“So, I’m never allowed to show any kind of emotion or express any kind of feelings for a man or woman without it being a descent into pathological altruism?” I flung that at him and knew it was unfair the moment it left my dumb mouth. “Sorry, that was… sorry. I’m aware of things, Kirby. I promise. This guyis sweet, lonely, and so in need of a warm hug, a soft towel, and a bowl of hot soup…”
I let the rest drift. Kirby was just being kind. He loved me. He cared. If I saw him eying a razor blade or refusing to take his meds, I’d step up instantly. He was just doing the same for me. I got that. I knew it. But this situationship with Jari was not me falling into a pit of self-sacrifice as I had a few times in the past.
“We’re friends. That’s all.”
“Okay, okay, I see that you’re not in that Paulina place yet but just keep your eyes open to the warning signs. The Paulina thing left you so burned out; we weren’t sure you’d be able to make it to spring training that year.” I bobbed my head. That had been a rough one. “Just make sure that when you make a cake for Jari, you make one for you too. Don’t put his needs in front of your own.”
I reached over, fingers greasy with butter, and rested my hand on his forearm. He put his warm hand over the back of mine. Our gazes locked.
“I promise I will always bake myself a cake. I love you, man.”
“I love you too. Now, tell me how to kill someone in a new and unique way.”
“I worry over your mental state at times.” He gave my hand a strong squeeze. My oven whooshed back on fully preheated now. “Could a marionette shove a human into a stove?”
His bright eyes went round. “I don’t know.” He eyed me with malicious intent. “How tall are you again?”
I pelted him with a cherry.
THIRTEEN
Jari
There wasa knock on the pool door while I was midway through a slow stretch, breathing steady, muscles finally unclenching. I’d rolled my mat out early, chasing quiet before the world had a chance to crowd in, and for once I had the time for it. An entire day to myself. No meetings. No media. Just space.
We’d landed late last night from Columbus, a solid 4–3 win under our belts. I’d played well—better than well. A couple of clean, confident assists, the kind that felt instinctive instead of forced, and enough to earn a shout-out from Coach in the post-game presser. That alone had me buzzing when I woke later, and yoga had seemed like the right call, something quiet and controlled, something I could stop if it got to be too much.
The knock came again, polite this time, and I straightened slowly, heartbeat kicking up a notch as I glanced toward the door. I hadn’t been expecting anyone, and I knew it had to be Cam. Even though focusing on hockey had taken over enough for me to compartmentalize, the fact Cam was probably at the door made me want to hide.
“Hiding from what, genius?” I muttered. “Coming!” I said louder and glanced down at my athletic shorts and my T-shirt, curling my bare toes against the soft mat.
I crossed the room and opened the door.
Cam stood there with a plastic container clutched in both hands and seeing him sent a quick wash of relief through me, followed by something sharper and more awkward. Shyness, maybe. Or just the strange awareness that came with knowing I didn’t have a script for this version of us. Not since the blowjob.
He looked so damn handsome, it caught me off guard. Sweatpants slung low on his hips, an Iron Horses T-shirt that had seen better days, dark hair neatly trimmed and a short beard that made his smile hit harder than it had any right to. His eyes were dark, steady, warm—and when he smiled at me, something low and confusing tightened in my chest.
“Uh,” he said, thrusting it toward me as if it might explode if he held on too long. “I made cake.”
I blinked. “Cake.”
“Pineapple upside-down,” he added quickly. “With cherries. But not many cherries because I ate them, then I threw one at Kirby because he's an ass, and I think it’s under the refrigerator because I couldn’t find it.” He wrinkled his nose, clearly regretting the explanation.
He shifted his grip, then held the container out again, steadier this time. “Would you like some?”
I took it from him, and he stepped back as if he was going to drop and run. Something in my chest hurt. He’d made my favorite cake, and I didn’t want him to go. “Coffee?” I asked, a little too quickly, and gestured at the kitchen behind me. His smile was wide, and his shoulders dropped a little.
“That would be good.”
I stood to one side to let him in, catching the familiar scent of him as he passed close enough to brush my shoulder. Mybody reacted before my brain could intervene, heat and need sparking. God, I’d missed him.
“I watched the game,” he said as he sat at one of the stools by the short counter. “I mean—most of it. I had to look a couple of things up.” He huffed out a small breath, half self-conscious. “There was that shift in the second, when you dropped back instead of driving the line. I didn’t get why at first, but then I rewound it, and I think it was about slowing the play so Becks could reset? Or am I completely wrong?”
“You watched the game,” I said, focusing on that and the fact he had questions and not even beginning to answer what he'd asked.
“Of course, it's my new favorite thing,” he said with a smile. “And you looked good out there, so fast it was like a blur sometimes.”
I blinked at him. “How do you want your coffee?”
