Chapter 27
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
cameron
“While we sat through a three-hour ass-chewing from Henderson, you were watching a fucking Tony-award-winning Broadway play?”
“Practice was Monday. And it’s a musical. We saw it on Sunday,” I correct Logan.
And I’m not even embarrassed to admit that it was the best Broadway show I’ve ever seen. It’s also the only one I’ve seen, but it set the bar very fucking high.
“That’s even worse,” he laments. “You had to listen to people sing about dead presidents?”
“Founding Fathers,” I say. “And the storytelling was insane. I’d see it again in a heartbeat.”
I now understand why Kennedy’s seen it so many times, and am more than a little jealous that she saw the original cast.
Pouting, Logan turns to Jake. “You have nothing to say about this, Reid? Henderson targeted you at practice, meanwhile Davies was gallivanting around New York with his lady love.”
Cole glances up from where he’s been silently listening to the conversation. “Henderson didn’t target Jake. He coached him. Which, the last time I checked, was his job. And after how Jake played last night, it was deserved.”
I turn and catch Cole’s eye. We’ve both noticed how distracted our friend has been lately, but when we ask, he brushes us off, so we’ve left it alone. If Jake doesn’t want to talk, he won’t, and if we push him, he’ll completely shut down.
But clearly Cole’s done ignoring it.
Jake glowers. “Fuck you, Berrett.”
“Fuck you, Reid.”
“Everyone can fuck me,” Logan chimes in, his tone much lighter.
I pinch the bridge of my nose. Jesus Christ. I don’t know how we survived Logan when he was single. Even in a relationship, he’s unhinged, just with a slightly better filter.
“Maybe we should invoke the Circle of Trust?” I ask, trying to break the tension.
“No, I want Cole to apologize for being a dick.”
“I’m not being a dick,” Cole says with a casual shrug. “You were off at practice, and you fucked up during last night’s game.”
A low rumble works its way out of Jake. “I fucked up?”
Our captain leans forward, his tone shifting from accusatory to concerned. “Yeah. You did. You were out of position on the power play twice. I set you up for a one-timer in the second period and you weren’t even looking at me.”
Fallon didn’t clear me to play last night, but I still watched the game. Cole’s being generous about Jake’s performance. And he didn’t even bring up how he also blew coverage during the Rangers’ two-on-one because he was watching the puck instead of his man.
Jake’s jaw ticks, but he doesn’t argue.
“And during practice,” Cole continues, his voice quieter now, “you missed three backdoor passes. Three. You never miss backdoor passes, but you were late to the net every time.”
“Maybe your passes were shit,” Jake mutters, but there’s no heat behind it.
“My passes were perfect,” Cole says evenly.
Logan, for once, stays quiet, his attention bouncing between them like he’s watching a tennis match. I’m surprised he doesn’t have his phone out, recording the conversation.
I clear my throat. “Jake, man, we’re not trying to pile on you, but you’ve been somewhere else lately.”
He drags a hand through his hair, and the anger in his expression turns to exhaustion. “I’m dealing with family shit.”
“You can tell us what’s going on, Reid,” Cole hedges. “We’re your family, too.”
Jake’s shoulders sag slightly when the comment lands, the fight draining out of him. He’s quiet for a long moment, then finally sighs. “I found out my dad was trying to buy a place near the arena… so I bought it first.”
Our table goes quiet. Even Logan is stunned silent.
Cole blinks. “I’m sorry, you what?”
Head bowed, focus averted, he says, “I bought the house out from under him.”
I bark out a laugh. Kennedy’s email sign-ups were petty, but she’s got nothing on Jake. Although if she had his kind of money—the kind that allows him to just buy property by the arena, where places cost up to ten million—she’d probably come out on top.
“It was supposed to be a fuck-you, but now I have this massive house I don’t know what to do with.”
“Sell it.” Logan shrugs easily.
“I don’t want to sell it.” Jake’s voice is sharp. “That’s the whole point. He wanted it, so I made sure he couldn’t have it.”
“Okay,” I say carefully. “It may not have been your smartest financial decision, but it’s not the end of the world, man.”
He finally looks up, his expression raw. “Think about it, Davies. Why would my dad suddenly be interested in purchasing property near Airwave Arena?”
That question makes my stomach sink.
Oh.
Fuck.
Very much oh fuck.
Cole lets out a low whistle. “You think he’s interested in buying the team if Sanders sells.”
“Yes.”
“He would actually—”
Jake laughs, but it’s bitter. “It’s exactly something my dad would do. So that’s why I’ve been distracted.” He crosses his arms. “Happy now?”
