Page 5 of Cross Check Daddies (Miami Icemen #3)

CHAPTER FIVE

Tanner

By the time I’m riding home from practice, the sun’s already starting to dip low enough to throw gold over the sidewalks.

Sweat clings to my back, my arms aching in that good, used-up way. The engine hums under me, the throttle smooth and familiar in my grip.

I’ve got the kind of hunger that starts behind your ribs and settles in your jaw, and I’m already thinking about steak, a cold beer, maybe a nap on the balcony couch I still haven’t brought in.

That’s when the dog barrels into the road.

Bulldog. Stocky little tank of an animal with jowls flapping and eyes wild.

I curse and swerve, rubber shrieking against asphalt, my front tire catching on the curb.

I go down hard. My helmet takes the brunt, but pain sings through the rest of me.

The bike scrapes a few feet ahead, engine cutting out with a final gasp.

“Shit.” I roll to my side, groaning, trying to figure out if I’ve broken anything. My head’s still spinning when I hear the footsteps.

“Holy crap—I’m so sorry! He yanked the leash right out of my hand—Buddy, no!”

I blink up and get an eyeful of legs—bare, toned, dusted with freckles. She’s kneeling beside me, sleek chestnut hair tucked behind her ears. Her eyes are sharp, full of concern, and damn near breathtaking. Warm skin. Subtle perfume. Lips like she’s been kissed well before and should be again.

“You okay?” she asks, reaching out.

“Been worse.” I groan as I sit up, testing my wrist. Probably just bruised. “Your dog’s got moves.”

As if on cue, Buddy takes off again, this time bolting across a front yard like he’s gunning for the Westminster title. A little boy—six or seven, curly hair flying—takes off after him, legs pumping.

“Jackson!” she shouts, panic punching into her voice. “Buddy, no! Get back here!”

I’m already moving. Whatever soreness I’ve got can wait. I push up, jog after them, cutting across a hedge and dodging a sprinkler as I veer toward the street. Buddy’s fast but dumb—gets distracted by a squirrel, which gives me just enough time to slide in and grab the leash dangling behind him.

“Gotcha, you little maniac.”

Jackson catches up, panting and wide-eyed. “You caught him!”

“Barely,” I grin, ruffling his hair. “You okay?”

He nods hard, cheeks pink. “You’re fast!”

I walk them both back to the sidewalk where she’s waiting, hands on her knees, breath held like she’s been underwater too long.

“You saved him,” she says, straightening. “And Jackson. Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet.” I reach into my pocket and pull out a bag with the crumpled strips of bacon jerky I didn’t eat during practice. “Might’ve been these that got him going.”

Buddy catches sight of them and goes berserk—jumps up, tongue out, tail a blur. We both laugh. I toss him a piece, and he scarfs it down like a starving wolf.

“You got him trained already,” she says, eyes bright.

Jackson claps, practically bouncing. “That was awesome! You’re like a dog ninja or something.”

I crouch down and shake his hand. “Name’s Tanner. But you can call me T.”

“Jackson,” he says proudly, then leans in to whisper, “That’s Buddy. He’s bad sometimes.”

I grin. “I think he just has good taste in snacks.”

I stand, brushing my palms on my jeans. She’s watching me, arms crossed now, but it’s not defensive. More curious. She’s pretty in a way that stops time—sunlight skipping across her shoulders, a line of sweat at her collarbone, mouth parted like she’s trying to place me.

“Well, I made the kid and the dog happy,” I say, cocking my head. “What do I have to do to get a smile from you?”

There it is—the curve of her mouth, amused and reluctant. “You’re a flirt.”

“Guilty.”

She tilts her head. “What’s your name again?”

“Tanner. But—.” Her face changes. Eyes widen. Something flickers across her expression. She takes a step back.

“Wait... Tanner as in Cam’s brother?”

Now I’m confused. “Yeah... why?”

She raises both palms quickly. “Oh my God—I’m not a stalker. I’m Brooke. From high school.”

It slams into me all at once. Brooke. Cam’s Brooke. His high school girlfriend—the one with the laugh and the legs and the talent everyone knew about. The one he never really talked about afterward.

“No shit,” I breathe, breaking into a grin. “Brooke Taylor? Damn, come here.”

I pull her into a hug, laughing as she does the awkward, surprised pat on the back thing before softening. She still smells like summer and something citrusy, familiar in a way I don’t want to examine too closely.

“Been a long time,” I say as we step back. “You look—yeah. You look amazing.”

