Chapter 22
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
cameron
I check my phone for what has to be the fiftieth time as I step into the practice facility, looking for a text from Kennedy, only to once again find a blank screen.
Maybe she’s still sleeping, I remind myself.
She was out late handling two wedding cake drop-offs and a Bat Mitzvah dessert table. It’s why she didn’t make it to our game yesterday, although she did text me throughout the night with unhinged yet hilarious real-time thoughts.
Marcus, our goalie coach, is already in the corridor when I walk in, coffee in hand and looking far too happy.
“Morning, Cam. Sleep well?” His tone is knowing, and that immediately makes me suspicious.
“Fine.”
“Yeah?” He takes a sip of what’s probably his third coffee of the morning, studying me over the rim.
The hair on the back of my neck stands on end. “Why are you being weird?”
“Just gauging how pissed you’re going to be when you get to the locker room.” He shrugs. “You’ve been in a better mood the past few weeks, though.”
Yeah, I’m in a “better mood” because I’ve been having earth-shattering sex, my ex is only popping up in the locker room every other day instead of twice a day, and my friends don’t look at me like I’m a volcano waiting to erupt.
Not that I tell him any of that.
It’s pointless to ask, but I do it anyway. “Should I be worried?”
Marcus grins and claps me on the shoulder. “You’ll see.”
I brace myself as I head into the locker room, preparing for whatever nonsense my teammates have waiting for me.
And it’s definitely there waiting.
In the middle of the locker room stands a life-sized cardboard cutout of Henderson and me mid-argument.
It’s a freeze-frame from the broadcast of our game against the Trailblazers, capturing the moment Henderson reamed into me after the second period.
My face is contorted in what I can only describe as unhinged determination, while Henderson’s is dark red, and he looks like he’s about to have a stroke.
Next to it sit two glass jars and a handwritten sign that reads Who Would Win in a Fight? One jar is labeled Davies (Unhinged Boyfriend Energy) and the other says Henderson (Old Man Strength). Both jars are already half full of crumpled dollar bills and coins.
“Real funny, guys.” I shake my head, but I have to fight a smile.
“We thought so,” Jake chirps from his stall. He’s already changed for practice, eating what looks like his third protein bar, based on the empty wrappers next to him.
“Current tally has you up by four bucks, by the way. Peruzzi thinks Henderson would destroy you, but I think the power of your reckless emotional decision-making would win out.”
“Glad to have your support.” I drop my bag, unzip it, and rummage around for my stuff.
“You need it,” he replies. “That video ESPN posted of you breaking your stick has over two million views.”
“Two point three,” Logan corrects with a grin. “Someone even made a remix with dramatic music and slow-mo effects. It’s Oscar material.”
“It’s been three weeks,” I remind them. “Don’t you think it’s time to move on?”
Jake winks. “No.”
Logan nods, hair flopping against his forehead. “I think it’s kind of romantic.”
“Cameron nearly giving Coach an aneurysm?”
“No, Cameron’s breaking his stick and missing two saves because he got jelly.”
Got jelly? Jesus Christ.
Grunting, I turn around and start putting on my gear. “Everyone needs to mind their own business.”
“Not how hockey teams work, and you know it,” Logan shoots back, his tone full of mirth.
One by one, players filter in, the locker room getting progressively louder. Once I’m dressed, I head out to the ice, grateful for the chance to focus on something other than the increasingly pointed looks and barely suppressed chuckles from my teammates.
We start with the usual warm-up drills—lateral movements, butterfly slides, post integration work.
It’s muscle memory. My body knows what to do without conscious thought.
It’s not until an hour later, when my teammates start chirping and cat calling, that I notice the freckled baker sitting in the stands.
She’s perched about halfway up, her long hair falling in curls over her shoulders, and she’s completely unbothered by all the grown men skating around in circles staring at her.
Kennedy waves at me from her seat, and the simple gesture—casual, like she belongs there—makes heat pool low in my stomach and my cock harden in my safety cup. Which is equally inconvenient and uncomfortable.
“Eyes on the ice, Davies,” Henderson barks from the bench. “You just let a puck past you that my grandmother could’ve stopped, and she’s been dead for years.”