Cole shakes his head. “No, I’m not happy at all.” He pauses. “Fuck, it’s a miracle you only missed three backdoor passes.”
Despite everything, Jake cracks the smallest smile. “Asshole.”
“I’ll do some more digging,” Logan promises. “I haven’t heard anything new about the potential sale, but I’ll see if your dad’s name raises any flags, okay?”
Jake nods. “Thanks.”
“If Sanders does sell, at least one good thing will come from it,” Logan muses. “Gigi’s access will be gone, so she will be, too.”
Yeah. Right. And so will Kennedy.
Getting rid of Gigi is no longer as appealing as it once was.
Kennedy doesn’t stop talking once the entire time I’m brushing my teeth. She’s too busy running through her schedule for tomorrow. I don’t know if she’s talking to me or thinking out loud, but I’m listening either way.
She called me an hour ago to thank me for the newest “period care package”—good chocolate, the overpriced tea she drinks before bed, and a beige blanket with pink flowers that pained my soul to buy.
She’s had miserable cramps all week, and with Anderson-Chen tasting stressing her out, I figured she needed the pick-me-up.
What was supposed to be a quick thank-you call turned into her walking me through every detail of tomorrow: when she’s leaving, where she’s getting her coffee (not Boston Bean, which I’ve sworn I won’t mention to Maya), the parking spot she prepaid for near the country club entrance, and which sweater she’s wearing because apparently business casual and smart casual are different.
“What do you think?” she finally asks.
I wipe my mouth with a hand towel, then pluck my phone from the counter. “About what part specifically?”
She hesitates. “Um… all of the above?”
I chuckle, warm affection growing in my chest. “I think you start with the champagne cake and finish with the lemon.”
“Really? Instead of ending with the coconut?”
“Yes,” I say, but it comes out more like a question than a statement. “Maybe. Fuck, I don’t know.”
I walk out of the bathroom, shutting off the lights, and make my way to bed.
It’s nearly two in the morning and I’m exhausted.
We’re in California, so not only did our game start later than most do, but Cole’s parents hosted the team for a get-together afterward.
Tomorrow’s going to suck, but I’m not ready to end my call with Kennedy.
“Why do you think that?” she asks, anxiety creeping into her voice.
Once I’m settled against the pillows, I prop my phone on my chest. “The champagne one is lighter, right? So it sets the tone without being too heavy right out of the gate. And the lemon ends the tasting on a richer note instead of just more sweetness.”
I pull the covers all the way up and will my muscles to relax. Considering Kennedy still steals the comforter from me—the second comforter, the one I bought for her bed (that, yes, matches the first ugly one)—I have to enjoy full coverage while I can.
There’s no noise on the other line, so I check the phone screen to make sure the call hasn’t been disconnected. “Kenn?”
“Sorry, I was thinking it through,” she says, her voice far off in that way that means she’s going over a bunch of scenarios. “That actually makes a lot of sense.”
“Do what you think is best,” I reply quickly. I don’t want to be blamed if things go ass up. “You’re the one who actually knows what you’re doing.”
She laughs, sounding lighter and more relaxed suddenly. “I know, but I appreciate the input. It’s nice having a sounding board, even if said sounding board doesn’t understand the fundamental differences between baking powder and baking soda.”
I bark out a laugh. “Never gonna live that down, am I?”
“Nope.” She’s silent again for a second. Then says, “But seriously, Cameron, thank you.”
“Alone together, right?”
She chuckles softly, the sound a warm hand wrapped around my cock. “Right.”
“Want to grab dinner later this week? We can go to Sushi Dokku on Friday to celebrate your successful tasting.”
“I can’t Friday,” she says, disappointment bleeding through her tone. “How about Sunday?”
“I can’t.” My tone is too harsh, biting into the silence of the night. “I’m busy.”
“Okay, no worries.”
She doesn’t push me for more or demand to know why I’m busy. She just accepts it.
Before I can second-guess myself or think too hard about why I’m revealing this fact, I blurt, “Sunday is the anniversary of my mom’s passing.”
She’s quiet for a moment, and when she speaks, her voice is filled with tenderness. “I forgot. I’m sorry.”
I frown, a weight settling on my chest. “I don’t think I’ve ever mentioned it, so there’s nothing to forget.”
“Sophie’s my friend,” she reminds me. “Maya and I are going to watch The Princess Bride with her on Saturday night.”
Head down, I twist my arm and study the tattoo on my right inner wrist—buttercups and the line as you wish in script font, inspired by my mom’s favorite movie. “Have you seen it before?”
“Mm-hmm. I was Buttercup for Halloween a few years ago.”
