“Oh, that’s…” He stared at me with dark, dark eyes. Such stunning eyes. “Is he better now?”
“Yeah, lots. He’s on meds that work beautifully—combined with a great therapist. He’s married now, has kids, and has a booming career as a horror writer. He’s told me a few times that the monsters on his pages come from the dark times of his depression.”
“Yeah, I can so see that. My head is… well, there’s some shit in it.” He dropped his gaze back to the cat.
“We all have that shit in our heads,” I affirmed, tapping my temple as his attention darted to me once more. “You should see the lists I run through before a game, or before I go to bed, or while I’m taking a shower. What to wear, what my workout routine will be, what color socks I’ll wear to the ballpark, because that is incredibly important.”
He nodded. “Sock color determines if you have a good game or not. It’s been scientifically proven with at least one clinical study.” The tone of his voice was lighter now, and if I wasn’t mistaken, there was a tiny gleam of amusement in hispretty eyes. “Conducted in Ottawa on no less than forty hockey players.”
I laughed, and his mouth curled into a shy smile. “Overseen by forty baseball players. I only wear purple to the ballpark.”
“I wear socks with smiling yellow suns.”
Phil appeared then, grunting as he lowered himself into his favorite chair. “You two talking about game day superstitions?” We both nodded while the gurgle of the coffee pot floated into the shop. “Every player has them. Even the great ones.” Phil glanced over at Jari. “You know the story about the 1894 Orioles?” Jari shook his head, his cheeks now a healthy pink, his breathing calm. “Seems every member of that roster drank a glass of turkey gravy before batting practice.” Jari made a face that cracked me up. “Then there are those pitchers who like to write symbols in the dirt of the pitching mound.”
“Not me,” I was quick to clarify. “I have a no-talking-to-me-if-I’m-throwing-a-no-hitter belief, in case the words spoken to me will jinx me,” I chimed up while the shop filled with the aroma of fresh-brewed coffee.
“I won’t use a stick that’s not taped right. I need a candy cane wrap,” Jari said, his cheeks glowing red. It looked amazing on him.
“There’s the one about Willie Stargell…” Phil said as I stared at Jari with open admiration. He glanced at me from Phil, deep into his story about a great Pirates player, and mouthed a silent “Thank You.”
Yeah, I was willing to sit here all day surrounded by moldy cards, cracked catcher’s mitts, and funky-smelling cleats as long as Jari was sitting here, calm and relaxed, with me.
SEVEN
Jari
I hatedthat Cam had seen the panic, but the worst of it had passed. The shaking had eased. My heart wasn’t trying to claw its way out of my chest anymore. That didn’t stop the shame from settling in, heavy and familiar.
I focused on Lionel’s weight on my legs, the steady vibration of his purr, the warmth grounding me back into my body. My hands still shook, but less. Enough that I could breathe without counting.
Cam didn’t say anything about what had happened.
That should’ve been a relief. Instead, it made me aware of him in a way I didn’t want to examine too closely—the space he gave me, the way he angled his body, so he wasn’t crowding me, the fact that he stayed anyway. Not hovering. Not pretending nothing had happened. Just there.
I risked a glance at him.
He wasn’t watching me as if I might break. He wasn’t watching me at all, not really—just sitting close enough I could feel the heat from his arm when he shifted, close enough I caught the clean scent of soap and coffee when he leaned forward. Normal things. Stupid things to notice.
My stomach flipped hard, sharp enough that I stiffened.
No.
I dragged my attention back to Lionel, fingers digging into his fur as if I could anchor myself there. This was just my nerves misfiring—adrenaline crash. My brain was searching for something safe to latch onto now the danger had passed.
Except my awareness kept sliding back to Cam. To the way his voice had cut through the noise. To how he’d asked before touching me. To how he hadn’t let go too quickly—or held on too long.
I didn’t want this. Whateverthiswas.
Wanting things made everything harder. Wanting people made them dangerous. I’d learned that lesson young and had paid for it more than once. I swallowed, throat tight, and forced myself to sit back in the chair, putting a fraction more space between us.
Cam noticed, of course he did, but he didn’t comment or look hurt, just adjusted with me as if it mattered that I was okay, and it shouldn’t have mattered as much as it did. I exhaled slowly, steadying myself, telling inner Jari this was only relief, only gratitude, nothing more. But the thought crept in anyway, quiet and unwanted, settling low in my chest where panic had been moments ago.
I didn’t want this feeling to go away.
That scared me more than the panic ever had, but as he and Phil chatted, I felt my tension ease, as I realized I hadn’t needed to manage myself around Cam.
“I always step onto the ice right foot first,” I added quietly when there was a pause in the superstition discussion. “If I don’t, I feel off all game.”
