Page 40 of Fly

THIRTEEN

Jari

There was a knock on the pool door while I was midway through a slow stretch, breathing steady, muscles finally unclenching. I’d rolled my mat out early, chasing quiet before the world had a chance to crowd in, and for once I had the time for it. An entire day to myself. No meetings. No media. Just space.

We’d landed late last night from Columbus, a solid 4–3 win under our belts. I’d played well—better than well. A couple of clean, confident assists, the kind that felt instinctive instead of forced, and enough to earn a shout-out from Coach in the post-game presser. That alone had me buzzing when I woke later, and yoga had seemed like the right call, something quiet and controlled, something I could stop if it got to be too much.

The knock came again, polite this time, and I straightened slowly, heartbeat kicking up a notch as I glanced toward the door. I hadn’t been expecting anyone, and I knew it had to be Cam. Even though focusing on hockey had taken over enough for me to compartmentalize, the fact Cam was probably at the door made me want to hide.

“Hiding from what, genius?” I muttered. “Coming!” I said louder and glanced down at my athletic shorts and my T-shirt, curling my bare toes against the soft mat.

I crossed the room and opened the door.

Cam stood there with a plastic container clutched in both hands and seeing him sent a quick wash of relief through me, followed by something sharper and more awkward. Shyness, maybe. Or just the strange awareness that came with knowing I didn’t have a script for this version of us. Not since the blowjob.

He looked so damn handsome, it caught me off guard. Sweatpants slung low on his hips, an Iron Horses T-shirt that had seen better days, dark hair neatly trimmed and a short beard that made his smile hit harder than it had any right to. His eyes were dark, steady, warm—and when he smiled at me, something low and confusing tightened in my chest.

“Uh,” he said, thrusting it toward me as if it might explode if he held on too long. “I made cake.”

I blinked. “Cake.”

“Pineapple upside-down,” he added quickly. “With cherries. But not many cherries because I ate them, then I threw one at Kirby because he's an ass, and I think it’s under the refrigerator because I couldn’t find it.” He wrinkled his nose, clearly regretting the explanation.

He shifted his grip, then held the container out again, steadier this time. “Would you like some?”

I took it from him, and he stepped back as if he was going to drop and run. Something in my chest hurt. He’d made my favorite cake, and I didn’t want him to go. “Coffee?” I asked, a little too quickly, and gestured at the kitchen behind me. His smile was wide, and his shoulders dropped a little.

“That would be good.”

I stood to one side to let him in, catching the familiar scent of him as he passed close enough to brush my shoulder. My body reacted before my brain could intervene, heat and need sparking. God, I’d missed him.

“I watched the game,” he said as he sat at one of the stools by the short counter. “I mean—most of it. I had to look a couple of things up.” He huffed out a small breath, half self-conscious. “There was that shift in the second, when you dropped back instead of driving the line. I didn’t get why at first, but then I rewound it, and I think it was about slowing the play so Becks could reset? Or am I completely wrong?”

“You watched the game,” I said, focusing on that and the fact he had questions and not even beginning to answer what he'd asked.

“Of course, it's my new favorite thing,” he said with a smile. “And you looked good out there, so fast it was like a blur sometimes.”

I blinked at him. “How do you want your coffee?”

“Black,” he said, and I took a moment to reset myself, filling his mug and mine, then setting out plates for the cake. I cut two slices, and all that time, all I could think was that he'd said hockey was his new favorite thing.

Or did he mean me?

Why did I hope he meant me?

I took the stool next to his and forked up a mouthful of cake, then paused. “Okay,” I said. “That’s unfairly good.”

“Yeah?” His face lit up.

“The pineapple’s caramelized just right,” I went on, because apparently, I was doing this now. “Not too sweet. And the cake’s light, not heavy.” I took another bite, slower this time. “I don’t let myself have cake that often.”

He lifted a brow. “Occupational hazard?”

“Something like that.” I shrugged. “But for this? I’d do extra reps any day.”

He watched me for a second longer than necessary, as though he were weighing something. Then he carefully set his fork down.

“Can I—” He stopped, cleared his throat. “Can I kiss you?”