That’s one way to bruise a man’s ego. Henderson told me in no uncertain terms that if I ever did something as “categorically stupid” as getting distracted by “a fucking jersey” again, he’d ensure I don’t see the ice for an extended amount of time.
So losing my cool isn’t an option.
I adjust my mask and tune out Kennedy, which is just as difficult as expected, locking in on practice.
By the time we’re running final drills, I’m in the zone.
Marcus (and, by proxy, Henderson) seems impressed with my glove work.
I’m tracking a shot from the blue line when movement in my periphery catches my attention.
A woman with dark hair and a designer coat that probably costs more than my first car approaches Kennedy.
The puck hits my pad, but I barely register the save. My focus has completely shattered, narrowing to a single point: Gigi in the stands, talking to Kennedy.
What the fuck is she doing here?
Kennedy’s expression is carefully neutral, but her shoulders are tense as Gigi speaks to her.
My skates are moving before I’ve even made the decision, cutting across the ice toward the bench, ignoring the drill still going on around me. I need to know what Gigi’s saying. I need to get Kennedy away from her. I need to—
A hand clamps down on my shoulder, firm and unyielding.
“Don’t,” Cole says, low enough that only I can hear over the sounds of practice.
I shrug, but rather than let me go, he tightens his hold. “She’s talking to Kennedy.”
“I know. I have eyes,” Cole says. He’s using his “captain” voice. It’s the one that’s stopped more than one locker room fight and commands respect whether we like what he has to say or not. “But you need to focus.”
He shifts to block my view of the stands, forcing me to look at him instead of the nightmare currently smiling at my girlfriend. Fake girlfriend. Whatever.
He gives me a steady, assessing look. It’s the kind that makes him a good captain. He reads people well. He knows when someone’s on the edge of being spectacularly stupid and needs to be talked down.
“I know what you’re thinking,” he continues. “And I’m telling you right now, it’s a bad call.”
The anger growing inside me flares hotter. “You don’t know what I’m thinking.”
“You’re thinking about going up there, getting between them, making it clear that Gigi needs to back the fuck off.” He tilts his head, brows raised. “Am I wrong?”
I stay silent. Of course that’s what I’m thinking. I’m also considering several creative options involving telling Gigi exactly where she can shove it.
“That’s what I thought.” Cole’s expression softens slightly, but his voice stays firm. “And I get it, man. Gigi’s an issue. But you storming out of practice to deal with it?” He shakes his head. “That’s not the move. That’s exactly what she wants. She’ll know she’s getting to you.”
“I’m not worried about me,” I growl, my hands flexing at my sides. The urge to move, to do something, is almost overwhelming. “I’m worried about her.”
“Kennedy?”
“Yes, Kennedy. Who’s up there dealing with my psycho ex alone while I’m down here pretending to care about practice drills.”
That sympathetic look he’s giving me is now tinged with exasperation. “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that. You’re agitated—” He ducks, locking eyes with me, making sure he has my full attention. “And Kennedy can handle herself just fine, Davies. She’s not helpless.”
“I know she’s not helpless—”
“Do you? Because you’re acting like she needs you to swoop in and save her.
” His tone isn’t harsh, but it’s direct enough to land.
“I once witnessed her tell a man twice her size that he was giving off ‘micro dick vibes’ and she walked away with her head high, so I don’t think she’d appreciate it if you stepped in to fight her battles, especially in front of our entire team. ”
The words hit harder than I want to admit. He’s right. Kennedy can handle herself and certainly give as good as she gets. But knowing that and standing back and watching as Gigi circles her like a shark are two very different things.
“I just—” I crane my neck, looking around him to where Gigi is still talking, her body language all calculated manipulativeness. “I don’t trust Gigi not to pull something.”
“Of course she’s going to pull something.” Cole follows my gaze. “But Kennedy knows who she is, and more importantly, she chose to be here in spite of that. She chose you, knowing all the baggage that came with you.”
My heart sinks. Except she didn’t. Not really.
She chose a fake relationship that serves a purpose.
A relationship with a defined end point that I stupidly forget about every time she smiles at me a certain way or cracks a joke or moans when I slide inside her or sends me texts that make me laugh despite myself.
I peer over Cole’s shoulder one more time. I can’t hear their conversation, but Kennedy is smiling. And while I find the expression sexy as fuck, it’s certainly not friendly.
