Page 24

Chapter Twenty-Four

Christina

Cam is home! I shouldn’t be this excited about a guy I’m in a situationship with, especially given his recent distrust about the investing strategy we’d agreed on, but I can’t help it.

Cam

On the ground at AUS. Checking on practice time.

Yay! Welcome back! How was the trip? I was hoping you’d call on your drive to/from Peoria for your friends’ game.

Nope. Keep it casual, Chris. I delete the last sentence of that before hitting send.

Really good. It was great to hang with my OG friends. They of course made me buy dinner and drinks

I hope you didn’t whine, you big Grinch :)

Hey :P

Looks like I have practice in an hour. Just enough time to make it there - I was kind of hoping to skip it. I’m beat.

Oh…

We’d talked about getting together tonight and I looked at it as our way of saying we missed each other while still giving the nod to keeping it casual. But his reaction is not what I’d want and given that I’m still prickly from the investment conversation, perhaps it’s better not to interact when he’s tired and jetlagged.

I finish my text.

Oh…I understand. Why don’t you catch up on some sleep tonight so you can be of more use to me later this week…

For dancing of course ;)

Of course :D That sounds good, thanks.

Ping me when you know your schedule and we’ll figure out studio sessions.

I stare at the last text, regretting it. Despite my efforts at self-editing, I can’t help being needy. Thankfully, he seems too tired to notice or too polite to say anything.

Will do. Thanks. Have a good night. Look forward to seeing you. Soon.

Those last two sentences ease my anxiety. Maybe he’s a little eager, too.

Sure enough, he comes by the next night. He still seems tired as his mouth is drawn and his eyelids heavy.

“Hey, you all right?” I ask when he comes over to buss my lips with a kiss.

“Yeah.”

His tone isn’t tired, though. I’ve come to learn his emotional tells. It’s his “I have something on my mind” voice.

“I made us dinner. Let’s eat and talk and then we can get some dancing in if you’re still up for it.”

His leer is half-hearted. “I’m always up for dancing.”

“Yes, I remember.” My eyes glaze briefly, recalling our shadowed reflections at the barre, but neither of us pursues the idea.

“Whatdya make?”

“Oh, right. Sorry. A low-carb casserole with Italian seasoned ground turkey and a giant salad. It’s keeping warm in the oven.”

I pull the dish out and let it rest as I gather the salad, plates, and bowls. I dish twice as much for him as me, and we sit to eat. He fidgets with his silverware and napkin. When he does eat, it’s with far less enthusiasm than normal.

I want to reach for his hand, but I don’t know if I should do that, ask questions, or wait him out. Finally, I try, “Did you see your family at the game, then? How did it feel to have them there?”

“I didn’t. It was a giant distraction and after I scanned the lower-level seats during practice, I had to put it aside.”

“You don’t think them being there helped you win?”

“I didn’t win. We won as a team.” He presses his lips together, unwilling to admit anything further.

I’m not sure what to say to that.

After a moment, he says to his plate, “I went to watch my brother play on Saturday.”

I blink in shock. No wonder he’s off-kilter. “You did? Before or instead of your friends’ game?”

“Before.” He glances at me then away. “That’s why I was so tired. I drove two and a half hours east to his practice, then three and a half west, then back to Chicago to catch my flight. And the guys partied both nights.”

He may not be ready to rehash that field trip, but he’s here now and talking. My curiosity prompts a jumble of questions in my head, but most importantly, I want to make sure he’s okay. Trying to ease into it, I ask, “How was that?”

“Good. I mean, weird, but good. He’s a defenseman.” There is a trace of pride in his voice. “And he’s good. I don’t think he’s as tall as I was at that age, but it’s hard to tell from photos and with a bunch of kids on skates racing around.”

“He has a bit of leeway, though, doesn’t he? You’re taller than average.”

“Not by much. But who’s to say he’ll want to go pro anyway?”

That’s a great point. A lot of guys, even fathers, would be pushing the kid to compete to the highest level. Cam, though, is already thinking like a supportive brother.

He continues, “Zoe was doing homework in the stands and I didn’t see if Dana or my father were there.”

“Did you talk to anyone?” I mean Zoe or Robbie, but I keep it generic. Also, I almost can’t believe he avoided being recognized by the coaches, if not the kids.

“No. I borrowed a hat and a plain hoodie. No one knew who I was. Heck, I’m almost surprised they didn’t call security on me.”

I snort a laugh. “Oh boy. I can imagine the headlines now. Saylet might have killed you.” I joke so he doesn’t feel beholden to share more than he’s comfortable with.

He snickers. “Right? At least I know you have bail money handy if I need it. I sometimes wonder if Jack would, even making what we do.”

I keep my face neutral and remain silent. My consultations with the team members are all confidential. But Cam’s mentioned Jack’s financial support of his family, so I assume he’s referring to that as much as his roommate’s tendency to party.

Cam finally brings his gaze to mine. “It seems like they know about me, or why would Dana have put them in Tornadoes gear for our game—in Chicago, of all places?”

“She did?” He hadn’t told me that.

Cam pulls out his phone and shows me the post. “Look at that. Although,”—he points to Zoe—“I swear that is an Ice Dog shirt under there. Freakin’ smartass.” His grin as he says it makes it clear that smartassery runs in the family.

“You said your father wasn’t at Robbie’s game. Did he come to Chicago?”

