Chapter 24
CALLUM
For all her gentleness and sweet demeanor, Alia is jaded. She hides it well enough until someone takes the time to prod and see that beneath the quiet surface is a swirling pool of darkness she’s fighting to break through.
I suppose a cheating spouse could turn anyone bitter.
I’d love to know more about her, but her obvious change of subject makes it clear she won’t entertain any more questions that leave her feeling vulnerable.
But. . . her reaction to the flowers bothers me. As if she isn’t used to such a simple gesture. Then she immediately brushed off the idea that I’d take her to a nice restaurant. That we could have a date simply to enjoy ourselves.
She was married once. She must’ve dated before that happened, right?
I’m curious if my doubts are valid but I don’t ask. Tonight isn’t about her past. I sense there are things she hasn’t shared with me—and maybe never will. It’s not my place to demand answers, but I understand her motivations better than I did before.
She’s been forced to live under a set of expectations set by someone else and, now that she’s finally free, she’s figuring out new boundaries.
Her forthrightness is admirable, even if I don’t enjoy the reminder that I’m her ticket into a new phase. I meddled in her life and have to accept that all she can offer is sex and friendship.
I should be throwing a fucking party. All the fun and no commitment; isn’t that what I want?
I don’t feel jubilant, though—not that it changes my mind. Because if doing this means she gets to shed the dissatisfaction she wears like scabs over festering wounds, then call me Katniss. Because I fucking volunteer.
“Callum?”
Yep. Love it when she says my name like that.
“Cal!” she calls sharply.
I straighten. “‘Sup.”
“You were staring,” she murmurs, sounding equal parts concerned and amused.
“Nope, just thinking,” I mumble, shoving the crisp greens into my mouth so I have something else to focus on.
“Well?” she prompts. “Are you going to tell me more about you?”
“Me?” I ask quizzically. “What do you want to know?”
“Something, anything.”
“Okay,” I drawl, placing my fork down to lean back in my chair.
“Let’s see. I’m twenty-eight. Born in Calgary, Alberta to Maeve and Cameron Finnigan.
Mom’s a homemaker, Dad’s a bigshot CEO for an oil and gas company.
Both are high school sweethearts and still disgustingly in love.
They are excellent parents, possibly a bit over-involved and indulgent, so I have no trauma.
I was given everything I ever wanted, had a financially sound—lavish—life.
Even with all the money, they emphasized the importance of spending time together as a family.
Loved me so well I never needed to go through a rebellious phase.
I blame them if anyone finds me too well-adjusted and uninteresting. ”
Alia snorts, shaking her head at me like she’s not sure if she should scold me or laugh. I shoot her an irreverent wink and continue.
“I have a younger brother, Rory, who’s in the AHL and, in my totally unbiased opinion, he’s gonna make a hell of an NHL player soon. I hope I get to play with him before I retire but, either way, I’m a proud brother.”
Alia is glowing by the time I’m done with my spiel. She could’ve found all this information online but then I wouldn’t have seen how her gaze grew warm with fondness. I can’t remember when an attractive woman last looked at me with affection instead of ardor.
“Okay, but what about you?“ she asks again, shaking her head when I offer her more food.
“What about me? I love hockey, blue is my favorite color, I enjoy beach days, I like to cook sometimes, and have a green thumb I’m proud of. Might have a greenhouse someday. What else?”
We pick up our plates and head inside, dropping everything in the sink. I wave her over to sit on the stool at the marble island before handing her the dessert plate from the fridge.
“Are you hiding any skeletons I should know about?” She wiggles her brows at me, even as she lifts her fork to clink against mine, ready for it this time. Standing beside her, I lean on the countertop and dig into the lemon-berry cake I picked up from the farmer’s market.
“No skeletons. I’m an open book. Everything you want to know about me is right there on the internet,” I mumble, my mouth tingling as the tart citrus hits my tastebuds. “I’m Callum Finnigan, right winger, jersey #23. Nothing more, nothing less.”
Alia tsks, a tempered reprimand. Or perhaps it’s an expression of disappointment. Either way, it makes me lift my head up.
“I’m asking who Callum Finnigan, the man, is,“ she clarifies in a gentle tone. “Not the hockey player. Simply. . . Cal.”
