CHAPTER FOURTEEN
cameron
Every eye ison us the moment we arrive, the whole team damp from the snow and freezing winds. Conversations don’t stop exactly, but they shift. Patrons and fans sneak photos using their phones, pretending they’re not clocking our every move.
It’s annoying as shit, but unfortunately, it’s a side effect of my career.
Kennedy is by the bar with Maya, wearing a vintage Bobcats shirt that hugs her curves and shows a sliver of midriff. Operation Fake Girlfriend (still a horrible name) is officially underway, so I cut through the crowd, pushing one shoulder forward to slip past clusters of people, my eyes locked on her the entire way.
“Hey, Cam,” Maya calls out. “Great game.”
“Thanks.” I give her a slight nod. “You may want to go save your boyfriend. Logan’s trying to convince him to get a Manzilian.”
Maya puffs out a slow breath. “I love him, but sometimes I wish he had an off button.”
She leans in close to Kennedy, murmuring something, then disappears into the crowd, hopefully to save Cole’s balls from the discomfort of hot wax. Jake learned his lesson the hard way, and the horror stories have my appendage hiding in solidarity.
Kennedy gives me a conspiratorial wink. “And then there were two.”
“Observant.”
“Smart-ass,” she counters.
“Part of my charm.” I nod to the bar. “Can I get you a drink?”
She holds up her hand, the one that’s very obviously holding a drink, and shakes her head. “Thanks, but I have one.”
Before my brain can process what the fuck I’m doing, I take the glass from her and down the contents. It’s delicious, the warm honey-sweet liquor of the hot toddy a pleasant surprise.
“What the actual fuck?” she growls, punctuating each word with the kind of venom that would make most men step back.
I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and let out a breath. “Can I buy you a drink now?”
“Now?” she asks, the pitch of her voice alarming high. “Now I want to punch you in the dick, not accept your offer for a drink. What is wrong with you? Is this how you flirt?”
“No.”
At least I don’t think so. I usually don’t have to flirt, so I guess I’ve never thought about it. Women usually make the first move, or they don’t, and I go from there.
“So you just wanted to be an ass and steal my drink?”
“I offered to buy you a new one,” I remind her.
“Jesus Christ,” she mutters. “Buy me a new drink, but don’t expect me to say please or thank you. I’m still annoyed with you.”
“Okay.”
I flag down the bartender and order another hot toddy. As he wanders away, I study the woman beside me, watching the wayher jaw tightens. Annoyed Kennedy is sexy. The flush creeping up her neck; the fire in her eyes; the harsh angle of her jaw, like she’s biting back a sharp comment—they all do it for me.
She takes the fresh drink when it arrives, wrapping both hands around the glass like she’s restraining herself from throwing it at me.
“You’re welcome,” I say.
“I didn’t say thank you,” she shoots back, but there’s the smallest twitch at the corner of her mouth.
Yeah. Definitely sexy.
A loudcrackbehind me draws Kennedy’s attention. She tilts to one side, peering past me, then straightens. “You any good at pool?”
