Page 13 of Married As Puck
I rub my hand down my face. “More like obnoxiously loud singing, cooking nonstop, and waving lease papers around like she’s goddamn royalty. She made fucking pancakes this morning and dared me to eat them. I left. She literally barged into my house the other night and started acting like my wife or something and it’s so fucking annoying. She thinks I’m going to move out in a week.”
Keith freezes. Then he explodes into laughter so loud heads actually turn from the lanes. He slaps the table, wheezing, tears gathering in his eyes. “Oh my God. Cameron Gray. NHL’s angriest enforcer, terror of the ice, nightmare of defensemen everywhere—getting his ass handed to him by a pancake-flipping squatter.”
“Shut up.”
“No, seriously—” He gasps between laughs. “—please tell me you’re kidding. She’s in your house right now? Singing? Cooking? And you’re just—what—sitting here sulking instead of throwing her out?”
I grit my teeth so hard my jaw aches. “It’s not that simple.”
“Oh, it sounds real simple.” He leans back, arms wide. “You, ex-hockey god with fists the size of bricks. Her, random woman with… what? Pancakes? Lease papers? Cam, come on. This is comedy gold.”
I glare at him, but it only fuels his grin.
“You think this is funny?” I growl.
“I think it’s the funniest goddamn thing I’ve heard all year.”
“It’s not funny when it’s the apartment you pay for,” I snap. “When it’s your kitchen smelling like chocolate chip pancakes that you want but can’t eat. When you wake up to some stranger’s voice singing through the goddamn walls.”
Keith lifts his brows. “Sounds cozy.”
“Sounds like hell.”
“Sounds like it’s something you need.”
That throws me. “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”
“You’ve been moping around for too long, Cam. No noise. No company. Just you, the ghosts of your glory days. Then bam—some girl waltzes in, shakes the dust off your mausoleum, and suddenly you’ve got something to bitch about besides Jack and hockey.”
I narrow my eyes. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”
“Damn right I am.”
I push the water away, untouched. My throat feels tight, my chest tighter.
Keith studies me, and for once, he’s not laughing. “So what’s the deal? Is she a scammer? Some squatter with fake paperwork? Or…” His grin returns, sly. “Is she hot?”
I groan, shoving my chair back. “Jesus, Keith.”
“Hey, I’m just asking the important questions.”
I drag my hands through my hair. The words stumble out before I can stop them. “I don’t think she’s a scammer. From what I take, the landlord told her that I’d be out of the place and she could move in mid-month. I don’t know if he mixed up with the wrong apartment or what, but she said she had nowhere to go. That she paid first month’s rent, the deposit, and last month’srent. She agreed to let me stay for seven days.” I almost laugh. “She reminded me this morning that it’s now six, but she has no idea who I am. And I don’t fucking remember her name.”
That silences him. His smirk falters, replaced with stunned amusement. Then, inevitably, the laughter comes again, loud and unrelenting. “You—” He points at me, gasping. “You’ve been ranting about this woman for how long, and you don’t even know her name?”
“Shut up.”
“No, no, this is too good. Cameron Gray. All fists, no brains. Jesus Christ, man, what do you even say when you walk into your own kitchen? ‘Hey you, pancake lady?’”
“Keith—”
“Oh my God, you do, don’t you?” He slaps the table again, nearly spilling his beer. “Tell me you’ve actually called her pancake lady.”
I grind my teeth, “Of course not.”
Keith howls, tipping back in the booth until the seat groans. “Unbelievable. You’re living in a sitcom.”
“It’s not a sitcom,” I snap. “It’s my life and it’s falling apart piece by piece while you sit there laughing.”