My ears ring with those two words, my mind curiously blank as I try to formulate an answer.
I’m used to pressure. I’m used to being in the spotlight and answering tough questions in the media room.
I’ve handled uncomfortable and inquisitive digs about my personal life and conjectures about why I had an off day on the ice.
Right now, with Alia’s guileless gaze settled upon me, the lack of expectation for a certain answer feels scarier than it should. There is no script I can follow, no guide on how to define my life or the person I am.
It hits me with unexpected clarity that this fear is what Alia lives with daily. This is what she’s trying to work through. The lack of structure is both freeing and terrifying.
I’ve never had to think about who I am outside of hockey. Will people still like me? Will she?
I’ve only known Alia for a short period of time, but I want her to like me. Not desire or lust—just like. It’s an uncomplicated emotion: to enjoy someone’s company without wanting more from them.
I have that with my family, but elsewhere. . .
My teammates love the skills I bring to the ice; that’s why they like me.
Jenna said she liked me because she loved me. False on both counts. After a long line of women showing me I’m good enough in bed but not enough to be chosen outside of it, I don’t know what to think.
I want Alia to like me just because. Without reason, without condition.
She clears her throat, pinkening because I’ve been staring. Again.
“May I ask you something personal?” Her lower lip tucks in like she’s already regretting her question.
Alia has never initiated any intimate conversation and I’m beyond curious.
“Why ask permission when you’re going to do it anyway?” I tease, drawing a quick grin and a nose scrunch so cute, I have to close my eyes so I don’t lean forward and kiss it. “Go ahead, Tots. Do your worst.”
“Why don’t you have a girlfriend?”
My brow arches.
“You don’t have to answer me. I. . .” She runs a hand through her hair, an embarrassed laugh tumbling forth. “The media coverage on your love life paints quite the colorful picture.”
“Playboy Cal. Charming Cal.” I know the stupid names they’ve coined. Never thought there’d be a time I’d be more embarrassed about that than now.
“I’m not passing judgement on you, you know that, right?”
I say nothing, choosing instead to scoop more cake into my mouth. I believe her; Alia doesn’t have a mean bone in her very pretty body. But I can also imagine how it must look to her. How I must look. Caustic annoyance twists within me.
“I’m not sure I’m cut out for it.”
Alia tilts her head, studying me silently.
“I was cheated on as well.” Why the fuck did I reveal that? I never speak about Jenna. No one knows about her except Mom. To my complete horror, I continue talking.
“We met at one of the post-game celebrations early on in my career. I was playing for Tampa then. I fell for her, fast and hard. I was twenty-two, first year in the NHL, making a massive paycheck and, somehow, I’d found myself a beautiful girlfriend—I felt invincible.
But the grueling schedule and the number of away games meant I couldn’t give her the attention she wanted.
And she chose to find that with another man. ”
Alia’s expression softens and she lays a hand on my arm. I’ve been touched like this before. An accidental graze sometimes, the dance of feminine fingers. But it’s never been to soothe me, like it is now. I’m entranced by the heat collecting between her palm and my skin.
I try to put myself in her shoes and wonder if I’d be as kind as her. Despite her belief that she’s weak, all I see is strength: strength to have lived through some tough losses and, importantly, strength to try to be better.
Not everyone has the ability to do that.
I’ve seen sportsmen lose themselves after a career-ending injury.
Drugs, alcohol, sex—everything in excess until they are a mere shadow of who they were.
Alia is still so gentle with the people around her and this tells me everything I need to know about her fortitude.
Far greater than she gives herself credit for.
Why she doesn’t see this is beyond me, but I’ll find a way to show her the beauty she reflects.
“I’m sorry you went through that,” she murmurs, her thumb rubbing back and forth over my stiff muscle.
“I’ve had years to come to terms with it, but it seems pointless to try again. I’m still in the NHL, still have a schedule that isn’t conducive to relationships. Casual simply feels more—”
“Achievable,” Alia finishes.
An acute sense of loss stirs in me when she draws her hand back. God, what I wouldn’t give for her to touch me again. Soothe me everywhere.
“I get it,” she says. “No one wants to set themselves up to fail.”
That she understands so easily is another reminder why she’s here. Because she doesn’t want a relationship either.
