too fast. I pressed my forehead to the cool surface and squeezed my eyes shut, but the tears kept coming anyway, dragged up from somewhere deep and long ignored. I didn’t understand any of it—how something that felt this right could also feel impossible.
Cam was there before I realized he’d moved. Not crowding me, just close enough that I could feel the warmth of him, hear his breathing steady and sure.
“Stay with me, Jari,” he said softly. “It’s okay. I’ve got you. It’s okay.”
The words looped, gentle and relentless, until my knees gave out.
He caught me, guiding us down the wall until we were sitting on the floor.
Somewhere in the clumsy descent, I ended up straddling his lap, his arms coming around me without hesitation.
I buried my face into his neck, breathing him in, clinging to the solid reality of him holding me together while everything inside me came apart.
“Do I need to call someone?” he asked, tugging me close and wrapping his arms around me. “One of your friends, Noah? I saw you and him laughing on the bench?”
I shook my head. The tears were quieter now, no longer breaking, just steady and humiliating. I focused on my breathing, on how he held me, forcing myself to slow down one breath at a time.
“No,” I said thickly. “No, not Noah.” I swallowed, the words heavy in my mouth.
“Noah’s a good person. He knows who he is.
He’s… solid.” I pulled back just enough to scrub at my face with the heel of my hand, shame burning hot under my skin.
“This is on me,” I added, quieter. “I just—sometimes it all gets too loud.”
“And you don't want me to kiss anyone else?” Cam half-teased and then pressed a kiss to my hair.
“No, and that's not fair on you, and I'm so fucking messed up, and I don't know if this is lust or just wanting to be held.”
“I'll always hold you,” he promised, but how could he say that? What about in a week, a month, a year, when I was still a mess, and he had to deal with me?
“You can't say that, not while this is a secret, and my mom…”
“We need to talk, sweetheart,” Cam murmured.
“No,” I said.
“Yes. What about your mom?”
I breathed into his skin, pressed a kiss to his throat, and worked my way to his lips, soft and careful.
How could I even think of exposing everything?
My brain jumped ahead, ruthless and fast—Cam getting tired of waiting, of promises I couldn’t keep; Cam resenting me for the things I couldn’t give him; Cam realizing this was all too heavy and pulling away, quietly, politely, because that was the kind of man he was.
I told myself it would be easier for him to leave now than later before I ruined him with my fear before he saw how broken I truly was.
If I were going to do this with Cam—really do it—I couldn’t give him half of me. I couldn’t ask him to carry my fear while I hid behind it.
“Please don't kiss anyone else,” I blurted instead.
“I wasn't planning on it, sweetheart,” he whispered. “But talk to me. What about your mom?”
I let out a shaky breath and lifted my head. “She’s not well,” I said quietly. “She’s in Finland. There’s a private clinic outside Turku—Havsvik Neurological Centre. It’s the best place. Quiet. Specialists. She’s… she’s happy there.”
Saying it out loud made my chest ache. “She has MS. It’s been getting worse for years.
My father pays for everything—the care, the doctors, the place itself.
” I swallowed hard, the words turning bitter.
“And the deal is that I play hockey. I carry his number. I don’t make waves or tell anyone what I've seen him do.” My voice hitched. “Or about what he's done to me.”
“What do you mean?”
“I can’t.” My voice broke, and the reality of it hit me all over again, sharp and unreal. “Fuck,” I muttered. “I can say it, but I don’t have the capacity to fix it. Or walk away. Or be brave the way people expect. All I can do is keep going and not let anything touch her.”
Cam was quiet, and when I finally looked at him, his expression was, focused in a way that stole my breath.
There was no anger there—just something fierce and protective.
I tried to wriggle off his lap, panic flaring, but he stopped me gently, hands firm at my waist. Then he cradled my face, thumbs warm against my cheeks.
“You’re so brave, Jari,” he said softly.
For a moment, neither of us shifted. His hands stayed on my face, steady and warm, thumbs brushing away the last of the tears, and I leaned in first, not rushing it, just enough to rest my forehead to his. The kiss that followed was slow and deliberate, and my body reacted fast.
“Please make me feel good,” I begged.
His breath hitched, and his hands slid from my face to my back, then lower, tentative, asking without words. I nodded, in a barely perceptible way, and his answering exhale told me he’d seen it.
We moved together after that, unhurried and quiet. No urgency, no taking—just hands finding their way, learning and matching the rhythm the other set.
My fingers dipped inside his sweats, past the waistband of his briefs, and found him stiff, thick, and heavy in my palm. A shudder ran through me, and Cam groaned, his head tipping back to the wall, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed.
“Jari,” he breathed, his hips lifting, and then he eased my sweats down and pushed me back a little so he could take both of us in hand.
Cam’s breath was warm against my throat.
“That’s it, sweetheart,” he murmured, his voice just above a whisper.
“You’re okay.” His other hand never stopped moving on my back, and I closed my fingers around his fist, staring down to where we were joined.
His thumb swiped over the heads, spreading the wetness, and his breath came out in a ragged gasp.
“You're perfect,” he whispered.
We moved together, slowly, but the hunger was there, simmering beneath the surface, ready to boil over.
I leaned in, my forehead pressing against his, our breaths mingling.
His scent wrapped around me, and I couldn’t resist anymore.
My lips crashed into his, messy and desperate, and he kissed me back just as hard, his free hand now buried in my hair, yanking me closer.
His tongue swept into my mouth, hot and demanding, and I moaned into him, my cock throbbing in his grip.
We were a tangle of limbs and need, our hands working each other faster, rougher, the slick sounds of flesh on flesh filling the air.
“Please,” I whispered, my voice breaking. I didn’t even know what I was begging for—release, comfort, him—but Cam understood. His thumb pressed the slit of my cock, his touch maddeningly light, and I whimpered, my hips jerking. “Fuck, please—”
“Shhh,” he murmured, his lips brushing mine.
”I’ve got you.” His words sent a wave of heat through me, my balls drawing up tight, my orgasm coiling low in my gut.
I could feel him trembling too, his cock pulsing in my fist, his breath coming in sharp, shallow gasps. Cam swallowed my groan as I came.
It hit me hard, my cock jerking in his grip, and he followed a second later, his body tensing, his release hot and thick in our hands, his breath a ragged curse against my mouth.
We stayed like that, trembling, the weight of Cam’s hand on my back and the sticky mess between us proof of something I couldn’t name.
For the first time, I'd just let myself feel.
And it was perfect.
We cleaned up in the bathroom, and he stayed close the whole time, brushing past me, stealing soft kisses without saying a word.
I let him. I needed the contact. Then back in the living room, Cam tugged me gently toward the sofa and sat, pulling me with him until I was straddling his lap again, my knees sinking into the cushions on either side of his thighs.
His hands were warm and sure at my waist, holding me there without pressure.
“Talk to me, sweetheart,” he said.
So, I did.