Page 3 of Cross Check Daddies (Miami Icemen #3)

CHAPTER THREE

Cam

“You’re not listening to me, Cam,” Tanner says through a mouthful of cereal, spoon paused midair as he stares at me from across the breakfast bar.

I blink and refocus, realizing I’ve been staring at the same coffee mug for who knows how long. “Sorry,” I say, rubbing my jaw. “Just distracted.”

“You good?”

“Yeah,” I lie, and when he keeps watching me, I redirect, “What were you saying?”

He shrugs and leans against the counter like he didn’t just sleep past his alarm. “Thinking about trying out that cryo thing. Good for muscle recovery, right?”

“Sure,” I say. “But don’t skip practice. And be here when the housekeeper comes. She’s doing the whole place today. Don’t leave her hanging.”

“Yes, bro,” he groans, rolling his eyes like I’ve asked him to do something impossible.

He tips back his bowl to drink the milk and then says, “What’s the meeting with the owners about?”

“You know I can’t tell you even if I knew. Which I don’t.”

He lifts one shoulder. “If someone’s getting traded, you better tell me. I don’t want to find out in the locker room.”

That hits hard. I know exactly why he’s worried.

The last few seasons have been a media circus, the kind of shitshow PR teams have nightmares about.

First, it was Daisy, the journalist—Ace’s niece, of all people—and ended up in bed with Mason, Kieran, and Beau.

Not just in bed. Publicly, unapologetically, scandalously theirs.

Then came Madeline, our game-day mascot.

She started dating Leo, our assistant coach, and somewhere along the way, added Asher and Ford into the mix.

The fallout? Suspension threats, owner meetings, team boycotts.

It all ended with a wedding and a public relations pivot, but it didn’t erase the mess.

So, yeah. The suits upstairs are antsy. Whispers of trades have been swirling like vultures. Tanner has a right to be on edge.

“I’ll let you know if anything’s actually happening,” I say, grabbing my keys and my phone.

He nods, eyes still on me like he knows I’m holding something back.

I shower quickly, dress in a crisp polo and dark jeans, and head out.

The drive to the arena is smooth, Miami blurring by in a flash of palm trees and heat shimmer, but my head is nowhere near the road.

It’s still in Sunvale, two hundred miles and a decade back, standing outside Brooke’s old house with a cheap six-pack and stupid hope.

She’d opened the door in cutoff shorts and that sarcastic mouth of hers, and I’d been gone from that first look.

And now?

I scrub a hand over my face and curse under my breath.

Inside the arena, the team offices are already buzzing. Ace stands near the conference room door with two coffees in hand. He hands me one.

“Any clue what this is about?” I ask, taking a sip.

He shakes his head. “Could be a new scandal. Could be free donuts.”

“Praying for donuts.”

The double doors open, and in come the owners: Mr. Harrow, who always looks like he just walked off the golf course; Mrs. Ellison, in her usual power suit and blood-red nails; and Mr. Kapoor, who runs the financials and rarely smiles.

They move with purpose, followed closely by Lena Hart, our team coordinator; Jeremy Henry, the team lawyer; and the rest of the marketing and PR teams. A new guy lingers near the back—mid-thirties, expensive watch, perfectly tousled hair—and I peg him instantly as the new head of PR. He has that sheen.

The room settles fast.

Mrs. Ellison starts. “We’re not here to talk trades or penalties today. This is about optics. Image. How we get this franchise to stop trending for all the wrong reasons.”

Ace crosses his arms beside me. He’s not thrilled already.

“Let’s be honest,” Harrow cuts in. “We have seats to fill and headlines to bury. The scandals, the viral content, the goddamn TikToks—it’s been too much. We need a distraction. A good one.”

The new PR guy steps forward. “Our team has been exploring new avenues to rebrand and engage the younger demographic. Currently, most marketing and engagement is digital-first. Twitch, Roblox, streaming platforms. We’re losing out on that audience.”

Ace scoffs quietly beside me. “We don’t need a game. We need a championship.”

Jeremy Henry looks at him and says, “Those things aren’t mutually exclusive.”

Ace holds up a hand. “I’m saying we’ve been in the media more for who’s screwing who than who’s scoring goals. You want butts in seats? Win games. Run a clean season. Get Daisy to write a redemption arc if we need headlines.”

“No more tabloid bait,” Kapoor says flatly. “We want brand sustainability.”

That’s when Lena speaks up. “We’ve been vetting a few digital gaming companies with the goal of creating an interactive game modeled after the Miami Icemen—something fans can not only play but also stream.

We approached two companies. One was FuryWorks Studio.

It was big and flashy, with a good pedigree. ”

She pauses. The air changes.

“The other was GameHatch.”

Jason, one of the analysts, frowns. “Isn’t that the smaller one?”

“It’s female-led,” Lena continues. “Innovative. They’ve broken every projection this year.

Their last launch clocked over a million downloads in the first seventy-two hours.

They’ve got Twitch streamers wearing their merch, influencers pushing their beta codes, and they’re developing an all-female e-sports team.

It’s smart. It’s fresh. It’s exactly the kind of partnership we want. ”

Jason shakes his head. “Still risky. FuryWorks has the track record.”

“But Brooke built GameHatch from scratch,” Lena says.

“And she’s local. This team needs more than reputation right now.

We need direction. Brooke knows how to turn something messy into something magnetic.

