Chapter 18
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
cameron
It takes me thirty-five minutes to unload the car, and in that time, Kennedy accomplishes a lot.
At least, I think she does. Based on the clusterfuck otherwise known as her notebook and calendar, her organizational style is completely type A, but in a way that makes sense to no one but her.
So while I don’t know why handwritten recipe cards are stuck to the wall with painter’s tape in a weird octagonal shape or why her measuring spoons aren’t arranged by size, I’m certain there’s a method to her madness.
“All done?” she asks, glancing up from where she’s dating and labeling flour.
“Yep.” I carefully place her new mixer on a stainless-steel table. “My car’s going to smell like vanilla and chocolate chips for the foreseeable future.”
Her eyes dance. “You’re welcome.”
Brushing my fingers against the red paint of her mixer, I note, “I thought Sir Mix-a-Lot was dead.”
“That’s her replacement,” she reveals. “Richard Mixon.”
I prop a hip against the counter, chuckling. “I like it.”
“Your history obsession may have inspired me.”
Knowing she had me in mind when naming her prized possession? Shit. It sends a thrill through me. One I hate as much as I crave.
“This would have taken me hours to do alone,” she says, her voice soft. The apples of her cheeks are flushed as she looks up at me through wet lashes. “Thank you. I really appreciate it.”
I smirk. “What else is a fake relationship for?”
“Scaring away shifty exes and overbearing friends?”
“Touché.” I take a step forward. “How else can I help? My hands are good for more than just stopping pucks, sweetheart, so put me to work.”
“You want to stay?” she asks, nose scrunched in surprise. “I need to organize everything, but it’s going to be boring.”
“You’re talking to the guy who hates fun, remember?” I snag a box cutter from the counter and shuffle to the closest stack. “I’m meeting Sloane for dinner later, but I can stay until then.”
I wait for the tension that should follow the mention of my friendship with Sloane. Another woman. I wait for the shift in energy, the tight smile, the pointed silence. Muscles coiled, I brace for impact, like I’m about to take a hit on the ice.
“Oh, where are you guys going?” she asks, her expression still bright.
“Sushi Dokku.” I shrug, going for calm and casual even as I wait for her to make a comment that makes things weird.
Kennedy claps, grinning. “Oh my God, I’ve been dying to go there. You’ll have to let me know what you think of it. I don’t want to spend twenty bucks on a roll if it’s not otherworldly, you know?”
She smiles, completely at ease, before shifting her attention to the dozens of bags of chocolate chips heaped in a pile in front of her.
“If I give you very bizarre but descriptive instructions on how to organize and store these, think you can handle it?”
“You want me to organize your chocolate?”
She scoffs. “Duh. I’m not an animal, Cameron.”
She stands and wanders to another box, humming the tune I’m not familiar with.
Still, I wait for the other shoe to drop.
When she just keeps humming, moving on, I exhale, letting the anxiety swamping me go.
Kennedy heard Sloane’s name, registered her as my friend, and moved on like she has no issue with my plans.
She didn’t turn it into a problem, making comments in a careful tone that’s anything but casual and treating Sloane like a threat to be assessed and categorized.
Maybe Kennedy’s easy trust is because we’re not in an actual relationship.
Or maybe, just maybe, it’s because she trusts me. It’s such a small thing to most people, but to me, someone who had to learn to regulate the reactions and emotions of a partner, it means a lot.
“So,” she says, pulling out what looks like a label maker. “Dark chocolate, semi-sweet, and milk chocolate all get their own containers. Brands stay together. And the chips need to be in airtight storage because pantry moths are the devil.”
“Pantry moths,” I repeat.
“The. Devil.” She pins me with a look, dead serious.
“Zo’s the devil,” I correct her.
She waggles her brows. “Don’t be dramatic. Zo’s a cuddly cutie pie.”
I shudder. “He’s evil.”
“He’s misunderstood,” she argues, defending my sister’s cat. “Pantry moths are way worse. Trust me. I had an infestation years ago, and I’m still traumatized.”
“Airtight containers,” I repeat. “Got it. That it?”
“Definitely not,” she says.
I freeze, my hackles rising.
Gigi used to—
No. I cut that thought off before it can fully form. Kennedy deserves better than being measured against a woman who made every interaction feel like navigating a minefield.
“Earth to Cameron,” Kennedy says, waving a bag of Ghirardelli semi-sweet in front of my face.
“What?”
She laughs, and the pinch in my chest eases. “Catch.” She tosses me the label maker. “You’re on labeling duty, too.”