“She’s handling it,” I mutter.
“Of course she’s handling it,” Cole agrees. “And when she’s done handling it, she’ll come down here expecting you to not have caused another meme-worthy incident.”
I take a breath, force my shoulders to relax, and deliberately turn my back on the stands. “You’re really annoying sometimes, you know that?”
“Part of my charm.” Grinning, he claps me on the shoulder. “Now get back out there and stop letting the rookie score on you.” He skates off before I can respond.
I do my best to forget about it, to leave it be, for the rest of practice. But when the whistle blows and I find Kennedy waiting near the entrance to the locker room, it all comes flooding back in.
“Are you okay? What did she say to you?” I demand, barely breathing between questions. “Sloane said she’s working on getting some of her access revoked.”
Kennedy looks me up and down, her eyes flashing with heat. “You’re sweaty.”
“Observant. Now answer my questions.”
She pushes off the wall, closing the distance between us.
“I’ll answer the questions you should’ve asked.
Why yes, Cam, the dessert table last night was a hit.
The birthday cake trifles were the first to go, just like you thought.
I also nailed down what flavors I’m presenting for the Ashford-Chen wedding, and we finally have a date on the calendar for the tasting.
” She sinks her teeth into her bottom lip, surveying my face.
“I’m here because my consultation with that wholesale bakery customer got rescheduled to Friday, so my day freed up.
Figured I’d come see you in action without thousands of people screaming their heads off.
I discovered today that Henderson is low-key terrifying.
Oh, and you look very good in goalie gear.
” Her eyes drop to my chest, then lower, and her smile turns wicked.
“I already knew that last part, but still.”
We’re in a semi-public hallway and my teammates are passing by us as they head to the locker room. I’m still in full gear and probably smell like a locker room, but none of that stops me from backing her against the wall and caging her in with my arms.
“I’m glad the event went well. I knew it would,” I reply, my voice coming out rougher than intended. “And thank you for stopping by. Now tell me what she said.”
Kennedy leans up on her tippy toes and boops me on the nose like I’m a dog. “Doesn’t matter.”
Frustration floods me. “Kennedy.”
Her smile only grows. “Cameron.”
“Tell me.”
“It doesn’t matter what she said,” she repeats, her smile gone and her tone brooking no argument.
“You may think the Real Housewives are silly, and sure, they can be, but they’ve taught me that mean girls really do exist. Of all ages.
She’s targeting me because she feels threatened by me, so any verbal attacks are actually twisted compliments. ”
“She shouldn’t be allowed to—”
“Make your life hell anymore.” Lips curving into a soft smile, she cups my face. “So stop stressing and go shower.”
“She’s not going to give up easily,” I say through gritted teeth. “You know that, right? She’s going to keep pushing, keep trying to get under your skin—”
“Our skin. She’s trying to get under our skin.”
The word “our” does something to my chest. It’s a reminder that I’m not in this alone. This woman is willing to commit cyber warfare on my behalf.
My previous anger shifts into something more like concern. Or admiration, maybe. Possibly both.
I grip her waist and kiss her, not caring that my gear is in the way or that we’re in a hallway or that Logan is wolf-whistling from somewhere behind us.
Kennedy laughs against my mouth, her fingers tangling in my hair. I’m considering whether I can get away with hauling her into a supply closet when Henderson’s voice cuts through the moment.
“Davies! Either get in the locker room or take your girlfriend somewhere private. Stop blocking the hallway!”
Kennedy pulls back, her cheeks flushed and her lips red, looking thoroughly kissed. “I know it’s a good idea for your teammates to see us together, but I wasn’t kidding about being scared of your coach. I don’t want you to get in trouble. Go shower. I’ll let you buy me lunch afterward.”
She nudges me in the other direction before I can process her words. Before I can unravel the motivation behind that kiss. Was I doing it for show or because I felt like it?
Back in the locker room, the betting jars have been changed. The sign now reads How long until Davies Proposes? One jar is labeled with Before Playoffs, and the other After Playoffs.
“You guys are the worst,” I announce to the room at large.
“We prefer ‘supportive,’” Logan corrects. “And for the record, I’m betting before playoffs. You’re moving fast, Davies.”