She waves it off, but her smile lingers. “I’m doing okay. This is my son, Jackson.”

I glance down. The kid’s watching me like I just pulled off a superhero landing. “You’re his?”

She nods. “Mine.”

I glance between them, and it hits again—she’s glowing. Not in some made-up Instagram way. She looks lived-in, grounded, all sharp edges and soft places. And somehow hotter now than when she was seventeen.

“You should come by for dinner,” I say. “See Cam. He’d lose it.”

Something flickers across her face. Not hesitation exactly. Just... calculation.

“We actually already ran into each other. A few days ago.”

“Oh.” I blink. “Huh. He didn’t mention that.”

Her gaze darts down. “We’re... okay.”

“You sure?”

“I’ll be seeing more of him, actually.”

I rub the back of my neck. “You say that like it’s complicated.”

Jackson tugs my hand. “More bacon for Buddy?”

I dig in my pocket again, pass him the last strip. “Don’t spoil him.”

Brooke lifts a brow, eyes amused again. “I’m working on a new game. For the team. It’s not public yet, but GameHatch’s been tapped to develop something for the Icemen.”

I blink. “Wait—seriously? That’s insane.”

“We’re still finalizing things,” she says. “But yeah. I’ll be at the facility next week.”

“I can’t wait to see you there.” I mean it. Every word.

She looks at me for a long second, thoughtful. “Where were you headed, anyway?”

“Was gonna grab a drink. You?”

“Realtor appointment. I’m looking for an apartment.”

“Moving?”

She shakes her head. “Freak accident, but I have finally found an apartment I really like, so I am taking these two to see it before I sign the lease.”

“Perfect,” I say. “Let me buy you a drink to celebrate. No pressure. Just as friends.”

She squints at me. “Just friends?”

“Unless you’re into sweaty, bruised guys who almost got flattened by a bulldog. Then we can talk options.”

Her laugh is soft, real, and it does something low and stupid to my chest.

Why the hell am I flirting with my brother’s ex? Fuck she is pretty!

She nods. “I’ll let you know,” she says.

As she turns with Jackson and Buddy, I stand there, helmet dangling from my fingers, jeans torn at the knee, and wonder how the hell I’m supposed to keep it casual when Cam’s ex just made me forget every other woman I’ve met in the last five years.

The door creaks open, and the familiar scent of leather and citrus hits me—our place, where gym bags double as decor and the fridge hums louder than the TV.

I kick off my boots, shoulder aching a little from where I ate it earlier, and head for the kitchen.

There’s already a light on in the living room.

Cam’s slouched on the couch, laptop open, hoodie sleeves shoved to his elbows.

He looks up when I walk in, one brow raised like he’s expecting me to complain about something.

I pop open a beer, take a long drink, then lean against the counter. “You’re not gonna believe who I just ran into.”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just blinks, tilts his head a bit. “Yeah?”

“Brooke.”

It lands. There’s a beat where everything in the room just stills. His fingers freeze on the keyboard. Eyes don’t blink. Then, just as fast, he’s back to whatever he’s pretending to type, like I didn’t just name-drop the girl who wrecked him back when we still lived with our parents.

“Huh,” he says.

That’s it. Huh.

I wait for more, but nothing comes. “Yeah,” I go on, keeping it casual. “She was walking her bulldog. That thing nearly took me out. Her kid was with her, too—Jackson. Cute kid. Smart.”

Cam nods without looking up. “Cool.”

He’s never been a talker, especially when it comes to stuff that actually matters, but this silence has teeth. There’s something under it, coiled tight. I watch him for a second longer, then decide not to press. If something went down between them when they met up, he’s clearly not ready to spill.

“So,” I say, pushing off the counter. “What are we doing for dinner?”

Cam shrugs. “Don’t feel like cooking.”

I snort. “That’s because you never cook.”

“Still true.”

“Alright. I’ll take a quick shower. We can go out. Hit that place down by the marina?”

“Yeah,” he says, barely glancing up.

I head toward the hallway, then pause when I catch sight of him again. He’s still sitting there, but his eyes are somewhere else entirely—past the screen, past the walls, like he’s following a memory. I know that look. I’ve worn it.

Brooke.

Of course. That woman walked out of a memory today and knocked the air right out of me.

She’s got that presence—unbothered, radiant in a way that makes you want to sit down and just..

. watch. Like the world slows around her.

And if I felt it after ten minutes, Cam, who used to orbit her like she was the sun, must’ve gotten knocked flat.

I don’t say anything, just turn and head for the shower.

Some things don’t need words.