I think what she’s done is exactly what we want to align ourselves with.

And she’s not starting from zero —they’ve already got modular engines and frameworks they can build on. ”

My stomach knots.

Brooke?

I glance down at my phone, pretending to check the time, but my thumb is already pulling up the GameHatch site.

The loading screen flickers, and then there she is.

The photo is professional, but her face is still the same—full lips, freckles, and a jawline that used to tighten right before she came.

And those eyes, sharp and warm, the same ones that used to flash every time she argued with me just to get a rise.

I almost choke on my coffee.

The credentials scroll below her photo: CEO and Founder of GameHatch. Former game developer at PixelGirl Studios. Forbes’ 30 Under 30 in tech. Keynote speaker at the Women in Gaming summit. Features in Wired, Polygon, and IGN. Accolades stacked like she hasn’t slept in five years.

Brooke is the proposal.

Brooke is the fucking proposal.

I lean back in my chair, pulse low and heavy in my neck. She’s the one woman I never planned to see again, not after she left back then, not after she left again last night, and now her name is being passed around this room like she’s just a checkbox on a contract.

I don’t hear the rest of what Lena says. I don’t hear Jason’s rebuttal or Ace’s slow sigh. I don’t hear the owners deliberating on next steps or the new PR guy pitching teaser trailer concepts. All I see is Brooke’s name and her photo and that smirk she always wore right before wrecking me.

And now we’re giving her a contract.

I can already imagine the launch parties and cross-promos, and her walking into this arena in heels and a blazer and not even looking my way. Or worse. Looking and seeing nothing.

I lock my phone and force myself to breathe.

The meeting wraps up, but my brain’s still lagging behind. Everyone’s gathering their files, tossing around buzzwords like synergy and engagement, but I’m stuck on one thing. Brooke.

I don’t say anything as we file out of the conference room.

Ace gives me a sidelong glance like he knows I’m somewhere else, but he doesn’t ask.

Smart of him. I’d lie. My phone vibrates with a message from Tanner—just a dumb gif—but I don’t reply.

I head down to the locker room, pretend to grab something from my cubby, then change course entirely.

She built a company from the ground up, got her name printed in Forbes, and somehow managed to not show up on my radar until now. Not even a whisper. I should’ve known. Of course she’d go dark and then explode like this. That’s always been her. Quiet until she’s not.

I get into my car, sit there for a few minutes with the AC on full blast, staring at my phone.

Her photo is still open in one tab. She looks polished and powerful.

My chest tightens in this strange, uneven rhythm, but it’s not panic.

It’s anticipation. My hands tighten on the wheel, and I start driving.

It doesn’t take long to get there.

GameHatch’s offices are in a sleek, remodeled warehouse in Wynwood, the kind with matte black signage, big glass windows, and murals sprayed down the side in layers of neon and soft pink.

Inside, it’s all clean lines and modern furniture. Consoles are set up in waiting areas, and monitors are displaying looping footage of games in action. You can tell the people who built this place gave a damn. It breathes cool without trying too hard.

Reception is empty for a second until a woman rounds the corner carrying a tablet and a bright green smoothie. Mid-thirties, brunette with a sharp bob and smart eyes. Her lanyard says Lisa.

She spots me, and her gaze narrows slightly in that you-are-not-on-the-calendar kind of way.

“Can I help you?”

“I’m here to see Brooke Taylor.”

“Do you have an appointment?”

“No,” I say, offering a small smile.

“I’m sorry, but she only works on an appointment basis.” She assesses me. “You’re name?”

“Cam King.”

“She’s not in right now.”

“I’ll wait.”

Lisa hesitates, then nods and gestures to a small seating nook tucked near a wall of plants and gaming concept sketches. I sit. The chairs are comfortable in that overpriced, minimalist way. My knee bounces, fingers tapping against my thigh as I glance around.

Everything about this place screams Brooke. Smart, efficient, weirdly sexy in how clean and sharp it is.

I lean back and stare at the ceiling, wondering how she did it.

How she carved this out for herself while I was busy chasing a puck around the world and spiraling through scandal after scandal.

Pride rolls through me, caught off guard by its own warmth.

It should’ve been jealousy, maybe. But no. This is different. She fucking did it.

I hear the soft click of heels before I see her.

And then—she’s there.

She walks in holding an iced coffee, a phone in one hand, hair swept into a high ponytail that swings with each step.

Straight skirt hugging her hips, crisp blouse tucked in, heels biting into the floor with purpose.

She’s on a call, red lips moving quickly as she nods to someone behind her. I watch her without moving.

The second she sees me, she stops mid-step.

Her mouth parts. “Cam?”

I straighten. My blood rushes so fast it’s almost dizzying. I can’t stop staring at her lips, can’t stop the flash of memory that hits me like a freight train. That fucking bathroom. Her on the counter, my hands gripping her thighs. My cock twitches, hard and eager, like it remembers every detail.

Brooke blinks and lowers her phone. “What are you doing here?”

I stand. “We need to talk.”

She swallows, flicking her gaze to Lisa, who’s already pretending not to be eavesdropping from her desk. Brooke’s spine straightens, her voice clipped and cautious now. “Follow me.”

I trail her down a glass hallway, past more workstations, a lounge area, and into a corner office with floor-to-ceiling windows and warm lighting. She shuts the door and walks behind her desk, putting it between us like a buffer.