“I don’t know, but I can’t find any mention of him. He’s not in any of their pictures, and the posts from the game itself look like they were taken from seat neighbors. In one, it shows someone sitting next to Dana, with the two boys on the aisle.”

The man drove over five hours to see his little brother. It’s proof that he wants a connection with them, so I push a little. “What do you want to do next? He wasn’t there, and he’s not tagged in her Instagram profile, so you have a path to talking with her without having to deal with him, if that’s your concern.”

“But,” he says raggedly, “if they know about me and even came to a game, why haven’t they reached out to me?”

There’s an element of the abandoned teen in his voice and I want to hug him and reassure him. Instead, I say carefully, “They may know of your existence, but how can they understand why you aren’t in touch with your dad? At best, they only have his version of the story. Putting myself in your stepmother’s shoes, if my fiancé’s son doesn’t respond to calls or come to our wedding, I’d assume he doesn’t want to be part of my family, maybe even that he resents me and my children. Yet here she is following you—for how long now?”

“A couple years ago.”

“That’s interesting timing. So it was when you went into the AHL?”

He nods. “I think so.”

“And—” I draw out the word as I remember his brother is six—“around the time your brother started playing hockey.”

“Yeah, but if she wanted a hockey connection for whatever reason, money for gear, or a word to get into a special program, why wouldn’t she have messaged me?”

“What if it was just wanting a role model for her son? What if—” I raise my brows and give him a hard stare, “Your father’s reaction to him playing hockey was the same or worse as he was to you? She could be wondering if there is a different side to the story she’s been hearing all these years, but isn’t sure how to connect.”

He blinks at me. “I’d never thought about it like that.”

“I’m not saying throw yourself out there and tell her you want to be part of the family. But maybe a quick DM saying you saw they came to the game and if they’re ever interested in another, you’re happy to get them tickets…see how she responds.”

He nods his head slowly. “I’ll think about it.”

“Now, are we dancing, or are we dancing ?” I ask in a flirtatious voice, hoping levity will get him out of this maelstrom of doubt.

His grin is wide as he answers, “Yes to both, please.”

* * * *

Greg is away on a business trip for one of our other family holdings, so Cam and I have more flexibility around the property.

He had a game yesterday, and I brought Maria with me for company, despite her lack of interest in hockey. Other than one game earlier in the season, Amy watches from the company box in order to network for the sake of the Tornadoes Foundation. Maria had an early morning at the café and had to head home right after the game, so I didn’t have an excuse to go to Chasers.

The guys lost last night, and their after-game drinks were subdued, so Cam got to my house less than an hour after me. Lacking the adrenaline from a win, he was exhausted and we crashed.

Morning sex more than made up for it, though, so I made us breakfast and now we’re lounging to digest before we start attempting cartwheels and spins in my studio.

Cam gestures to the stack of papers I cleared from my breakfast bar. “What’s the current project?”

“Something to do with myself now I have you knuckleheads on the road to financial responsibility.” I haven’t shared my dream with anyone except Maria and Amy because they’ve both been advising me on it, and I’m scared that if it doesn’t work I’ll look like a failure. I’m not used to failing any more than Cam is, even if my risk tolerance is higher.

“Oh yeah?” He spies a brochure with a young ballerina and gestures. “Are you going to do more with Maria?”

“In a way.”

He looks at me, clueing in on my prevarication, and arches a brow. “What were you saying last week about trust?”

I huff. Dammit, he’s right. And part of me wants to share this with him, as I would a boyfriend. “Fine. It’s a nonprofit organization to offer after-school dance programs for kids who otherwise couldn’t afford it.”

His eyes widen and his mouth curves into a smile. “Really? Dancer, that’s great! Why wouldn’t you be shouting it from the rooftops?”

“Because it’s not ready quite yet. I’m only just now gauging interest from students and hiring instructors. And that will be a balancing act.”

“Start with the most limited resource.” At my stare, he shrugs. “What? I remember something like this from an entrepreneurial business class. I imagine it would be studio time. Well, or budget for instructors perhaps?”

“Interesting. I did that by the way, and your guess is wrong—as you know, budget isn’t an issue.” I slash my hand, ignoring the firming of his lips. He’s going to need to get over his irritation at my bank balance; it’s not something I can change. I tilt my head. Or perhaps he doesn’t, as this is a short-term fling.

“Alright. Then studio space?”

“A little. Maria and I have worked out times that won’t interfere with her classes and profits, and I have one other space with another dance friend so I can spread out over the city.”

“What age group are you targeting?”

“I’m probably starting with middle school and high school, but I want to offer it to everyone eventually.”

“Have you thought about mixing ages, and only offering beginner classes for the time being? You could do age buckets like they do in league hockey—5-8, under 12’s, 12-15?”

“That sounds like excellent groupings for the second phase. Maybe I need to hear more how it works in hockey? It certainly would give me more flexibility in trying to get boys into classes for ballroom dances.” I tilt my head, holding his gaze. “Thanks, Cam. I appreciate the ideas. Let me go back through things with this perspective and then I’d love to ask you some more questions if that’s all right?”

“Of course.” He patted his stomach. “Does that mean digestion time is over and I’m being put to work?”

“Yep. For the sake of the team’s charitable efforts.”

“I’m just full of charitable inclinations today.”