Tall. Broad shoulders. Hoodie. Running shoes. Cam Blackburn. He steadied me with a hand on my arm. Gentle. “Oh—sorry,” he said, warm and startled.
I froze, and he staredatme—not through me, not past me,atme. Brown eyes steady.
“You okay?” he asked.
My heart thudded. “Yeah. Sorry. Wasn’t watching where I was going.”
“It happens.” He didn’t step away fully, curiosity in his expression. “I remember you from that speech I did. With the Railers, right?” He smiled—soft, kind, dangerous—and with that smile came the rest of him: taller than me by a couple of inches, slim but toned as though every part of him was built for precision, dark hair pushed back messily like he’d run a hand through it a dozen times, and lips that were—fuck—ridiculously distracting. The kind of mouth you noticed, even if you didn’t want to. Fuck I needed to talk. To say something. Instead, I turned to gaze at the display as if that was everything right now.
“Angry game,” Cam murmured to fill the awkward silence, and pointed at the one photo I never wanted to see again. The man wearing it was helmet less, half-turned to the camera, his face drawn into a mask of pure hatred, as he pulled back to throw a punch at Tennant Rowe. An old photo that was a painful reminder ofeverything.
My father.
Change the subject.
“And sluggers like you never get angry?” I snapped.
He winced. ”Sure… sorry, I didn't mean anything.” He was placating me, I could tell, and I hated that shit. Then he collected himself, smiled at me, and pointed to the picture I hated and peered closely. “That guy is super angry though, right?”
I closed down, lost my focus, and my breathing was harsh. Fuck. Not a panic attack. Not now. Fuck!
“So, you’re one of my willing victims,” he said to change the subject.
“Huh?”
“Volunteering for the charity event.” Then he grinned. “Or more like voluntold.”
Oh my god, he’s talking to me, and I’m a mess.
“I'm lost,” I blurted, and glanced at my watch. “I have a meeting in thirty minutes.”
“Where? I know this place like the back of my hand.”
“Fourth floor admin,” I said in a non-specific way. He nodded and put a hand to my elbow, guiding me back the way I came to the closest stairs.
“It's quickest this way.”
“Thank you,” I said as we climbed, and finally, the mist of panic began to ease.
I can do this.
“Are you a baseball fan?” Cam asked. “Because I gotta be honest, I don’t watch a lot of hockey. I always watch out for whatyou guys are doing, but y’know, the season is manic, and then I have downtime just when you’re playing…” He threw me a wry smile.
“I’m a fan of baseball the same way,” I said, glad I had something to add to the conversation. “But I root for the Phoenix Sunriders.”
He hissed and made the sign of a cross, and then huffed a laugh. “Well, we’re not all perfect.”
We walked the last flight together, Cam matching my pace as though he wasn’t in a hurry to get anywhere. He asked easy questions—nothing sharp, nothing invasive.
“You settling in okay?” he asked.
“I… yeah. Trying to.” I tugged at my bracelet, hoping he didn’t notice.
“You’ll get there. First week’s always chaos.” He grinned, and god, it hit stupidly hard. “Hockey guys and baseball guys share the same building, but we barely cross paths unless someone steals our parking spots.”
“I don’t have a car here yet,” I muttered.
“Good. Then it’s not you.”
