Page 59 of Married As Puck
I let that sit for a moment. The tension doesn’t vanish, but the edge of it dulls. At least someone’s got my back.
“Fine,” I mutter. “But if Jack so much as breathes wrong, I’m done playing nice.”
Keith chuckles. “Yeah, yeah. Just don’t put him through the glass before the game. We kind of need you on the ice, not in the penalty box.”
For the first time all day, I almost laugh.
I find her in the kitchen when I get back from practice, curled on the counter stool with her hair in a messy knot, nursing acup of tea. She looks up when I walk in, those sharp eyes of hers scanning me like she can read what’s crawling under my skin.
“You look like you fought someone,” she says quietly.
“Almost did.” I drop my bag against the wall and rub at the back of my neck. My muscles are tight, my temper tighter. Jack’s words are still rattling in my skull. You’ll never be enough. Just like your old man.
Brie doesn’t press. Instead, she watches me like she’s waiting for me to breathe first.
I exhale, drag a chair out, and sit across from her. “You were right about him.”
Her brow furrows. “Jack?”
I nod. “Yeah. I kept brushing it off—what you saw, your gut. But today… I don’t know, something’s off. The way he’s been hanging around. The crap he said to me in the rink.” I shake my head. “It’s not just rivalry anymore. Feels darker than that.”
She places her mug down, leaning closer. “My gut’s never wrong, Cameron. I told you those two are up to something. I don’t trust Miranda, and I sure as hell don’t trust him. You shouldn’t either.”
Her certainty steadies me in a way I didn’t expect. My chest feels less like it’s caving in.
“I’m sorry,” I murmur. “For shutting you down before. For making you feel like you were overthinking. I just… I didn’t want it to be real.”
Her expression softens instantly. She pushes off the stool, rounds the counter, and slips her arms around me from behind. I freeze for half a second, still not used to the ease with which shetouches me, the way she doesn’t flinch from my edges, but then I let myself lean back into her warmth.
“You don’t have to pretend everything is okay,” she whispers against my shoulder. “I can handle it, whatever it is. What I can’t handle is you shutting me out.”
I close my eyes. Her voice is an anchor. My fists unclench. “I’m not good at this,” I admit, rough, almost ashamed.
She shifts to face me, sliding onto my lap so I can’t escape her gaze. “You’re better than you think,” she says simply. “And you don’t have to be perfect. Just… be here.”
Something in me cracks open. I cup her jaw, drag my thumb over her lip, and the apology tumbles out again, softer this time. “I’m sorry.”
She smiles faintly. “Yeah?”
I lean my forehead against hers, staring at her mouth. “Yeah.”
She whispers, “Then kiss me.”
And I do because I can’t resist her.
The kiss is desperate, searching, like I’m clinging to the one thing that makes sense. My hands find her waist, her skin hot under my palms. She tastes like tea and safety, like home, and I don’t remember the last time I felt this steady while coming undone.
By the time we stumble toward the bedroom, clothes in half-torn trails behind us, I’m not thinking about Jack or the game or the echoes of my father’s voice. I’m thinking about her—about the way she fits against me like she was built to quiet the storms in my head.
And for that night at least, she does.
A few days later, practice ends late. Most of the rink is empty. That’s when I see Jack near the side entrance, slipping something into another man’s hand. The exchange is quick, too quick. The guy disappears into the shadows.
Jack notices me watching. For a moment, our eyes lock. Then he smirks, strolling over, casual as ever.
“You’re working hard, Cam. That’s good.” His tone is playful, but his words are edged with steel. “Because who knows if you’ll ever get another shot at this.”
My fist curls at my side. My entire body screams to grab him by the shirt, to demand answers, to beat the smugness off his face. But I force myself to breathe, to stand still.
