Page 43 of Penalty Kiss
The dining room erupts. Patricia fans herself with the menu and says, “Fine. Steak it is. And bring extra napkins for my daughters—so they can wipe their tears when I tell them I was flirted into lunch by a hockey player.”
“Thesexiest.” He winks with a salute.
Mrs. Whitmore looks like she might pass out. I’m just mortified—this man redefines himself with every hip wiggle. He’s an adorable, dangerous idiot, and my heart is doing Olympic-gold-worthy gymnastics it never signed up for.
I catch his eye once as he delivers a water pitcher with the dramatic flourish of a sommelier presenting a rare vintage. He winks, a tiny, subtle shift in his expression that somehow makes it feel like we are sharing a secret, a private joke in a room full of unsuspecting witnesses. My cheeks warm, a tell I hate.
But watching him work this room—watching him tip the energy toward light—does something low and warm under my ribs that feels dangerously like ease.
Around two o’clock, after the lunch rush ebbs into a comfortable lull, leaving only a few lingering patrons, Cam straightens from where he’s been demonstrating an air-hockey move with a breadstick for a giggling toddler. He claps his hands together, the sound echoing a little too loudly in the quieter space.
“Alright, team!” he booms, turning to face the open kitchen pass-through. “Operation: Feed the Crew is a go! Who’s hungry for something… different?”
Mrs. W hurries out, wiping her hands on her apron. “Cameron, dear, the kitchen staff are just starting their break. Tyler can bring you a menu, if you’re peckish.”
Cam flashes her a smile, the kind that could get a man out of a five-minute major penalty.
“Boss, put me in,” he tells Mrs. Whitmore, voice all sunshine.
"You are not touching my line," she replies, but her voice has gone all honey.
He leans in conspiratorially, his voice falling just enough to carry to us, but not to the few remaining customers.
“Don't know if you know this. My Korean mother has a small chain of banchan shops in Dallas, Texas—Korean side dishes. I helped her when it was just her and her own shop, until hockey got serious around middle school... and she would disown me if I let a good kitchen go unused when people are hungry."
“Besides, I think some of our…friendsout there might be wondering what kind of pet I really am. Time to show them a new trick.”
The last part is for me, his dark eyes locking onto mine, a challenge and a promise simmering beneath the charm. He isn’t just talking about the stalkers, I realized, but also about the “pet” comment. He’s going to use this, use his cultural identity, use his talent, to prove he’s far more than anyone’s plaything.
Mrs. Whitmore, bless her heart, is no match for a motivated Cam Wilder. She throws her hands up in good-natured defeat. “Just… try not to burn anything down, dear. And no raw fish, please. Our health inspector is a terror.”
“My word is my castle, Mrs. W!” Cam grins like he’s just been awarded first line minutes, already striding toward the kitchen, his broad shoulders easily filling the narrow doorway.
I follow him, propelled by a curiosity I can’t deny. Cam Wilder is a force, an undeniable magnetic presence, and I can't tear my gaze away. How can anyone, especially me, a womanwho thrives on anonymity, not be affected by such showmanship?
Inside the kitchen, he stands at the prep counter like he owns it, sleeves shoved to his elbows, sinewy forearms cabled. He smiles at the line cooks who are taking him in with the collective skepticism of professionals who don’t have time for antics.
“Alright, crew! Today, you get Seoul street food—Korean corn dogs. Hot dog and cheese, battered, rolled in potato and crunch, fried, sugar-dusted.”
Mrs. W appears behind me, pinching the bridge of her nose like she’s seen this movie before and already regrets the popcorn. “We do not have Korean groceries, Wilder.”
“Don’t need ‘em,” he says. “I’ll improvise. It’s what champions do.”
“Korean corn dogs?” Tyler asks, eyes wide. “Like, hot dogs?”
“Exactly! But better. With cheese. And hash browns. And a batter that’ll make you forget every corn dog you’ve ever had.”
He winks at Tyler, who looks utterly captivated.
“So, a little backstory. My team and I had these on a pre-season tour in South Korea, and we fell in love. Replicated them back home, even got the approval of the grumpiest on the team. Just ask Levi if you don’t believe.”
Cam moves with a confidence that shouldn’t look this good in a bistro kitchen. Flour. Sugar. Salt. Packet of yeast lifted like a magician’s reveal. He hunts, finds a rectangular hotel pan, and starts whisking like a man with a mission.
Cam glances at me, catches my eye, and something softens across his mouth. He narrates for me, not the room.
“Okay, Rookie, I can’t do this without you. Here’s your playbook.”
I’m half worried that he doesn’t remember the recipe exactly, but he builds it like a memory game, each step anchored to an image I won’t forget.