“It’s only that you’re. . .” She mumbles under her breath, too low for me to catch the words.
“I’m what?”
“You’re amazing,” she sighs. “Any girl would be lucky to be with you.”
My spoon falls to the counter with a clatter, crumbs of cake and flecks of blueberry coulis staining the previously clean surface. I should be embarrassed by how jittery and reactive I am, but I can’t hide my surprise.
“You’re kind, caring, and respectful. You did all this,” she gestures around us, “for a non-date.”
“Did what?” I question. I may not have invited the women I’ve slept with to my home but I’ve sure as fuck taken them on a date before they dropped to their knees for me.
I’ve wined-and-dined them in lavish restaurants with no menus but still cost four figures for a meal.
Not wanting a relationship wasn’t a reason to treat them carelessly, so I have no idea what about today—a conversation and homemade pasta—constitutes as all this.
“I bought you some flowers, made dinner, and got dessert. That’s it.”
“That’s a lot,” she insists, her rich brown eyes clearly reflecting how grateful she feels. And fuck if it doesn’t kill me. How are her standards this goddamn low?
“The bar is in hell, isn’t it?” I grunt.
“Hmm?”
“It’s the bare fucking minimum, Alia. Don’t let anyone treat you otherwise because you’re too good for less.”
Her wistful look rips me apart so harshly, I almost fold over. I want to hold her, kiss her, demand that she understand what I’ve said and live by it as a principle.
“Like I was saying,” she continues, her throat bobbing in a quiet swallow, “I can only imagine how well you’d treat the girl you fall in love with. The more I get to know you, the more perfect you seem.”
I’m no longer fully listening. A wave of giddiness drowns everything out.
Perfect? She thinks I’m perfect?
My entire body goes awash in heat. A furious blush blooms across my chest, rising until the tips of my ears burn. I’m surprised they don’t fall right off. Fucking hell, am I going to faint? Is this what swooning is?
My fingers clench the edges of the cold counter as my vision homes in on the woman who’s crushing my capacity to converse without falling all over myself. All because she praised me.
Fuck me, do I have a praise kink?
“I’m not perfect,” I mumble, heat swathing my face. “If I was, I’d have something resembling my parents’ happy marriage. I thought it’d be easy to find but, clearly, it’s not.”
I can’t seem to help myself from spilling my guts like an emotional mess. What the hell is in this cake? I glare at the dessert tray like it’s the lemon or the berry making me loose-lipped.
I don’t usually deep dive into my emotions.
With the boys, I’m one of the fun ones. The one who takes it easy.
The one who doesn’t get worked up and dwell on failures.
Hell, I don’t fail—period. Yet this introverted woman with eyes the color of my favorite chocolate has the capacity to obliterate my filters and tear down my armor until the very heart of me is exposed.
With anyone else, I’d be scrambling to put some distance between us. With Alia, intrinsically, I know what I’ve shared in confidence is safe. Dropping my guard to let her see my biggest failure has been easier than anticipated. “I guess we have this experience in common apart from our nicknames.”
“We have one more thing in common,” she adds. “We’re both imperfect works-in-progress.”
As her words sink in, something slots into place inside me. The cumbersome dissatisfaction I’ve been battling loses a little of its edge. Like I’ve been given the space to be whatever I choose to be—and to evolve in my own time.
“I guess that’s how I’ll answer your question, then. I’m Cal Finnigan, jersey #23, right winger for the Monterey Ironhearts, and a work-in-progress.”
“And you’re a Daddy.”
Excuse me? My head whips up so fast, my neck nearly snaps.
“Plant! Plant daddy!” she corrects immediately. A charming scatter of pink dusts her cheeks as she stares at me, panicked. Mirth tickles the edges of my mouth as mortification darkens her blush to a crimson I could kiss.
“Your kinks are showing, Tots. Don’t worry, I’ll keep your secret.”
She groans, covering her face with both hands, mumbling, “This is almost as bad as when I kept saying ‘dicks’ when we first met.”
I burst out laughing, making her giggle as well. As our shared joy spreads into the corners of my home, the gnawing emptiness I’ve never been able to erase begins to fill.
Just friends, Cal, I remind myself, unconsciously committing her image to memory. That’s it. It can’t be anything more.
She doesn’t want that, and neither do I.