The next few minutes of play are better. But then Cole threads a perfect pass to Jake, but rather than fucking shoot, the idiot tries to pass it cross-ice to Logan. The Eagles’ defenseman reads the move like a fucking children’s book and intercepts it clean.God dammit.
“Are you kidding me?” I throw my hands up. “You had the shot, Reid! What the fuck.”
He needs to snap out of this funk he’s in before playoffs or he’ll be benched.
“Cam—” Kennedy starts.
“Sweetheart, that was a grade-A scoring opportunity, and he tried to pass it instead.”
Sophie rolls her eyes and throws a piece of popcorn at me. “Thank God you’re usually playing. You arenotfun to watch a game with.”
Kennedy squeezes my thigh, harder this time. “Babe. Deep breath. There are still two periods left.”
“Yeah, and if Berrett doesn’t fucking knock some sense—” I cut myself off, taking a deep breath.
When my phone vibrates in my pocket, I take it out on autopilot, though I nearly ignore it, too focused on the game, until I realize the number on the screen is international.
I stand, motioning that I’ll be back in a second, then power-walk into Kennedy’s bedroom for a semblance of privacy. My girlfriend is nosy on her own, and that quality is only amplified when she’s egged on by Maya and Sophie.
I answer the call with an abrupt “hello,” worried that it might have already gone to voicemail.
“Why the fuck are you interested in baking a cake for my fiancée?” a deep British voice barks at me.
I’m assuming this is the infamous Blake Hollis. Eight-time World Champion F1 driver and Tyler’s future brother-in-law.
“Blake, nice to meet you,” I reply, keeping my tone even. “I’m Cameron Davies, Tyler’s team?—”
“Congrats, but I didn’t ask for your life story,” he deadpans. “I asked why the fuck you’re interested in my fiancée.”
“I’m not interested in your fiancée.” I frown. “What exactly did Tyler tell you?”
“That someone on his team wants to bakemyfuture wife a cake.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. Fucking Tyler. I asked the rookie to get me in touch with his sister’s wedding planner so I can get Kennedy on a short list of options to bake their wedding cake. Their ceremony is in New York, which is a little out of her normal delivery distance, but I figured it was worth a try. I promised Tyler I’d put in a good word for him with Sloane if he could make it happen.
Apparently, there was some miscommunication, and now an angry British man thinks I’m interested in personally baking for his future wife.
“I asked Tyler to have your planner reach out,” I correct him. “My girlfriend’s a baker. Specializes in wedding cakes.”
“Oh.” He pauses. “What’d you say your name was again?”
“Cameron Davies.”
“You’re the goalie, right? The one who beat someone up?”
I roll my eyes. Every hockey playereverhas beaten someone up at one point or another. “One of many, but yeah.”
The asshole laughs. “Nice. One of my friends is from Boston. He showed me the replay.”
“Yeah,” I reply dumbly, not sure what else to say.
Blake chuckles. “So you want your girlfriend to bake our wedding cake?”
He’s the kind of guy Kennedy would classify as a Fully Invested Partner based solely on the way he said “our.”
“Yes, she’s insanely talented, and quite frankly, you’d be an idiot to not at least do a tasting with her.”
Not my best sales pitch, but there’s a reason I play hockey and don’t sell… well, anything.
