Page 12 of Well That Happened

And I’m left there, flushed and furious, with a heart that won’t settle.

By the time I make it to the kitchen, I’m still vibrating with leftover fury. Hunter’s words are lodged in my ribs like splinters, sharp and impossible to ignore.

You’re not here to get cozy with my teammates.

I don’t know what pisses me off more—the arrogance or the assumption.

The fridge hums. The lights are dim. The silence creeps under my skin.

I’m mid-stare into the freezer, debating if frozen waffles count as emotional support, when a voice says behind me, “Please tell me you’re not considering ice cream for dinner.”

I flinch, slam the freezer shut, and turn.

Caleb leans against the doorway, barefoot in joggers and a T-shirt that clings to his chest. His hair is messy in the front, doing that cute boy swoopy thing. He’s stupid hot.

“I wasn’t,” I lie. “I was considering it for dessert. After my waffle entrée.”

He grins, then holds up a bag. “Thought you might be hungry. Brought you a turkey melt and fries.”

I blink. “Did you—did you go out just now?”

“Yeah. Ran to the market on the corner.” He sets the wrapped sandwich in front of me, pulls out a chair, and sits, like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

I hover awkwardly for a second before I drop into the seat across from him.

“You didn’t have to do this.”

“Yeah, but I wanted to.” He shrugs. “You’ve had a crap day. And you’re stuck in testosterone central with a bunch of emotionally constipated hockey players. Someone’s gotta be nice to you.”

I pick up a fry. “So you drew the short straw?”

He laughs. “Nah. I volunteered.”

My chest does something it probably shouldn’t.

I take a bite of the sandwich, and he watches me like he’s gauging whether I’m about to cry or throw something. Or both.

“Hunter can be a dick,” he says, voice gentler now. “He’s… intense. And wound up tighter than a goalie’s hamstrings. But he’s not a bad guy.”

“Sure has a way of… hiding it.”

Caleb nods. “He’s under a lot of pressure. Feels like he has to carry everything—his team, his future, everyone’s expectations. Sometimes that weight makes him push people away.” He nudges my knee under the table. “That doesn’t mean you deserve to be on the receiving end of it.”

I chew slowly, unsure what to say to that.

He nudges my plate closer. “Look, I know he came at you hard. Hunter’s not… great with new variables.”

I arch a brow. “I’m a variable now?”

“You moved into his space,” he says gently. “He thrives on control. Especially this year—with scouts watching, Frozen Four pressure, the team riding on his back. You showing up? It shook him.”

“Glad I could ruin his vibe.”

He chuckles. “You didn’t ruin anything. He’ll adjust. He just needs time.”

I swirl a fry in ketchup, then pause. “Do you always clean up his messes?”

He shakes his head. “I don’t clean up for him. I just know when he’s full of shit. And when someone deserves to know it’s not about them.”

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