His eyes dropped back to mine instantly. “What is?”
“This.” I gestured vaguely between us and the disaster surrounding us. “The project conversation.”
The corner of his mouth lifted again, soft enough to be dangerous and sharp enough to be worse. “Yeah. Probably not the ideal interview environment.”
“Unless my subject is alcohol poisoning and emotional instability.”
“That feels more like a Briggs memoir.”
“Fair.”
Another shout erupted behind us as Briggs accused Rider of cheating through psychological intimidation, which probably meant Rider had blinked too slowly or breathed in a way Briggs found personally disrespectful. I smiled despite myself before looking back at Cade, and the second our eyes caught again, the noise around us dulled in a way I did not appreciate.
It did not disappear.
Nothing at Hockey House disappeared unless it was alcohol, dignity, or someone’s left shoe.
But it softened at the edges, like Cade’s attention had drawn a circle around us and everything else had to exist outside it for a second.
His expression did not change much, but his focus sharpened immediately. “When?”
Like we had been mid-conversation for longer than tonight.
I shook my head. “I’m free Monday night.”
“The Sin Bin?” he asked.
I almost nodded, because that had been the obvious answer. Less screaming. Fewer airborne ping-pong balls. A normal place to talk about a school project without Briggs Lawson attempting to turn beer pong into a war crime.
But then I glanced around Hockey House again, at the noise and bodies and chaos pressing in around us, and for some reason, Monday at The Sin Bin felt like the wrong place entirely. Too public. Too easy to dodge. Too much like pretending this project was only about clean interviews and neat questions when Simpson had been very clear about wanting access.
Real access.
And Sunday dinner was the most real, terrifying, loud, emotionally unsafe-in-a-loving-way thing I had.
I looked back at Cade before I could talk myself out of it. “Actually, why don’t you come with me Sunday?”
His brows lifted slightly. “To family day?”
“Not right away,” I said quickly, because the way he said it made it sound more intimate than I needed it to sound. “You can meet me at my apartment before. I’ll go over what to expect with the project, what Simpson wants, what I’d need from you, boundaries, filming, all of it. Then, if it sounds like something you can do, you come with me to Sunday dinner.”
Cade was quiet for a second, but not in a bad way. His eyes stayed on mine with that steady, unsettling attention that made me feel like he was listening to more than just the words I actually said.
“Your apartment,” he repeated.
“For the project.”
“And then Sunday dinner.”
“Also for the project.”
His mouth twitched. “Academic barbecue.”
“Exactly.”
“With five brothers and a firefighter dad.”
“Two of those brothers are firefighters, one is a cop, one is in the academy, and the fifth is a single dad who works construction. Oh, and my dad will burn meat and call it flavor—so maybe have a light dinner before.”
