“Same,” Whiskey says around another mouthful of pancake. “Thinking about the new teammate? What do you think, by the way?”
I pour more batter onto the griddle, watching it spread into a perfect circle. “What do you mean?”
“I dunno. I watched a few clips. He looks and acts like a supervillain. And he’s supposedly Canadian, but his accent is definitelynotCanadian. Maybe Russian or?—"
"Am I not American because I was born in Jordan?" I ask dryly, cutting him off.
Whiskey's mouth snaps shut. He has the grace to look embarrassed, scratching at the back of his neck. "Shit. No, that's... you're right. That was stupid of me. It's just..." He pokes at his pancakes, trailing off.
“It’s just what? That you’re worried about Wraith, so you’re spinning conspiracy theories to distract yourself?”
Whiskey deflates slightly. "Maybe," he admits. "But I found one of those fan chats, and someone said he was charged with murder or some shit and fled to Canada. And they had thereceipts."
"And I heard he moved to Canada as a child. Does it matter?" I ask flatly. "And don't read comments about the pack on the Internet. That's never a good idea."
"Why not?Minewere all positive," he says. "I'm just saying, it's weird. And if you heard that, then you were looking that shit up, too."
My lip curls in irritation at that. And I don't miss the emphasis onmine."Yes, well, everything seems weird when you're looking for patterns that aren't there." I slide another perfect pancake onto the stack. "Sometimes a hockey player is just a hockey player."
"Do you always have to be the voice of reason?"
"Someone has to be. You're one step away from building a conspiracy wall with red string. Are you forgetting the conspiracy theories you came up with about me when I first joined the team?" I level a pointed stare at him.
He laughs at that, the tension finally breaking. "Fine, fine. You made your point." He devours another pancake in record time. “These really are good today, by the way. If I didn't know better, I'd think you made all these just because you have a thing for big guys.”
The spatula nearly slips out of my hand at Whiskey's words. I manage to catch it before it clatters to the floor, but the pancake I'm flipping lands with an undignified splat on the edge of the griddle.
"What?"
"You heard me." Whiskey's smirk is audible even without looking at him. "Big guys. Like me."
I turn slowly, arching an eyebrow at him. "And what exactly gave youthatimpression?"
He leans back in his chair, stretching his arms above his head. "Oh, I don't know. Maybe the way you were checking out my ass when I came into the kitchen? You tryin' to help me bulk?" He flexes with a playful grin, patting his stomach for emphasis.
"I was not—" I cut myself off, taking a deep breath. “I wasdistracted.”
"Uh-huh. Sure, man," he says, scratching languidly at his broad chest like a grizzly bear waking up from hibernation. “Distracted by my ass.”
“No,” I snap, turning back to the stove. The pancake currently on the griddle is burning. Perfect. I hear him stand, his heavy footsteps approaching. Every muscle in my body tenses as he draws closer. I grip the spatula tighter, barely restraining myself from smacking him with it as he comes up behind me.
"Whatever you're doing,don't," I growl.
"Or you're gonna kill me with that frying pan?"
He's right behind me now. Close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off his body and catch his scent. Like cinnamon and bourbon and apple pie on a stormy day.
I might puthimin a pie.
My grip on the spatula tightens.
He sighs, still way too close for comfort, and I shirk away from him. "Chill out. I'm just fuckin' with you," he says with a low chuckle.
"Well, fuck with someone else," I bite out.
He stretches his huge arms. “I might actually take a nap. Didn’t sleep too good. Hadcrazydreams.”
He says that like he wants me to ask about them. I’m stressed out enough to take the bait. “I thought you didn’t dream,” I remark. “Isn’t that a point of pride for you? How you never dream because you’re always alert and ready for action?”
