Page 11

I moan when I taste the dish. It's extraordinary. Deeply savory, with something sweet underneath and a touch of acid. I make a sound that is probably undignified. "What is that?”

"Balsamic and date syrup." She looks satisfied. "Good, right?"

"Gianna, that's incredible."

She tucks a dish towel into her apron. "I'll bring you a proper portion when he arrives."

Just then, something catches my eye by the door. Mayhem holds the door open for a woman carrying two full to-go bags. He doesn’t see me, but I absolutely notice his automatic reach to help her out and the brief exchange where she thanks him.

He wears a gray pullover and dark jeans, and he just takes up so much space without trying. Gianna smiles at me, waves to my date, and heads back into the kitchen.

I almost gasp when he meets my gaze across the room. His whole face lights up, and he smiles. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen that expression on his face, certainly not at this wattage. Is he glad to be here with me? Wow.

"Hey." He pulls out the chair opposite me, hangs his jacket on the back before sitting. “You find it okay?” He doesn’t fiddle with the menu or do anything but stare directly into my eyes, fully focused on me.

“I did. Thanks.” I don’t want to look away from his gaze. “You owe me an update on your morning.”

“Well.” He sips from his glass of water. “My father called his physical therapist a quack.”

I stifle a laugh. “Is she?"

"She has a master's from Columbia."

"Then no."

"Correct."

Gianna arrives with two waters, two small plates, and no preamble. "Spicy beef for Mayhem, and the turkey balls with balsamic reduction for his lady.”

We both thank her, and she hurries off into the growing crowd of lunch patrons, all of whom seem to be staring at the famous Fury player across from me.

“So,” I say, pushing a meatball through the sauce. “Lady-friend. Girlfriend. What’s my noun?”

He looks up, like he’s trying to count his eyelashes. “I guess girlfriend is right. I’m fine with boyfriend.”

“You don’t want to be the fire in my loins?” I was trying to make a joke about his spicy meatballs, but now I’m blushing furiously because I really just referenced my loins to someone I’ve only known a few days. This is why I’m single.

But to my surprise, Cameron pops a meatball into his mouth, dabs his lips with a napkin, and winks. He doesn’t seem like the type to wink. Spinner? Absolutely. But this guy has always stalked around the arena like he’s mad at it.

We both chew a few bites in silence before I finally say, “My teammates have already made up their own stories about us. Maybe we can share some basic information, in case someone asks?”

“Agreed.” He nods.

"You go first."

He sips his water, apparently considering. Then he says, “I grew up in South Boston. Irish Catholic and all that comes with it—oldest of five kids, no money, Mass every Saturday night.” I nod along as he talks, wondering how elite hockey training fits into the mix. He purses his lips, swallows another meatball. “I got a lot of scholarships to a lot of shit, and now I’m trying to help keep everyone afloat from afar.”

I cough because that part feels so familiar; I question whether he actually said it or if I was projecting. At his confused glance, I nod. “I get that. Keeping everyone afloat. I grew up here in Pittsburgh, right on the north side. Because my parents were older, they always needed help with my sister. She’s disabled.”

“Yeah? Like … physically? My dad won’t use that word.”

I choose my next words carefully. “She has an intellectual disability. I became my sister’s guardian when Mom and Dad passed away.” I watch his face adjust to my hard truths. I don’t talk about this much because, well, it’s a huge bummer. “Deen lives in a group home in Manchester. She's the most important person in my life."

Cameron’s eyes light up at that. "Of course she is," he says.

Something in my shoulders releases that I didn't know I was holding. Tension? Weight? This man is conspiring to help me get rid of my friends’ constant nagging to go out, to party, to find someone. I smile, appreciating how big this might be.

"What's she like–your sister?" Cameron asks, interrupting my moment of gratitude. He seems to care about my response, his dark eyes intent, holding my gaze.