Chapter 11
Igroaned, pulling the pillow over my head. "Mom, it's vacation. Why are we up at the crack of dawn?"
"It's hardly dawn, sweetie. And everyone will be hungry after their morning walks. I've already got coffee brewing."
Beside me, Cam was already sitting up, looking frustratingly alert for someone who'd been up half the night talking about feelings. "Morning, Diana," he said. "We'll be down in ten."
"Perfect! I've left out all the pancake ingredients. The kids have been asking for chocolate chip ones."
When the door closed behind her, I emerged from under my pillow cocoon. "How are you so chipper? We barely slept."
Cam stretched, revealing ab muscles I definitely wasn't staring at. "Hockey schedules. I can function on basically no sleep." He glanced at me and grinned. "Plus, thanks to my aforementioned childhood, I can pretty much sleep anywhere."
"That's what got us into this mess," I quipped.
"Haha, smartass. You, on the other hand, look like you've been hit by the Zamboni."
"Wow. Just the compliment every girl wants to hear first thing in the morning." I sat up, running a hand through my tangled hair. "Next you'll tell me my morning breath smells like a locker room."
"Actually, I was going to say your grumpy morning face is cute, but if you prefer the Zamboni comparison..."
I threw my pillow at him, which he caught effortlessly. "Let's just get this over with. Fair warning: I'm useless before coffee."
"Noted. I'll protect the general public from your pre-caffeinated wrath. Rise and shine."
Twenty minutes later, showered and marginally more alert, I made my way downstairs to find Cam already in the kitchen, casually wearing a hot pink apron emblazoned with KISS THE COOK over his t-shirt and shorts, signature funky socks on his feet.
He studied the ingredients my mother had left out with the focused intensity I'd seen him use when watching game tapes.
"Looking pretty serious there, Murphy," I said, heading straight for the coffee maker.
"I'm just planning my approach," he replied, measuring flour with surprising precision. "Your mom mentioned she was hoping for blueberry pancakes, but I'm thinking we could do a mixed berry situation. Maybe add some lemon zest."
I paused mid-pour. "Since when are you a pancake connoisseur?"
"I may have binged an entire season of Crime Scene Kitchen last week." He shot me a grin over his shoulder. "Plus, pancakes are basically just a simplified version of cake, and I happen to be excellent with cake."
"Wait. You bake?" I asked, genuinely surprised. This was a side of Cam I'd never seen before.
"Don't sound so shocked," he said, cracking eggs into a bowl with practiced ease. "A man needs hobbies that don't involve getting checked into boards. Baking is... therapeutic."
I leaned against the counter, watching as he whisked the batter with confident strokes. "The Slashers' notorious enforcer finds solace in cupcakes?"
"Mostly cupcakes, yes," he admitted without a hint of embarrassment. "But I'm branching out. My cheesecake game is coming along nicely."
I sipped my coffee, oddly charmed by this revelation. "So what you're telling me is that beneath that NHL superstar exterior beats the flambéed heart of a Great British Bake-Off contestant?"
"Guilty as charged." He measured vanilla extract, adding it to the mix. "Though I'd appreciate it if you kept that information within these four walls. I have a reputation to maintain."
"Your secret's safe with me," I promised, moving beside him to add some sugar to my coffee. "Though I'll reserve judgment until I taste these pancakes."
"Ye of little faith... Play your cards right, Decker, and I might even make you my famous espresso chocolate cupcakes." He bumped my hip lightly with his. "I don’t like to brag, but they've been known to trigger spontaneous marriage proposals."
He moved to the sink, rinsing the strawberries under cool water.
The sleeves of his well-worn Violent Femmes t-shirt stretched across his biceps as he worked, outlining every curve of muscle beneath the thin cotton.
I tried not to stare at the way his shoulders flexed with each movement, or how the fabric clung to the planes of his back. Not that I noticed. Not at all.
For the next fifteen minutes, we worked in companionable silence, Cam mixing batter while I washed and cut the rest of the fruit.
It was oddly domestic, this morning routine, and I found myself sneaking glances at him – the furrow of concentration between his brows as he flipped the pancakes, the way he hummed something under his breath, the easy confidence of his movements despite being in unfamiliar territory.
"You're staring," he said without looking up.
"I'm supervising," I corrected, turning back to my fruit salad. "Making sure America's favorite hockey player doesn't set the grill on fire."
"America's favorite hockey player, huh? I'm keeping that quote for my next contract negotiation. Hey Zayne!” he yelled.
