Page 81 of Penalty Kiss
I try to cut it with a grin. “Guess I got good at more than blocking shots… now I’ve got PCS as a party favor.”
I meet Tara’s eyes, letting her see the part I usually keep buried. "So when my family goes full surgeon voice, it’s not just worry I hear. It’s a reminder I’ve still got something to prove. Like I’m back to being the kid fighting to earn my spot.”
She threads her fingers through mine, thumb tracing slow circles that settle something deep in my chest. "They were blind," she says simply. "I can't imagine anyone looking at you and seeing anything less than the star."
Then the corner of her mouth tips. "And 'soy sauce'? Please. You're clearly sriracha."
That pulls a real laugh out of me, the kind that eases my shoulders. "Sriracha, huh?"
"Hot. Addictive. Goes with everything." Her gaze doesn't waver. "And you belong, Cam. Everywhere you choose."
The words land like a hand on the small of my back, steadying me forward.
My phone buzzes. Text from Luke.
Luke: Flight's on time. Looking forward to seeing how you're doing. Really doing.
I show Tara the message, and she winces. "That sounds ominous."
"That's Luke-speak for 'prepare for a full neurological assessment disguised as brotherly concern.'"
But the adrenaline from the phone call is finally ebbing, leaving me wrung out and overstimulated.
A hot shower sounds like exactly what I need to reset my brain before tomorrow's family invasion.
I stand up, suddenly restless. "I need a shower before I say yes to every one of their blood tests."
I'm halfway to the bathroom when I hear her footsteps behind me.
"Cam?"
I turn, and she's holding my t-shirt—the one she was wearing—dangling it from her finger like a hostage flag. She's still got on her jeans, but the loss of the shirt means she's in just her bra, and my brain immediately forgets all about the shower.
"Don't look at me like that." She twirls the shirt, not moving closer but not backing away either. "This t-shirt of yours—which is now legally mine under the girlfriend acquisition laws of Colorado—could be persuaded to return to its homeland. But my terms are steep."
I drag a hand over my face, half tortured, half alive again. "Terms?"
"Dinner tomorrow that doesn't require a fire department," she says, deadpan.
I groan. "Cruel."
"You love me for it."
I don't argue. Because it's true. I love her sharp wit, her perfect timing, the way she can defuse my spiral with nothing but sass and skin. I love that she makes me laugh even when I'm drowning in family pressure and self-doubt.
"Fine," I say, backing toward the bathroom. "But you're keeping that shirt hostage at your own risk."
Her smile turns absolutely feline. "I like risk."
"We'll see how much when my family shows up tomorrow and starts asking pointed questions about sleeping arrangements."
"I'll tell them we're very thorough about your recovery. Now, go shower." she sing-songs as I disappear into the bathroom.
The hot water pounds across my shoulders, but it doesn't do much to clear the image of her from my mind. Or the warmth in her voice when she promised to stand by me tomorrow.
I’ve muscled six-foot-five forwards out of the crease without breaking stride. I've played through injuries that would sideline most people. But the thought of my father and brother descending on Cedar Falls with their medical degrees and their concerned expressions?
That terrifies me.
