“The. Devil.” She pins me with a look, dead serious.
“Zo’s the devil,” I correct her.
She waggles her brows. “Don’t be dramatic. Zo’s a cuddly cutie pie.”
I shudder. “He’s evil.”
“He’s misunderstood,” she argues, defending my sister’s cat. “Pantry moths are way worse. Trust me. I had an infestation years ago, and I’m still traumatized.”
“Airtight containers,” I repeat. “Got it. That it?”
“Definitely not,” she says.
I freeze, my hackles rising.
Gigi used to?—
No.I cut that thought off before it can fully form. Kennedy deserves better than being measured against a woman who made every interaction feel like navigating a minefield.
“Earth to Cameron,” Kennedy says, waving a bag of Ghirardelli semi-sweet in front of my face.
“What?”
She laughs, and the pinch in my chest eases. “Catch.” She tosses me the label maker. “You’re on labeling duty, too.”
For a second, all I can do is look at her. Drink her in. Revel in the ease and comfort she feels in this moment, standing in her half-unpacked kitchen in an oversized sweater with her makeup cried off and her hair tied on top of her head in a messy bun.
Iknowthis is fake, but why does it feel more real than anything I’ve had before?
The week passes in a blur of hotel lobbies with different names but identical layouts and cities shrinking to grids of light below every twenty-four hours or so. It’s a taxing cycle all NHL players experience for over half the year, but I wouldn’t give it up for anything.
Because when I’m in the crease, the weight of my gear an extension of my body, the world narrowing to a single black puck traveling at ninety miles an hour, nothing else matters. For sixty minutes, I get to justbe. And that makes every flat, lumpy hotel pillow and confusion over which time zone I’m in worth it.
But for the first time in I can’t remember how long, I’m looking forward to the off days between our home games. It means free time to do whatever I want.
Like stop by a certain kitchen in a gray building.
Ever since Kennedy sent me that first cookie dick pic, we’ve texted almost daily. Our messages don’t usually contain anything of importance. We mostly share bits and pieces about our days and discussSurvivor. TheReal Housewivesproved to be too much for me, but she insisted we still need a show, so here we are.
Now I find myself going straight to my phone when I step into the locker room after every practice and every game, heart in my throat as I check to see if she’s texted me back.
It’s fucking pathetic, and I can’t find it in me to care.
Kennedy Caplan
Omg that save was insanity
Why did the ref just ignore that??
I’m stress eating cookies watching this.
Now I’m stress-baking cookies watching this.
I hope you like snickerdoodles, because I just made two dozen, and they’re gluten-free.
YESSSS GOAL!!
Is Cole okay? That looked bad.
