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I flop down next to him, and we lie with our eyes closed. "I'm starving."

“I bet.” His voice comes through my relaxed haze. “Briar?”

“Ungh?” I open my eyes, and he’s lying on his side, head propped on his fest. He studies me with dark, unreadable eyes.

“That was pretty fucking hot.”

I press my lips together and nod. My throat is too tight to speak. Puck weaves between us, purring. Cameron kisses me on the forehead and climbs out of bed. A few minutes later, I hear the sounds of him plating food in the kitchen—the clink of dishes and a metal ladle dipping into the stew.

Puck yowls as if to remind me that I have deviated from the game plan and become very, very distracted.

"I know," I tell him, too tired to actively worry. "I know."

Chapter 16

Cameron

Nothing technically happened yesterday. I was interrupted during my pitiful solo distraction session, and then I was just helping my fake girlfriend reach a personal goal.

Collaborative fitness. Between two consenting adults who happen to share a bathroom.

The bathroom. Where I can hear her showering right now as I stand in the kitchen making eggs, gripping the spatula and ignoring the fact that I know exactly what Briar Beckett sounds like when she comes.

Puck sits on the counter — I've stopped fighting him about this — and watches me cook. I can tell he thinks I’ve lost my mind.

"Don't look at me like that," I tell him.

He doubles down.

I already know I won’t be concentrating very hard in tonight’s game. The team is resting most of the starters. Coach even pulled a guy up from the minors to play on my line so the Stag brothers can get a night off with their zillion babies.

Nope—can’t think about babies without thinking about how they’re made, which has me thinking of Briar, her hand down her undies, and the smell of her washing over that entire bed as she made herself come.

She pops downstairs in her base layers, hair damp, and the townhouse shrinks in half. She smells like new shampoo today — something with mint in it — and she pauses in the kitchen. Three days ago, she would have leaned against the counter across from me, and we'd drink coffee in comfortable silence. Now she hovers.

"Eggs?" I say, because I'm holding a pan of eggs and that seems like relevant information.

"Please." I freeze mid-scoop, spatula in hand, as Briar opens the refrigerator and procures a bottle of ketchup. “What are you doing?”

She carries the bottle of Heinz to the table and glances at me, looking confused. “I’m preparing to eat my eggs.”

I frown. “You’re not planning to contaminate them with that, are you?” I plate the food and set it in front of her with toast.

She cackles and pops the bottle cap. I reach an arm out to stop her, unable to tolerate this behavior, and tingles zoom up and down my arm at the contact.

“I don’t care what you say.” She points a fork at me. “You’re eating them wrong, not me.”

I shake my head and gobble down my food. Puck crunches kibble. The radiator ticks. It's the loudest silence I've ever sat inside.

"I have practice until two," she says, standing and rinsing her plate. "Then film. Then I might ice at the facility."

"Long day."

"Playoffs." She says it like it explains everything, which it does. She grabs her bag, pauses at the door, and looks back at me. Her mouth opens as if she's about to say something. Closes. Opens again.

"Your eggs are really good," she says, and leaves.

I stare at the closed door. Puck jumps off the counter and heads to the window.