For a second, all I can do is look at her. Drink her in. Revel in the ease and comfort she feels in this moment, standing in her half-unpacked kitchen in an oversized sweater with her makeup cried off and her hair tied on top of her head in a messy bun.
I know this is fake, but why does it feel more real than anything I’ve had before?
The week passes in a blur of hotel lobbies with different names but identical layouts and cities shrinking to grids of light below every twenty-four hours or so. It’s a taxing cycle all NHL players experience for over half the year, but I wouldn’t give it up for anything.
Because when I’m in the crease, the weight of my gear an extension of my body, the world narrowing to a single black puck traveling at ninety miles an hour, nothing else matters.
For sixty minutes, I get to just be. And that makes every flat, lumpy hotel pillow and confusion over which time zone I’m in worth it.
But for the first time in I can’t remember how long, I’m looking forward to the off days between our home games. It means free time to do whatever I want.
Like stop by a certain kitchen in a gray building.
Ever since Kennedy sent me that first cookie dick pic, we’ve texted almost daily.
Our messages don’t usually contain anything of importance.
We mostly share bits and pieces about our days and discuss Survivor.
The Real Housewives proved to be too much for me, but she insisted we still need a show, so here we are.
Now I find myself going straight to my phone when I step into the locker room after every practice and every game, heart in my throat as I check to see if she’s texted me back.
It’s fucking pathetic, and I can’t find it in me to care.
Kennedy Caplan
Omg that save was insanity
Why did the ref just ignore that??
I’m stress eating cookies watching this.
Now I’m stress-baking cookies watching this.
I hope you like snickerdoodles, because I just made two dozen, and they’re gluten-free.
YESSSS GOAL!!
Is Cole okay? That looked bad.
JK. He’s skating it off. Man, hockey players are built differently.
This is way more stressful than Survivor, and no one’s even getting voted off.
Serious question. How much has Logan paid in fines for bad behavior?
YOU WON!! Good game!!
Wow that was intense. I’m sweating. I can’t even imagine how sweaty you are.
That sounded Rated R, but I swear it was a PG thought.
At first
My thumbs fly over my screen as I hammer out a reply.
Cameron Davies
I thought Snickerdoodle was a dog breed.
Kennedy Caplan
HAHAHAHA. OMG. CAMERON DAVIES. Did you just make a joke!?
Cameron Davies
Maybe.
Kennedy Caplan
I’m grinning at my phone when Logan comes out of nowhere and puts me in a chokehold. “You’re so cute when you smile at your phone like that.”
I grunt, trying to elbow him. “Stop hitting on me.”
His lips curve into a frown. “As if, Davies. You’re not my type.”
I twist, shaking off his arm. “I feel like you want me to be upset about that.”
Backing up, he throws me a toothy smile. “Bus is leaving soon, lover boy. Unless you want all of Dallas to see your ding dong, you better get dressed.”
My ding dong? Jesus Christ.
Tonight’s game was early, and since our flight’s not until tomorrow, the whole team is heading to a local steakhouse for dinner. Knowing they’ll tease me all night if I’m texting during the meal, I shoot Kennedy a quick message.
Cameron Davies
Heading out to a team dinner. Talk later?
Kennedy Caplan
Like on the phone?! An actual call?!
Are you courting me?
If you are, I feel like you should know my favorite flowers are ranunculus.
Cameron Davies
I’m allergic to flowers. And ranunculus sounds like a disease from the 18th century.
Kennedy Caplan
Good thing you wouldn’t be buying them for yourself!!
But yes, you can call me later. Enjoy dinner, baby cakes!
The steakhouse is loud and packed, the team spread across several pushed-together tables. I end up between Logan and Tyler, who still gets a wide-eyed look when the veterans talk.
The conversation flows easily while we eat, and Logan doesn’t even mention my relationship until dessert.
And I only have myself to blame for the scrutiny since I broke down and sent a message to Kennedy.
In my defense, I got fed up with the team raving about the brownie sundae and wanted to know if she had a gluten-free recipe for something similar.
Her response was a meme I don’t understand but I think means yes.
“How are things going with your lady love?” he asks with a smile so wide it borders on creepy.
“Scale of one to ten: How does she make you feel? One is there are butterflies in your stomach, but they’re still in chrysalises, and ten is there are so many butterflies going haywire that you want to throw up. ”
I take a sip of my whiskey, reminding myself that nonchalant isn’t a word in Logan’s vocabulary. “Things are good.”
“Good isn’t a number on the scale,” he argues, shifting his attention. “Cole? Care to weigh in?”