He rolls his eyes and shudders out a breath. “A hot fucking mess.”
“Really?” I tilt forward, curiosity piqued. “Why?”
Cameron’s usual response to that question is “fine” or “good” or another one-worded iteration. Not because he doesn’t want to tell me, but because to him, practice is just part of his day. Like eating lunch or drinking a morning coffee. He doesn’t feel the need to expand because it simplyisgood and fine.
He shakes his head and steps toward me. “Where to begin? Jake got into it with Henderson, and then Cole stepped in. I’m not sure if that made things better or worse. Then Logan started chirping. It was to take the attention off Jake, but it devolved into a bunch of fights.”
“What did he say?” I ask, a thrill zipping through me. I’m ready for the tea.
“He told Bricks his girlfriend can skate better than he can. That wouldn’t be much of an insult if her leg weren’t broken and she wasn’t stuck in a wheelchair for the time being.” He lets out a loud breath. “He asked Hayes if his stick was just for show since he hasn’t scored in five games. Then he told Peruzzi that the only reason he made the team was because his mom fucked the GM.”
My jaw drops and I audibly gasp. “Did she?”
“No.” Cameron shakes his head. “It was the assistant GM and Peruzzi was already on the team when it happened.”
“Holy fuck,” I say, trying not to smile too brightly.
“Yeah.” Cameron’s chuckle is throaty. “It was intense.”
“I’m low-key living for the drama, though.”
He rakes a hand through his hair. “I had a feeling you might be.”
“You played well, though?”
“Mm-hmm.” He wraps his arms around my waist, pulling me against him. “I was a bit distracted thinking about this blond baker with freckles and the best ass on this side of the Atlantic.”
I choke out a laugh, my heart flip-flopping a little. “Oh, really?”
“Mm-hmm.”
I lightly tap his cheek. “Get that look off your face.”
He shifts closer, testing my resolve. “What look? The one that says I want to be inside you so badly I can barely think straight?”
Heat blooms in my core, but I tamp it down. “Yes, that one.”
“Fine. I’ll wait until later.” He brushes his nose against mine, a slow tease. “Put me to work and tell me about the tasting.”
I have him rinse off dishes while I prep ingredients and spill all the details on the Anderson-Chen tasting.
“He said the Earl Grey wasbland?” Cameron looks over his shoulder, unadulterated shock written in the lines on his face. “What the fuck is he expecting? It’s a subtle and simple flavor.”
“Thank you!” I throw up my arms. “He may be the worst Just Tell Me Where to Stand Partner I’ve ever met.”
He tosses the dish rag into the sink and turns to face me fully. “Please expand.”
I laugh, more than delighted to share my labeling system. “The worst kind of partner is the Just Tell Me Where to Stand Partner. They’re physically present, but mentally already on the honeymoon. Every decision is ‘whatever you want, babe.’ Their main contribution is showing up and not complaining too loudly.”
“We hate them,” Cameron replies, but it’s more a question than a statement.
“Correct.” I nod once. “They suck the energy out of the room and usually stress their significant other out rather than let them enjoy the experience.”
He nods to himself as he rinses out a mixing bowl. “Okay. Who’s next?”
“Next, we’ve got the opposite end of the spectrum. The Fully Invested Partner. They’re the ones who veto three font choicesfor the invitations and know the difference between ivory and champagne linens because they’ve compared them.”
Cameron nods. “Intense, but at least they’re helping.”
