A laugh bubbled out of me—low and ragged. “Baking lessons?” I repeated, grinning up at her. “You’re really betting against me right now?”
“Anything can happen,” she said with a shrug, but her smile gave her away. She didn’t believe it any more than I did—this was our game now.
I leaned in, brushing a kiss against her shoulder, letting my lips linger against the softness of her skin. “If I win,” I murmured, trailing a hand along her arm, “you’re wearing my jersey to bed every night for a week.”
She raised an eyebrow, biting her bottom lip in a way that nearly undid me. “That’s not exactly a punishment,” she said, trying to sound unimpressed, but I caught the flicker of heat in her eyes.
“Exactly,” I said, smirking. “Motivation.”
Mina snorted, then shifted closer until our legs tangled again, her laughter like a fire sparking in the dark. Her presence lit something inside me that had nothing to do with the game or the spotlight or any of the shit waiting outside that door.
“Okay then,” she said, challenging me with a wicked grin. “It's a bet.”
God, I loved that fire in her. I’d never admit it out loud, but that sly smile of hers did more damage than any slapshot I’d ever taken. I reached for her hand, lacing my fingers through hers, holding her there—not because I needed to, but because I wanted to.
“It's a bet,” I echoed, my voice softer now. Not cocky. Just sure.
The world could fall apart tomorrow. Hell, it probably would. But right here, in this room with her, wrapped in tangled sheets and half-spoken dares, I felt untouchable.
“Just don’t burn down the kitchen when I’m teaching you,” I added, mock-serious.
She laughed—really laughed—and the sound filled the room like a promise.
And damn if that didn’t feel like winning already.
Epilogue
The knock came at 9:03 a.m.
Too early for anyone who didn’t have a death wish or a clipboard.
I sat up on the worn leather couch in my condo, dry-mouthed and sweat-soaked, the sharp burn of last night’s whiskey still clinging to my throat. The knock came again, sharper this time.
“Calder,” came Gideon Strong’s voice from the other side of the door.
I cursed under my breath and stumbled to my feet, knocking over an empty bottle in the process. Figures. I didn’t even remember inviting that ghost in.
When I opened the door, Gideon was there in all his dark-eyed calmness, with Paige Adams beside him, arms crossed and blazer pressed so tight I could see the tension in her shoulders.
This wasn’t social.
“Jesus,” I muttered, stepping back to let them in. “You two always do interventions before coffee?”
Gideon walked in without a word, scanning the disaster zone of my living room. Paige lingered at the threshold, like she wasn’t sure if this place would contaminate her reputation by proximity.
“Sit down,” Gideon said, motioning toward the only clean chair in the place. I stayed standing.
“Let me guess,” I said, rubbing the sleep from my face. “Barrett finally turned in my latest breathalyzer result.”
“You blew a .08 before practice,” Paige said, deadpan. “At 7:30 in the morning.”
“Celebrating a win,” I replied, shrugging. “You should try it sometime.”
Her jaw clenched. Gideon didn’t even flinch.
“You’ve been placed on waivers, Calder,” he said, calm and lethal as a blade to the gut.
That quiet hit harder than any slapshot ever could.