“Shh,” I playfully covered his mouth with my palm. "Don't let it go to your head."
"Too late." He grinned, sliding the cutting board of fruit toward me. "What's next, boss?"
I was about to answer when the patter of small feet announced the arrival of Nora's kids, followed closely by my aunt Margaret, uncle Pete, and Nora herself, all in various states of post-morning-walk dishevelment.
"Pancakes!" Six-year-old Emma squealed, her eyes lighting up at the sight of the chocolate chips waiting to be added to the batter.
"Are those dinosaurs on your socks?" Her eight-year-old brother Tyler dropped to his knees to get a better look at Cam's feet.
I glanced down, noticing for the first time Cam's incredibly mismatched socks – one bright green with cartoon dinosaurs on skateboards, the other purple with what appeared to be tacos wearing sombreros.
"Sure are," Cam said, lifting one foot to give Tyler a better view. "These are my special breakfast-making socks. I think the saddest part about dinosaurs going extinct is that they weren’t around when we invented pancakes."
"That's so cool!" Emma was instantly at his side, examining the socks with total fascination. "Can I have dinosaur socks?"
"Every person should have at least one pair of dinosaur socks," Cam said solemnly. "It's practically a rule."
"Mom, did you hear that? I need dinosaur socks!" Emma tugged at Nora's sleeve.
"I heard," Nora said, giving Cam an amused look. "Thanks for that."
"Sorry," he whispered, not looking sorry at all.
"Do you have other funny socks?" Tyler asked, still crouched near Cam's feet.
"At home? About 60 pairs. It's kind of my thing."
"Only 60?" I interrupted, genuinely surprised. "You probably get at least that many in a week from all your fans."
"I keep a few, but most of those I donate to The Spring."
"The domestic violence shelter?"
"Yeah, socks and underwear are some of the items survivors need most when they escape."
"What about all the underwear your fans send you?" I whispered, as a tiny tinge of jealously bubbled to the surface, "Do you donate those too?"
He grinned and winked me conspiratorially, "No, but we definitely should. I'm not the only player on the team who gets a steady supply."
I rolled my eyes in response. "I can't decide if that's completely gross or fulfilling a critical need in our community."
"Can't it be both?" he laughed.
"How long have you been collecting socks?" Tyler asked.
"Since always," Cam replied, looking equally surprised by my surprise. "I wear a different pair for every game. It's my one rebellion against the dress code." He winked at me playfully.
"So, you're like the James Dean of knitted footwear," I laughed. "I had no idea you were such a bad boy."
Something flashed in his eyes before he shrugged. "There's a lot you don't know about me, Decker."
There was that phrase again, the same one he'd used yesterday during the photoshoot. It bothered me more than it should have, the reminder of how superficial my knowledge of him might actually be, despite the years of working together.
"All my socks have stories," he continued, the excitement in his voice nearly matching Tyler's as he showed off his mismatched feet. "These dinosaur ones were from a kid at Children's Hospital. The tacos I found at a gas station in Winnipeg when we were stuck there during a blizzard."
Something about the care with which he preserved these tiny mementos made my chest tighten. It wasn't just the silliness of them; it was the history, the sentimentality behind each pair.
"Uncle Cam has the best socks!" Tyler announced to the room at large, apparently having appointed himself Cam's newest fan. "He has sixty pairs!"
"Uncle Cam?" I mouthed at Cam, who had the grace to look slightly abashed.
"It just kind of...happened last night," he whispered. "I didn't want to correct them."
"Uncle Cam," my aunt Margaret echoed, sipping her coffee with a knowing smile. "Has a nice ring to it, don't you think?"
I felt heat creep up my neck and turned back to the stove, focusing intently on the griddle. "Who wants the first batch of pancakes?"
"Me!" chorused the kids.
"I hope you two slept well," my aunt continued, ignoring my obvious attempt to change the subject. "That mattress in Lana's room can be a bit… cozy."
"We slept fine, thank you," I said quickly.
"More than fine," Cam added with a wink that made my aunt chortle delightedly. "Though we did stay up pretty late talking."
"Talking," my aunt repeated skeptically. "Is that what they call it these days?"
"Aunt Margaret," I hissed, glancing meaningfully at the children.
"Oh, they're not paying attention," she waved dismissively. "They're completely obsessed with Cam's socks. Smart strategy, by the way," she added to Cam. "Children are excellent judges of character. Win them over, and you've won half the battle."
"No strategy," Cam said. "I just like kids. And weird socks."