Page 57 of Married As Puck
I duck back before they notice me, heart racing, questions piling up. Are they working together? Is this some twisted game? Knowing Miranda, it probably is and knowing Jack and everything he’s said and done to Cameron, I have a very bad feeling about this sudden relationship.
Cameron comes home just after sunset, tossing his keys onto the counter with that careless flick of his wrist. He looks tired, but there’s still a sharpness in his eyes, the kind of edge that says he’s been thinking too much. I should probably let it go, but the image has been gnawing at me all day, and I can’t keep it in any longer.
He raises a brow at me. “You look like you’re about to tell me that the world is about to end. What’s up?”
“I need to tell you something,” I say, my voice tight.
He raises a brow, pulling a cigarette from the pack on the table. “That sounds serious.”
“It is.” I fold my arms, grounding myself. “After work today… I saw Jack…your teammate…I saw him with Miranda.”
He pauses mid-light, glancing at me. “With Miranda?”
“Yes. Together. In the parking lot. They were—” I bite my lip, forcing the word out. “Kissing in the parking lot.”
For a second, there’s nothing but the scratch of the lighter as he flicks it open and lights the cigarette. He takes a drag, exhales a thin stream of smoke, and leans back. “So what?”
My chest tightens. “So what? Cameron, I just told you that I saw the guy who was weirdly staring at me with the devil’s spawn together and you don’t think that’s fishy?”
He shrugs.
“Well, my gut has never been wrong about people, and I’m telling you—those two are up to something. I don’t know what, but it’s not any good.”
He smirks faintly, like he’s already made up his mind. “Brie, you’re overanalyzing. Jack’s dumb enough to get tangled with someone like Miranda, and Miranda—well, she looks like she’ll grab on to anyone who gives her the time of day. It’s pathetic, but it’s not some grand conspiracy.”
“I can’t believe you right now. You don’t get it.” I shake my head, frustration simmering under my skin. “This is not normal. This isn’t good! Something’s going on. Something doesn’t add up. It’s really weird that they’re together.”
“Brie.” His voice drops, calm, almost dismissive. “You’re stressing yourself over nothing.”
I stare at him, searching his face for any flicker of concern, any hint that he might take me seriously. But all I see is his indifference, his confidence that it’ll all blow over. The dismissal stings more than I expect.
“Fine,” I say, my voice flat. “Forget I mentioned it.”
I turn away before he can reply. If he won’t listen, then I won’t waste my breath. For the rest of the evening, I keep my words to myself, leaving his questions to hang unanswered in the air.
22
The sound of the puck ricocheting off the boards is the only rhythm I want to hear tonight. My shirt clings to my back with sweat, my arms ache from repetition, but I keep pushing. Faster, harder, sharper. This game––this damn game has to be perfect. I can’t afford to slip. Not now.
I glide across the ice, take another shot. The puck slams into the net, but it’s still not enough. Nothing ever feels enough.
“Still trying to convince yourself you’re worth the hype?” Jack’s voice cuts through the air like a blade.
I freeze for a split second, my stick tightening in my grip. I don’t turn, don’t give him the satisfaction. “Don’t you have somewhere better to be?”
“I’m exactly where I want to be.” His skates scrape closer, the echo irritatingly casual. “Watching the great Cameron Gray sweat like a rookie. It’s almost… poetic.”
I exhale slowly, try to focus on the puck. Ignore him. Just ignore him.
“Not in the mood, Jack.” I gather another puck, fire it hard into the net.
“Touchy,” he mocks, coasting lazily in front of me. “What’s the matter, Gray? Can’t stand a little company? Or maybe you’re just embarrassed that even with all this extra practice, you’re still going to choke.”
I exhale through my nose, force myself to ignore him. Another shot, straight into the corner pocket. Clean. Precise.
Jack claps slowly, sarcastic. “Wow. What a shot. Too bad it won’t mean shit when the pressure’s on. Everyone knows you fold when it matters.”
My grip on the stick tightens. “Get off the ice.”