I grin as I run my fingers over the fine lines of the tattoo. “No Cinderella for you?”
“Oh, don’t worry. I’ve been Cinderella, Rapunzel, Elsa, Glinda… the list goes on. Name a blond main character and I’ve probably dressed up as her at some point.”
The corners of my lips quirk up. “Sweetheart, you don’t need to dress up as anyone else to be the main character.”
“That may be the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.” She laughs. “And thank you for telling me about Sunday. You didn’t have to.”
“I don’t have any actual plans,” I admit with a sigh. “I just… want to be alone.”
Most people think an anniversary should be marked in some way. They want to acknowledge the loss and share memories and remind me that my mom was special. As if I could ever forget. Their need to process, to commemorate, to make it mean something, only makes the grief heavier.
When the anniversary falls on game days, I channel the grief into the sport. My teammates know better than to bring it up, and the ice gives me permission to feel the anguish without having to explain any of it.
“That’s okay. I would reschedule Friday if I could, but finding a time that worked for both me and Tyler was nearly impossible.”
The understanding and acceptance in her words is a balm I revel in. Until the last part of her explanation registers. I sit up a little straighter and my phone slides off my chest. “Did you just say Tyler? As in my Tyler?”
“If by ‘my Tyler,’ you mean the Tyler who plays for the Bobcats, then yes,” she teases. “He won my silent auction prize from the charity gala. We’ve had tomorrow night on the calendar for months.”
“He won the baking class?”
“Yes.”
I open my mouth, then shut it. I have nothing logical to say.
I’m not jealous of Tyler as much as I’m jealous of the time he gets to spend with her.
Yeah, I’m a greedy bastard. I want every smile, laugh, and nose wrinkle to myself.
The longer this goes on, the more desperate I am for all I can get.
And I’ll take as much as I can get it, as often as I can get it.
“Okay,” I say, although it’s definitely not okay, as I navigate to my messages app so I can send a text to Tyler.
Cameron Davies
Rookie. You’re baking with my girlfriend on Friday. I want in.
“Okay?” Kennedy asks, apprehension clear. “That’s it?”
“Yep.”
I could expand, but I’m too busy watching the three dots on my phone screen appear and disappear in rapid succession.
“Wow, that was easy. I thought I’d have to remind you that Tyler’s a very sweet kid and there’s nothing to worry about.”
Heat flares in my chest again. “Sweet?”
“Yes, sweet. He asked me politely if we could skip anything chocolate because he’s more of a vanilla guy.”
He finally responds.
Tyler Gold
I genuinely don’t know if that was a question or threat.
Cameron Davies
Does it matter?
Tyler Gold
Not really. As long as I learn how to make cinnamon rolls, I don’t care.
I grin. Smart move, rookie. “Something’s wrong with him if he doesn’t like chocolate. It’s a good thing I’ll be there to keep him in line.”
A breath escapes her, making the line between us crackle. “What?”
For the first time in my life, I, a six-five man who weighs two-twenty and is covered in tattoos, wiggle with excitement. “Tyler said it was okay for me to come.”
“Cameron.” She groans. “You can’t just… you’re being irrational.”
“No, I’m not,” I argue, sounding completely irrational indeed. “He’s a kid. He needs supervision.”
“He’s twenty-two, not two.”
“He doesn’t like chocolate. That’s a red flag. And he already said yes. What time should I be there?”
Kennedy sighs, although the sound is more exasperation than anger. “If he’s fine with it, then you’re more than welcome to join us.”
“He told me—”
“Right, he told you, a veteran on the team, a man he looks up to and is probably petrified to say no to. I’m texting him and asking if he’s actually okay with you crashing. If he is, then fine. If you scared him into saying yes, you’re going to gracefully accept that you’re not invited. Deal?”
My jaw tightens. “Kennedy—”
“Those are my terms. Take it or leave it.” Her voice is firm but not unkind.
“Fine,” I grouse. “But he’s not going to have an issue with it.”
“Then stop pouting.”
“I’m not pouting.”
“You’re definitely pouting,” she teases.
Sighing, I lean back into the pillows. “Maybe a little.”
“Acceptance is the first step,” she chirps. “You’re probably exhausted. Get some rest, Sleeping Beauty. Oh, that’s another princess I’ve dressed up as for Halloween. I’ll see you on Friday… maybe.”
“Definitely,” I correct. “Good luck at the tasting. You’re going to crush it, sweetheart.”
“Thanks, Cameron.”
“Night, Kennedy.”
I hang up my phone and send Tyler another text.
Cameron Davies
If you tell Kennedy I bullied you, I will actually bully you.
And this time, I’m confirming it’s a threat.